Ellwood fell to his knees, weeping, his hands clasped in prayer.
“Look closer,” instructed Bell.
Eric shuffled over to the nearest corpse, then recoiled. It was a boy of about ten, his face sunken and disfigured with nodules and lesions, his hands twisted into claws with missing fingers: the unmistakable signs of advanced leprosy.
“This is one of the children deliberately infected by Wulfred more than a thousand years ago,” said Bell quietly. “He died hideously, after spreading the infection among his own unwitting family, as did all the others. But no matter how rotten their bodies were in life, since Wulfred died, they will not decompose. They just remain frozen in time. We have no idea why. But whatever hideous will caused that stream to rise from the earth and burst through Wulfred's sarcophagus has also preserved the sick flesh of these dead children, his poor victims.”
“We don't know what this signifies,” admitted Milder, “but we fear that if Wulfred's evil influence spreads, these children will be linked to it. Which is why we needed to check that they still lie here in peace. It suggests that we may still have time in which to act.”
“Oh my God!” said Eric, suddenly chilled to the bone as another thought struck him. “Sandra! I've just remembered that Sandra, my editor, drank some of the water!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE DISCIPLES OF DECAY
Sadie Wilmot was having a bad night. She drifted in and out of sleep, thrashing and writhing about in her bed. Each time she woke, she found herself drenched in sweat, the saturated sheets clinging to her corpulent frame, sticking fast to the scabby sores that had broken out all over her body, weeping their stinking fluid. Her head pounded, the blood thumping audibly in her temples. She struggled to draw breath, coughing and wheezing, too weak to move or to call for help. She didn't know what time it was; her eyes were too crusted with greenish residue to focus upon her alarm clock. She lay back, burning up in her fever, begging to die.
In the darkest hour of the night, just at the point where she felt she could endure no longer, her suffering turned to pleasure. The inflammation in her flesh ceased to be an agony, becoming a ravishingly piquant delight. Her festering sores were an artistic expression, a testament to the beauty of the new will that now rose within her, motivating her to throw back the bedclothes and rise to her feet. Her rasping breath, oily and foetid, drawn through fluid-filled lungs, was the sweet music of life: life which was not confined to a single weak shell, doomed to die, but which spread and evolved through every contagion, glorying in change and putrefaction, unbound by mere flesh and the grave.
Sadie smiled, her vision clearing as she now exulted in the film of green filth she blinked from her eyes instead of loathing it. She broadened her grin, teeth loose in her septic gums, abscesses blooming and swelling putridly, spilling stinking rivers of infection down her chin and soiled nightdress. She stretched her hands out in front of her, clutching spasmodically at the air, and began to walk, with great, lurching steps, forcing fluid to ooze from the sores on her legs with every heavy pace. The pain was an excruciating ecstasy which she thrilled to.
Her swollen fingers fumbled with the door knob, then she shuffled out onto the landing, her agonised feet sliding across the carpet since she was unable to lift them. Inexorably, she advanced on her mother's chamber, clasping two misshapen mitts around the knob to turn it. Slowly, the door swung open. Sadie stood there for a full minute, silhouetted against the hall light, which her mother always left on all night on account of her weak bladder. Her shape resembled a great bellows, shoulders heaving with the effort of breathing, her great swollen bulk expanding and contracting in a tortured rhythm. Then, at last, she heaved herself forward, into the room.
Sadie stopped at the side of the bed where her father had once slept when he had been alive. Her mother was stuck in her ways and always kept to her own side of the bed. Sadie now let out a piteous, keening moan and allowed her whole bulk to sink down onto the vacant part of the bed, pulling the duvet over herself and rolling close to her mother, pressing up against her.
Mrs Wilmot woke with a start. Her dreams had been disturbed and unpleasant, but not half as alarming as the furnace hot body she now felt clinging to her own. Panic momentarily rose in her, until she recognised the sickly, putrid stench she had come to associate with Sadie in recent days. “Sadie?” she whispered, her voice quavering a little. “Is that you? What do you want?”
“Feel sick, momma,” gurgled Sadie, pressing her foetid lips against her mother's ear. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”
Her mother was repelled, but couldn't bring herself to say no. After all, Sadie was already here, and she was her daughter after all. “Oh, all right,” she said at last in a small voice. “But don't fidget!” She screwed her eyes tightly closed and tried to get back to sleep.
“Love you, momma,” slobbered Sadie blissfully, extending her contagion to embrace her mother in an invisible cloak of horror.
Milder raised the hidden slab into the old monastery library and let Eric out. “If you intend to join us on the side of the angels, you'll need to be back here before dawn, Mr Turner,” he whispered. “Any later than that and the film crew will be here before you and you won't be able to rejoin us. We will confront Gaunt today and put a stop to all this.”
“I'll be back,” promised Eric. “I just need to phone Sandra and check on Diane first. And you do realise that Gaunt is a gangster, don't you? He and his men will be armed.”
“As you have already witnessed this evening, we are not powerless ourselves, Mr Turner. We have right on our side and we will not fail in our vows.”
“Whatever, I'll be back,” shrugged Eric. And he meant it. For better or worse, he was involved in this and he intended to see it through to the bitter end. As Milder lowered the slab, concealing the entrance to the catacombs once again, Eric crept rapidly back out of the monastery and through the woods towards his car.
Jenny Gaunt sat in the bar, her hair dishevelled and her clothes sweaty and uncomfortable. She knew that she should shortly go up to her own room and shower and get herself ready for the new day. It was almost five o'clock in the morning and she had barely slept. But she couldn't put the state that Cathy was in out of her head. She had kissed that mouth! Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!! She slammed her fist repeatedly on the bar, cursing in disgust and frustration.
“Are you all right, miss?” asked a mournful looking man in the white shirt, purple waistcoat and bow tie of a night porter. The public bar was officially closed for the night, but it was hotel policy for the night porter to serve residents with drinks. Normally, there were very few demands upon their time and they managed to snore much of the night away in the back office. But tonight he was being kept busy by this pretty but muscular young woman, who was displaying an alarming streak of aggression.
“No, I'm not all right,” snapped Jenny viciously. “Look, just pour me another fucking vodka, will you? Make it a large one.”
“Certainly, miss. Is there anything else I can do to help?”
Jenny almost chewed him up and spat him out, but she needed to get the loathsome memory of Cathy's sickness out of her head. “Give me five minutes, then come up to my room,” she demanded. “You can fuck me in the arse, and you'd better make it hard and fast. I want it to hurt.” She threw her vodka back in one, slammed the glass down and strode towards the lifts.
The night porter looked after her in nervous bewilderment, uncertain whether he'd just been summoned to his reward or his doom.
Eric drove back to the bed and breakfast first, where he could use the telephone to call Sandra Cullen. Going there first meant that he would probably avoid the Stoops, who would be in bed, and wouldn't be too early calling on Diane. No matter what he did, he'd have to wake her early if was to be back at the monastery before the film crew arrived for their day's work, but at least he could try to minimise the damage.
Eric unlocked the door as silently as he could and stepped inside. He switched the ha
ll light on and moved across to the telephone table. To his surprise, the money he had left on it to pay for his room rental was still there; the Stoops didn't seem the sort of people to leave money lying around in the open. Could it possibly be that Harry hadn't even seen it? He wondered if the man was all right, he had been coughing really badly when Eric had heard him earlier, and he hadn't looked at all well throughout the duration of Eric's stay in the house.
Eric chewed his lip, torn by indecision. He didn't want to prolong his stay here a moment longer than was strictly necessary, but he couldn't live with himself if he didn't check that everything was okay. He wondered if Harry was still in the living room, perhaps in a coma or even dead? He hesitated for a moment longer, then tiptoed across the hall and pushed open the living room door, which was slightly ajar.
He gagged at the thick, oily smell of acrid smoke that permeated the room. But the stench was old, soaked into the very walls. There was no one in here adding to it at the moment. Cautiously, Eric reached for the light switch and flicked it on. The room was indeed empty. The little two seater sofa in front of the television was sunken, its cushions showing deep indentations from almost perpetual use. The armchair off to one side, where Harry was banished when his fumes became too thick for his wife to bear, showed similar signs of wear and collapse. But the Stoops themselves were not in the room. Eric heaved a sigh of relief; Harry had actually got up and made it to bed, then. He must simply have missed seeing the money on the telephone table, or decided to leave it till morning.
His conscience sated now that he had checked, Eric prepared to leave the room. Before he did so, however, his eye was drawn to odd patterns on the texture of the sofa. He almost left anyway, but curiosity proved to be too strong a lure. He walked gingerly across for a closer look, only to stagger back in revulsion when he saw dozens of bluebottle flies crawling all over the seats, feasting on the stinking stains of old sweat, urine and faeces that were inground into them. This close, the stench of human waste was strong enough to overpower the ever-present odour of smoke. Eric gagged and left the room as quickly as he could, shutting the door firmly behind him. He dry heaved in the hallway, wondering how on earth human beings could possibly live like this.
Eric had seen more degradation, filth and decay in this day than he had hoped to witness in a lifetime. It was time to do what he came here for and get the hell out. Hopefully when he phoned Sandra, he could prevent any more people falling victim to such depravity and squalor. If this lifestyle was the legacy Wulfred had left to the people of Scratchbury, perhaps the monks had been right, and he had corrupted everything he had touched.
Eric checked his watch; it was ten to five and he didn't have very much time to waste. He tapped Sandra's number into the phone and waited a moment till he heard it ringing. She answered after the third ring.
“Hello?” she croaked.
“Sandra! It's me, Eric. Are you okay?”
There was a pause. “Yes, of course I'm okay. Why on earth shouldn't I be okay?”
“I'm sorry. It's just that you sounded a little croaky … and I'm feeling very shaken up here.”
“Of course I'm sounding croaky. It's not even five o'clock in the morning yet and I've just been rudely awakened. Whatever is the matter, Eric?”
He sighed. “I'm sorry, I just panicked after some of the things I've seen here. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, that's all. I'll explain everything soon. I have to go now. Just … just don't drink any more of that water, okay? I'll call again as soon as I can.”
“You won't have to,” Sandra said. “I'm coming down there.”
Eric had been just about to replace the receiver, but this comment mad him freeze. “You're what? But you can't!”
“What do you mean I can't? I'm the boss here, aren't I? You might not be willing to explain everything, but it's pretty obvious you've stumbled on a strong story, otherwise you wouldn't be making cryptic phone calls at this time of the morning. Besides which, I'm very keen to see this 'St Wulfred's Well' for myself. That water I tasted has done wonders for me. You remember how my complexion used to be so clear and smooth? It's all changed now, it's coming out in beautiful lumps, all shades of white, yellow and red. It's so sexy, Eric, and it makes me feel so horny. I need more and I know I need to be there. I just feel it in my bones. See you later in the day!” Then she hung up.
“Fuck!” swore Eric, banging the receiver against the table in frustration. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” He shook his head in despair. “It's got her too. Please, God, not Sandra!” Then he pulled himself together as best he could. “It'll take her a few hours to get here. Maybe Bell and Milder can sort this shit out by then?” Realising the receiver was still clenched in his hand, he slammed it down and prepared to leave and go to see Diane.
But then he heard a painful moan coming from upstairs. It was hard to tell if the weak voice was male or female, but obviously one of the Stoops had been awakened by the noise he had made. Eric cursed his luck. He was tempted to just leave, but the moan continued, trailing on and on, an agonised, despairing keen. He couldn't just walk away from such misery, he couldn't.
He would have to be quick. Time was definitely getting short. He gripped the banister tightly, took a deep breath and decided that his best approach was to stop pussy-footing around and simply ask his hosts outright if there was a problem. He walked rapidly up the stairs and rapped firmly upon their bedroom door when he reached the upper hallway.
“Hello?” he called. “Mr and Mrs Stoop? Are you all right in there? I heard noises.”
He waited for a few seconds, but there was no reply and the high pitched keening wail had ceased. He knocked again, still with no reply. He sighed in frustration, gripped the handle and opened the door.
The Stoops' bedroom was stiflingly hot and it stank. It smelled of sour sweat, strong enough to make his eyes water, with a thicker, sweeter undertone to the odour that made his stomach churn. “Are you all right in here?” he demanded. When there was still no response, he flicked on the light switch.
Eric stared aghast at the shape in the bed for several moments, evidently the source of the stench, then he threw up, emptying his stomach all over the bedroom carpet. It was Mrs Stoop, although he could only just tell. She was obviously dead and looked as though she had been for some while, which was ludicrous, as he had seen less than forty eight hours ago. But her body was now in an advanced state of decomposition. The skin was stretched thin over a vastly swollen frame, split and suppurating in many places. Her eyes were swollen shut and her mouth and throat were so huge and raw that they looked fit to burst. All of her flesh was a sickly bluish green, as if it had been decaying for weeks. The mattress had slumped beneath her, now a reservoir of ichor, puddling around the hideous corpse. Eric dared not approach, he scarcely even breathed. What on earth could do this to a person?
He had little time to consider her gruesome death, for a hunched figure rose slowly from the floor on the far side of the bed. This was Harry, and as he scrambled to his feet, hands fumbling blindly in front of him, the piteous keening began again, his cracked, bleeding lips spread wide to reveal a festering hole of a mouth, which bubbled and frothed as the dreadful noise emerged from his throat. Harry's eyes were opaque and filmy; he had gone blind. His hair was falling out and his skin was purple with lesions and burst blood vessels. His groping fingers were like great, fat sausages, fit to burst with liquid decay built up beneath the skin, the fingernails hanging off the tips and leaking blood.
“Help meeeee....” Harry pleaded.
Eric turned and ran for his life, panic driving his pounding feet. He raced to his car, leaving the front door of the house hanging wide open behind him, feverishly started the engine, then pressed his foot to the floor and tore away at high speed.
Jenny Gaunt sprang up from her bed and strode into the shower, turning the temperature up to its highest setting and turning the water full on. Before stepping in, she returned to the bathroom doorway and looked
at the bedraggled night porter, who was struggling back into his uniform. He wasn't much to look at, but he had stamina and had managed to take her mind off her earlier frustrations. “We're done,” she said bluntly. “Get out.”
“Sure,” he said, trying to get his leg into his trousers. “Thank you for tonight, it was wonderful. I'll be gone as soon I've got my clothes ...”
“GET OUT!” she screamed.
The flustered man struggled out into the corridor in a panic, his trousers still around his ankles.
Jenny returned to her shower, her determination back at its peak. Cathy could lie in her room and rot as far as Jenny was concerned. But she was going to get the other girls to that monastery this morning and get this fucking film finished today, even if she had to kill them to do so. She wasn't going to waste another day and risk the chance of any more of them getting sick. Any shirkers would answer to her fists.
Eric's breathing gradually slowed as he drove away from the Stoops' home. He still had some belongings left in the room there, but there was no way he was ever going back to that accursed house – not ever! Not after what he'd seen there tonight. He could only hope and pray that whatever had done in the Stoops wasn't contagious. He almost wept at the thought that he had been sleeping in a house with … That! … for so many days.
He managed to reel his panic in and gently relaxed his foot on the accelerator. It wasn't as if the Stoops were in any state to follow after him: she was quite obviously dead, and poor old Harry had barely been able to walk even before this horror came over him. He made a deliberate attempt to breathe calmly and deeply, regaining his composure. It wouldn't do to let Diane see him in such a panicky state.
He pulled the car up and parked outside her home, jumping out and tapping on the door. There was no response and terror surged within him as he began to dread that she may have succumbed to the same infection as the Stoops. He knocked again, more loudly, and this time a light came on in an upstairs window. He recognised it as the window of the room they had made love in just a couple of nights ago. A few moments later, the hall light shone through the frosted windows in the door and there was the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door opened an inch, to reveal a yawning, bleary-eyed Diane on the other side, peering out at him.
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