by Davies, Neil
“And suddenly you were less important,” said Tim, trying to look sympathetic. He sensed in this man a weak link, something that might be exploited to help him escape.
“I couldn’t deny the power of Aello. She was something different, something more than those I had studied. All that violence and power held at bay by an ancient banishment.”
Mark paused, jabbing a finger at Tim.
“Something your ancestors were responsible for. It was me who found the connection to your family, this house. It was through me that we discovered Christina, barely alive, an early victim of the curse of this place and the spirits that, through the dabbling of your ancestors, inhabited it.”
“It would seem my ancestors have even more to answer for than I realised,” said Tim.
Mark fell silent, thoughtful, flinching at a sudden shout of exultation from the hallway above. Or perhaps it was a scream of terror? He was no longer sure of such things.
“But you’re more than just one of Katrina’s ex-sex toys,” he said, lowering his voice even further. “Ever since you returned there has been an urgency that was not there previously. Katrina felt it from Aello. I don’t believe it was a coincidence. After all, your ancestors banished Aello to a non-corporeal existence. Perhaps there is something of their power in you?”
Tim shook his head.
“Sorry to disappoint you but, if I had any sort of power like that would I be sitting here tied to this chair? There’s nothing special about me.”
“There is to Katrina.”
Tim could see the jealousy return to the man’s face and knew he needed to steer the conversation away from any remnant of feelings Katrina might still have for him.
“So, what’s happening up there,” he said. “What’s all the noise?”
Mark hesitated, his jealousy resisting his anxiety before surrendering.
“Something’s happening to Katrina,” he said. “She’s changing. Aello was meant to share her power with Katrina, but I think she’s gradually taking over.”
“You don’t trust Aello? Your all powerful leader?”
Mark looked from the steps down to the cellar floor. His voice, when he spoke, was low, mumbled and Tim had to strain to hear it.
“No.”
2
The doors to the chapel were locked.
Susan peered in through the darkened windows but could see no movement.
“He’s not here,” she said, returning to the others standing on the road.
“That’s not a good sign,” said the Professor, finally pulling his unlit pipe from his pocket and thoughtfully placing it between his teeth.
“Where could he be?” Susan could feel panic rising within her and fought to control it. It was the first time she realised just how much she, like the others, had grown to depend on Tim Galton in such a short time, despite her initial distrust of him. “Is there anywhere else he would have gone?”
Ethel shook her head.
“I’m certain that, had he been able, he would have returned here. It’s our most obvious rendezvous point.”
“I agree,” said the Professor, sucking on his pipe. “But this is an obvious place as you say. I doubt it will be long before the others realise their companions have not succeeded in killing us.”
Ethel winced at the memory of Mr. Crosby, lying in a pool of his own blood, but she said nothing.
“When they do,” continued the Professor, “they will almost certainly head this way. We need to move.”
“Where to?” said Susan, her threatened panic now under control, but only barely. “Our guesthouse?”
“Other than your gun there’s no point,” said the Professor, shaking his head. “And anyway, it’s another obvious place for them to look.”
“We should try and find Mr. Galton,” said Ethel, her voice determined, less that of an old woman, more that of a hardened S.O.E. veteran. “It’s what he would do if the roles were reversed.”
“No doubt,” said the Professor, nodding. “But his non-appearance here would suggest that he has been captured...”
“Or killed,” interrupted Susan.
“Unlikely,” said Ethel, a small smile on her face. She had met men like Tim Galton before, during the war. They did not die easily.
“I prefer to believe he has been captured,” said the Professor. “If so, they would have undoubtedly taken him to the old house, where our witch will be waiting.”
“And your suggestion?” said Susan, already knowing what her father would say and unsure whether to feel fear or exhilaration at the prospect.
“We are an elderly lady, a young woman and an aging history professor, unarmed save for some household tools and whatever we can pick up from our fallen attackers on the way,” said the Professor. “What else can we do? We go and get him.”
AELLO
She was now in full control.
The witch had struggled a little at first, unwilling to allow herself to be completely subjugated, her spirit held down, imprisoned in her own body, but it had been a short-lived struggle. Even after all these centuries without a corporeal existence, she still had the necessary energy to overwhelm even this strongly talented human.
The only thing holding her back now was the flesh. And that was weakening rapidly.
There remained one threat, the only one that concerned her.
The man held captive in the cellar.
He had surrendered, allowed himself to be captured, of that she was certain. She had seen it through the witch’s psychic vision. Even if she had not seen, she would have known. This human would not have stopped fighting short of death, unless he wished to do so.
While he lived he remained an unknown threat, and one she felt keenly.
It had been his presence in the cemetery that disturbed her. It was his interference that had allowed the meddlesome old teacher and his daughter to survive. And there was something more, even beyond his connection to this old house and her own past. She had a prescience of her death at this human’s hands, unless she destroyed him first.
Speaking through the witch’s vocal chords she gave the order.
CHAPTER THIRTY
1
“I have to take you to her now,” said Mark Bullough, almost reluctantly.
“How do you know?” said Tim. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“I know,” said Mark without further explanation as four robed figures descended the cellar steps to help.
As they untied him from the chair, Tim weighed his chances of escape, but they had obviously considered this, and two of them stood back, knives held at the ready. While Tim knew that, under normal conditions, he could take them all out, he also knew that, with his arms and legs securely bound as they were, he had no chance.
Free of the chair, Tim was lifted and carried up the cellar steps by two of the robed figures. Mark Bullough led the way, the remaining two following behind. He did not struggle. There was no point.
The hallway had a hazy, almost greasy look in the air, making it hard to fully focus. There were a group of robed figures prostrate before the staircase and, standing several steps up, Katrina. Or what had once been Katrina.
Tim could now understand Mark’s discomfort. While still just recognisable as Katrina, the figure on the staircase was a bloated, bloodied mockery of a human form. Yellow/green pus wept from cracks in the skin. Balloons of flesh grew and burst as he watched, spattering blood and other bodily fluids he could not identify over the banisters, across the hall floor. The whole body writhed and undulated with movement beneath the surface. The skin stretched to paper-thinness.
The eyes, almost lost in the swollen face, turned towards him, and he shuddered. This was beyond his experience, beyond his training. He feared he would have no defence against this thing.
Death was acceptable. Somehow this monster before him threatened much worse.
2
Most, if not all, of the robed marauders had returned to the old house, other than those who
lay dead on the roadway. And there were more bodies than the Professor, Susan and Ethel had expected, particularly in the village centre.
“It looks like this is where Mr. Galton made his last stand,” said Ethel.
“And you still think he’s not dead?” Susan’s voice held hope and doubt in equal measure.
Ethel shook her head.
“If Mr. Galton had fought to the death, there’d be more bodies.”
The Professor peered at the road ahead of them. All seemed quiet.
“With a bit of luck we’ll make it to the Galton house without meeting anyone,” he said.
“I’m more worried about what the three of us can do once we actually get there to be honest,” said Susan.
“It won’t be the first time we’ve had to improvise.”
Susan looked at her father and the twitch of a grim smile touched the corner of her mouth.
“Never against this many or quite this violent.”
“If you think about it too much you’ll never do it,” said Ethel, interrupting the father/daughter exchange. “Just focus on what we do next and let’s go.”
The Professor and Susan exchanged a glance. Ethel was right. They were doing too much talking and too much worrying.
“Let’s get moving then,” said the Professor.
They had started to head out of the village centre when movement to their left stopped them.
The Professor raised his bloodied axe, expecting another attack, but instead saw a man, his clothes dark with gore and dirt, stagger out of the ruins of a nearby house.
“It’s Sam Whitmore,” said Ethel. “The butcher. Nice man.”
The Professor said nothing. Mr. Whitmore did not look nice at that moment, but rather battle-scarred, exhausted and angry.
“They killed my family.”
The man’s voice was weak, cracking but filled with an undercurrent of rage.
“I’m sorry.” Susan knew it was an inadequate response, but she could think of nothing else to say.
“My wife, my kids. They killed them all.” He lifted a right fist sheathed in blood and gripping a long-bladed butcher’s knife. “But I killed them.”
Ethel stepped forward, hoping he would recognise her.
“Mr. Whitmore, I really am terribly sorry for your loss. They’ve killed so many tonight. Mr. Crosby died before my eyes.”
Whitmore turned towards the old woman, recognition finally working its way through his sorrow and anger-filled mind.
“Mrs. Barlow?”
“Yes, Mr. Whitmore. It’s me, Ethel, and we really do feel for the terrible thing that’s happened to you. But we can’t stop. They have taken our friend and we’re going to try and get him back.”
“They? The same people who killed my family?”
“Yes Mr. Whitmore. So, you see, I hate to leave you like this but we have to go.”
“You know where they are?”
“The old Galton house,” said Ethel. “If we survive this, I’ll help you on the way back.”
“On the way back?” Whitmore shook his head, a grim and frightening smile breaking through the grime and blood on his face. “I’m coming with you.”
3
“Katrina,” said Tim, fighting to control his fear as he was pushed harshly to the hallway floor. “I don’t like to say this, but you’ve looked better.”
Aello looked out through Katrina’s half-closed eyes and sneered her contempt. As dangerous as she instinctively felt this man to be, he was helpless while bound and prostrate before her. That she felt a small tug of regret, from the human witch subdued within her, was irrelevant. The man was in her power. She would kill him. But not before she made him suffer for the crimes of his ancestors.
“Do you know who I am?”
Her voice was deep, growling, with little left of the femininity, the humanity of Katrina’s.
“Well, I don’t think you’re quite Katrina anymore, not unless they’ve been putting some serious hormones into the drinking water around here.”
Tim was frightened but he was damned if he was going to show it. And no situation was truly hopeless. He just hadn’t found where the hope in this one could come from yet.
“Your flippancy is not amusing, just annoying and pathetic.”
“You’re Aello. A harpy,” said Tim. “And I don’t think you really belong here. Zeus is going to be pissed. Or is it Odin? I get those two confused all the time.”
“You can mock my gods all you wish,” said Aello, the skin of Katrina’s face cracking as the mouth moved. “They no longer exist in this realm. But I am here. I am real!”
“You’re certainly making a mess of my carpet,” said Tim, feeling his forced humour failing, his fear growing. “Did I mention this is my house and you’re trespassing?”
“Lift him,” commanded Aello, her voice loud, echoing inside the old house.
Two of the robed figures who had brought him up from the cellar lifted Tim to his feet, holding his arms.
“You know,” said Tim to the man on his left. “I killed the last people who did something like this to me.”
The man turned, his eyes bright beneath the hood of the robe. Those eyes did not belong with the body. They were evil, inhuman.
“I guess Katrina’s not the only one with a party going on inside her,” said Tim, suppressing a shudder.
It was true that he had killed the last people who held him captive and tortured him, but that was after the rest of his team had stormed the compound. He had little hope of outside help this time.
His thoughts were interrupted by Katrina, or Aello, growling once more at him.
“Now I think it’s time you paid for a little of what your family did to me.”
The searing agony exploded inside his head, tearing a scream from his throat, all thought of humour lost in one blistering psychic attack. The boiling pain quickly spread behind his eyes, down his throat and coursed throughout his body. The robed men no longer held him. There was no need. He writhed in pain, his face contorted by wave after wave of agony, but Aello would not let him fall. His feet were rooted and, despite the sudden movements that should have overbalanced him, he could not fall.
This was worse than any torture in Iraq. This was worse than anything he had ever experienced, and yet his subconscious fought back, gradually dulling the pain to little more than a nagging toothache. He had no idea how, but he was overcoming the worst of it, just as he had overcome the attempt by Katrina to control him earlier. This was harder, and he could not dispel it completely, but slowly it became manageable.
He succeeded in forcing his eyes open, to glare at the creature on the stairs. There was no humour left in his look, no attempt at bravado, just deep, hot anger.
“You’ll have to do better than that, bitch,” he gasped. “And whatever it was that my ancestors did to you? I’m guessing you deserved it.”
Speech exhausted him, but he knew it could work in his favour to surprise and, hopefully, anger this thing more. Anger had a habit of ignoring good sense and planning. Anger could lead to mistakes.
For the same reason, he fought to control his own anger. Keep a cool head and do the job. It was what he had been taught. It was what he was good at.
Aello spat venomous acid in her fury, the spittle burning holes in the stair carpet, searing wounds across the faces of those nearest to her. They did not react. They were no longer human enough to feel the pain.
“I do not know how you turned my attack aside,” she said, her voice a low rumble. “Perhaps I have underestimated you. But it does not matter. There are other ways.”
She looked towards the followers standing closest to Tim.
“Slit his throat.”
4
Sam Whitmore had been the first. There had been others.
Men, women, husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters; all of them had lost loved ones. All of them had fought back. Now they emerged from the wreckage of their homes, the ruins of their lives,
and joined those advancing towards the Galton house.
Most had weapons taken from the attackers they killed. Those that didn’t soon found some among the bodies on the road. All had one thing dominating their thoughts. Revenge.
By the time they left the main cluster of buildings behind and neared the old house, the Professor, Susan and Ethel had been joined by twenty-three blood-hungry residents. That they seemed to be willing to follow the leadership of the original three and not rush ahead was little short of a miracle, and one that the Professor did not expect to continue once the fighting started. But he was okay with that. Hopefully they could keep enough of the Village Witch’s followers occupied that he could find and rescue Tim. He felt he owed it to the ex-soldier. After all, if the man hadn’t intervened and rescued himself and his daughter in that car park, that seemed so far and so long ago, he might never have got so involved. He might not now be captive, possibly dead. The Professor took that debt seriously.
“There are no guards or lookouts,” said Susan at his side. “Why would they have no-one outside?”
“Overconfidence,” said Ethel. “Arrogance or just plain lack of thought. Whichever, it works in our favour.”
“So,” said the Professor. “As we’re just about there, has either of you got a plan?”
Susan and Ethel looked at each other and then back at the Professor. Their answer was obvious in their blank expressions.
“Well then,” said the Professor. “I guess it’s got to be mine.”
He looked back at the barely controlled mob behind him and then at his daughter and Ethel.
“Let’s go in the front door and create mayhem.”
5
No!
Katrina’s consciousness, subdued as it was, screamed inside at Aello’s command. She could not allow Tim to have his throat cut. She had accepted there would be deaths, had killed many herself without remorse. They were necessary. Sacrifices to her cause. But she had not suspected that Aello would take her over so aggressively. She had believed Aello’s promises of a harmonious merging. But this was different. She’d been invaded.