A Shadow on the Wall

by Jonathan Aycliffe

  August 8th

  Work began on the tomb today, and almost as soon ended. I heartily wish I had never come here, or purposed to restore this place. Cowper’s men were right: the de Lindesey tomb ought never to have been disturbed.

  I went to church early to meet Cowper and his labourers on their arrival, thinking to give them what moral support they might require. The men’s faces were sullen, and I could tell they had turned up on sufferance; but Cowper chivvied them, and I think my presence—I still wore my cassock—reassured them. There were four of them, all local men, one or two of them regular churchgoers whom I knew by sight, if not by name.

  Some time was spent examining the various cracks that had appeared in the side of the monument. Cowper pointed them out to me one at a time, showing how the uneven pressure exerted by the upper section made it impossible to effect a proper repair. There had been earlier attempts to seal up the cracks, but none of them had held for very long, and in the end the attempt had been abandoned. The top would have to be winched off, then each of the side pieces repaired and reset.

  “Can you do all this without disturbing the remains?” I asked. Cowper said that they would do their best, but that much would depend on what they found once the tomb was opened. I gave him permission to go ahead, and they brought in some heavy equipment from outside and set to work.

  It took above an hour to set up the winch, a great wooden monstrosity which Cowper had hired from a construction firm in Peterborough. While two of the men worked at this under Cowper’s supervision, the others busied themselves in loosening the mortar that divided one half of the superstructure from the other, and the upper stone (the portion that bears the effigy of de Lindesey) from the lower.

  By the time all this was ready, it was past lunch time. The men had worked continually all morning, with scarcely a break. I thanked them for all they had done so far, and headed off to the rectory for my own lunch.

  When I returned, I found that they had been waiting for me before resuming work. I could see the apprehension on their faces, as though they were about to summon up the devil himself.

  “’Tis all right, is it, Rector, what we’re about to do?” asked one of the men, Ezekiel Finch. “Only, openin’ a grave, it seems like . . . well, like sakerlidge.”

  I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder. It is the sort of gesture, I have found, that means much to the working classes, and it seemed to put Finch at ease.

  “It would only be sacrilege if we were to remove the bones entirely, or put them to profane use. Since it is our intention to rebury them within the chancel, and since I shall perform the service of reburial myself, you may rest assured that nothing will be done here that is not approved of by the Church.”

  Finch thanked me, and they set to work. I watched from a little distance, by the rood screen. A feather chisel was used to raise one edge of the right-hand slab until two flat hooks could be inserted. Trestles and boards had been set up on one side, ready to receive the lid as it came across.

  The men pulled on a single rope, and the chains fastened to the tomb took the strain, raising the top section far enough to allow Finch to slip a roller underneath. I watched with my heart in my mouth, for I knew that if any part of the apparatus slipped or gave way the monument could fall and be irreparably ruined.

  The winch was secured, and the men now took up positions at either end of the tomb lid, in order to push it over the roller onto the trestles. It was hard work, for they had to keep the whole thing balanced as it moved. Cowper kept a close eye on them. Two men pushed from the tomb end, while two brought the slab onto rollers laid on the table.

  It had travelled no more than six inches when something dreadful happened. I am still not sure how it came about. All seemed to be going well, when I suddenly became aware of . . . I am not sure how best to describe it, but it seemed to be a darkening about the tomb. I thought I saw . . . a shadow rise from the aperture. The others saw it too, and one man, Cobbitt, screamed and fell to the ground as if attacked, clutching his throat. The chain holding the slab at his end was dislodged, and the entire lid went off balance, slipping on the roller and falling forward, in spite of the efforts of Cobbitt’s mate to hold it firm.

  The full weight of the slab struck the trestles, unbalancing them, and in less than a second it crashed to the ground, catching poor Finch by the leg and pinning him underneath.

  I ran across to help, and as I did so the first thing that struck me was a dreadful stench that seemed to come from the tomb. It occurred to me then, and occurs to me again now, that this frightful odour may have been the cause of Cobbitt’s falling back.

  Finch was on his back, in terrible pain, his right leg twisted dreadfully, his face as white as marble. I did my best to comfort him, while the others slaved to fix the winch to the slab and haul it up far enough to free the poor man’s leg. I remained bent over him, praying for all I was worth. It seemed to take hours, though I think it may have been at the most ten minutes. Finch lost consciousness not long after I joined him. The floor was wet with blood, and I knew there could be no saving his leg.

  In the end, the lid of the tomb moved sufficiently to let Cowper move Finch out. His leg had been all but severed just below the knee, and he was still losing blood freely.

  It was then, just as we extricated him, that I heard something to chill my blood. Dry laughter that seemed to come from somewhere near the reredos. None of the others seemed to notice it, and I said nothing, not wishing to frighten them any more than they were already. Tonight, as I sit writing this, I wonder if I can have been mistaken, disturbed as I was by the accident and the sight of that unfortunate man’s leg. And yet, it did sound terribly real. Indeed, I can still hear it, as though it continues, barely audible, beneath my own rafters.

  I laid the papers down on the floor beside me, and looked up, blinking and staring blindly, into the fire. In my mind’s eye, I could see it all re-enacted—the movement of a shadow, the man’s cry, the crashing slab, the other man pinned by a dead man’s effigy.

  I sat like that for a long time, not wishing to read any further, watching the flames burn lower and lower, the coals whiten and turn to vivid ash, the ashes lose their luminosity and grow cold in the dead hearth.

  Shivering, I got up and went to the window. I needed to look outside, to see anything but the little room in which I sat. In any case, I had no desire to return to bed, and even less to turn down my lamp and shut my eyes in a vain attempt to sleep. I had heard of a case like this one, not many years previously, in France, and I knew that it had turned out badly.

  The sky was overlaid by thin, scudding clouds, whipped rapidly past by a wind out of the Wash. Now and then, a gap would reveal a three-quarter moon, corpse-white and remote and on the wane.

  I could see the church tower and the west front from where I stood. It rose up, dark and somehow menacing, while the coming and going of the moonlight cast peculiar shadows across its stone walls.

  As I watched, the moon emerged into a long patch of clear sky, illuminating the entire west wall. Something caught my eye, high up on the tower, and, as I strained to see more clearly, a shadow detached itself from the stone and began to climb deliberately downwards, pausing, hovering, then moving off again. And then another mass of clouds rushed across the moon, and I could see no more. When the next stretch of moonlight came, the shadow had gone. Perhaps, I thought, it had never been there at all.

  I crossed to the bedside table and looked at my pocket watch. It was after one o’clock. I sighed. The thought of dressing and going out again on such a night was deeply repellent. But I had no choice. What I had to do, had to be done that night.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I knocked gently on Atherton’s door. He too must have been wide awake, for he answered in a matter of moments. His hair was dishevelled, and his eyes were red, and I knew that grief had kept him from his sleep as surely as fear had kept me from mine.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. He pulled his d
ressing-gown around him, shivering in the cold from the corridor. “Why are you dressed? Is anything wrong?”

  “I think we should go to the rectory,” I said. He looked at me in astonishment.

  “At this time in the morning? What on earth for?”

  “I can’t explain, there isn’t time. I’d go alone, but I can’t do it with this wretched leg. Will you come with me?”

  Now that the idea was sinking in, I could see him grow reluctant. I confess it had little appeal to me either, and freely admit that it was not just my leg which made me desirous of company.

  “Can’t it wait until daylight, at least?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “It is important,” I said, “or I would not have come to you.”

  He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded.

  “Wait for me there,” he said. “I’ll get dressed.”

  The door of the inn had not been locked—burglars are not a common menace in the countryside—and Atherton and I were able to sneak out unobserved. It was very cold indeed now, and our breath hung all around us, as though sculpted by the light of our lantern.

  Thornham St Stephen was utterly still. It was as if the deep notes of the passing bell had cast its inhabitants into an everlasting sleep. Nothing moved or breathed. There were no lights anywhere, and no sounds, not even a dog barking or a wild creature crying in the fields. I was cold and sick at heart. Each time the moon came scuttling from behind the clouds, I started at shadows like a child. Atherton, pacing ahead of me, saw none of this; but he had caught my mood and was, I sensed, as ill at ease as I.

  The moon disappeared behind more clouds as we came to the door of the rectory. From what little I had seen, it was a dismal building, built some time in the earliest part of this century and, judging by the rooms I had seen earlier, subsequently inhabited by a succession of cheeseparing clerics and their embittered wives. What, after all, is a fine church to life in the wilderness? The very mortar of the place was riddled with disappointment and frustration. I could feel them seeping through the walls like damp.

  As I had expected, Lethaby, a city-dweller at heart, had locked the door and driven off to dinner with the key in his trouser pocket. Fortunately, the rectory was set back a little from the village proper, in its own garden, which meant that Atherton and I were able to make our way unobserved to the rear. Here, looking up, I saw the great dark bulk of the church looming above us. I looked away again, fearful of what the moon might show me if it came clear of the clouds once more.

  A sash window had been left open. Passing the lamp to me, Atherton pulled it up and scrambled through the aperture. I handed the lamp back to him, and he opened the back door to let me in.

  As I limped over the threshold, I felt it at once—something was already in the house, something old and cunning and full of malice. I had no way of knowing whether or not it was aware of our presence as I was aware of it. But I had to assume the worst.

  “What’s wrong?” whispered Atherton.

  “Shhh,” I hissed, holding up one hand. “Can’t you feel it?”

  He stood very still for a while, then looked at me. His cheeks had turned pale.

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “There’s something . . .” He paused. “Something that shouldn’t be here.”

  “You don’t have to stay,” I told him. “All I needed was help this far. If you’d rather leave, I’ll understand. You aren’t accustomed to this sort of thing. You could get in my way.”

  I saw him hesitate. The feeling of malice in the house was strong, and growing stronger by the minute. I felt the hairs on my body rise, and a voice inside my head urged me repeatedly to run. Atherton too seemed to ponder flight, but after brief deliberation, shook his head.

  “No,” he declared, “I’d prefer to stay here, if you don’t mind. If there is any danger, I have no right to leave you to face it alone.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’d be grateful for your company.” I paused, all too conscious of the dark, empty house all around us. “Now,” I said, “I think we should make our way upstairs.”

  His face crumbled.

  “Must we go up there? My brother . . .” His voice tailed away.

  I knew what he was thinking. I too could imagine his brother, laid out as though waiting for us.

  “It’s what I came for,” I answered.

  We made our way into the hall. Heavy ecclesiastical engravings hung on the walls. A stuffed owl stared down at us, its eyes bright in the lamplight. Near it hung a portrait of a stern-faced man dressed in the robes of an Anglican bishop.

  “Our father,” whispered Atherton, seeing me stare at it. “It was painted by Buckner a few years before Father’s death.”

  “He seems a little stiff and formal.”

  “Bishops are. Edward would have been one if he’d lived. He had all the needful qualities.”

  I could almost feel the eyes of the old bishop on us as I began to climb the stairs behind Atherton. Like burglars, we moved in silence, as though we feared to disturb the house’s sleeping inhabitants; but the only sleeper here was Edward Atherton, and he would not wake easily.

  We had gone about halfway when I became aware of a sound. Atherton heard it too. We both stopped, holding our breaths, and listening hard. It was not long before the sound was repeated, louder this time, a dull moaning sound as of someone in pain or dread. I looked up the dark staircase, in the direction from which the sound had come, and felt myself go cold.

  “It has started,” I whispered.

  “You knew this would happen?”

  “Not this exactly. I’m still not sure what’s going on. But something like this, yes.” I paused, gathering my courage for what inevitably lay ahead. “We must hurry. There’s no time to lose.”

  We made what haste we could, Atherton going ahead, but never too far from me. The moaning grew in frequency and volume, and, as we turned the corner at the top of the stairs, it was clear that it came from Edward Atherton’s bedroom.

  At the door, we hesitated. Unmistakable sounds of pain came from inside, and neither of us had the courage to open the door, not knowing what we might see once we entered.

  “Dear God,” whispered Atherton. “What is it?”

  “I dare not think,” I said. I looked hard at him. “We have to go in. Now more than ever. Are you game?”

  By way of answer, he put his hand to the doorknob and turned it hard.

  The room was pitch dark. Lethaby had closed the shutters and drawn the curtains, blocking out all external illumination. As we entered, Atherton raised the lamp. His trembling hand caused it to shake, sending ripples of unsteady light across the darkness, confusing my eyes with a host of moving shadows.

  “Let me have the lamp,” I said.

  He passed it to me. My hand was steadier than his, but barely so. I stepped in front of him and thrust the lamp forward.

  Edward Atherton’s body was still lying on the bed where we had left him. For a few seconds, I thought nothing was amiss, that, after all, I had been mistaken. But as I took another step forward, I saw that his eyes were wide open. The wailing sound we had heard from below was issuing from his parted lips.

  “He’s alive!” shouted Atherton. “Good God, my brother is still alive.”

  He was about to dash towards the bed, when I grabbed his arm hard and held him fast.

  “For God’s sake, man,” I pleaded. “That thing is not alive. Don’t you understand? That is not your brother on the bed.”

  “But he’s crying out . . .”

  “It’s not your brother,” I repeated, “not any more.”

  “Surely there’s something we can do all the same.”

  I thought quickly. Not in all my years of investigations had I encountered anything like this before. I could only guess at what was really happening. On the bed, the thing that had been Edward Atherton lay watching and listening.

  “Listen,” I said, “your brother was a conservative. He may even have
had Roman leanings. Do you know if he ever kept consecrated host here or in the church?”

  “Yes, yes, I remember—downstairs in the study. He had a small box, a silver box.”

  “That will be it. Go down quickly and fetch it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be all right. Just go.”

  He hesitated, then dashing to the bedside, grabbed a candle, which he lit from the lamp.

  “Here,” he said. “I can’t leave you here in the dark.”

  I took the candle, and he dashed through the door. Moments later, I heard his feet on the stairs. On the bed, the body remained still. Still, but not silent. It had begun to speak, in a stilted, awkward fashion, as though the throat and tongue and lips it used were things unfamiliar to it. The words—if words they were—were unrecognisable, as though it spoke in an alien language. And yet, somewhere in it all I could discern the rudiments of human speech.

  The candle flickered in my hand. My leg hurt abominably, and I knew that whatever happened I could not run. All round me shadows moved like small, frightened animals, and the thing on the bed went on babbling. I forced myself to face it.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “What do you want here?” I did not even know if it could understand me, but I felt its eyes fasten on me. The hands fluttered momentarily, then grew still. The lips continued to move, spewing out words, whole sentences I could not understand, and as the thing grew in mastery, so the words grew more distinct, though no more comprehensible to me.

  “What is your name?” I asked again. It was bitterly cold in that room, and I shivered uncontrollably. All the time, I listened desperately for the sound of Atherton returning.