A Cry From Beyond

by WR Armstrong

  I made ready to leave, but was stopped by a sudden loud bang.

  I called out instinctively: “Who’s there?!”

  My voice sounded alien, not my own. I listened. The house was silent. Well, not quite. There was creaking, which seemed to emanate from somewhere out in the main hall.

  “Who’s there?” I said again, slightly louder.

  No answer. But did I really expect one? The house was empty. Or was it? Who or what had caused the bang and what was it with the damn creaking?

  I left the kitchen, returning to the expansive wood panelled area that was the hall, where I paused in the darkness, struggling to see. I retrieved the lighter from my coat pocket, flicked the wheel, but this time it failed to ignite. I tried again, to no avail. The thing was out of fuel. I let it drop to the floor. Standing perfectly still, I listened intently.

  The creaking continued, off to my right, in the direction of the staircase. I turned to look and let out a sudden gasp of surprise. Someone was observing me from the shadows it seemed: an infant by the look of it. But how could that be: here in this godforsaken building? My imagination started to run riot. I suddenly recalled the horror contained within the blanket Kayla carried around with her; which I’d later confronted in the attic room: a dead and decayed thing unable to accept its own passing. Was that what I was now seeing: the spectre of an infant whose death had cruelly preceded its birth? I had to know one way or the other, despite my misgivings. With my heart hammering, I somehow managed to summon up the courage to move forward and take a closer look...and immediately cursed myself for being so easily unnerved.

  A bust for Christ’s sake: it was just a stupid marble bust standing on a pedestal.

  But the interminable creaking continued.

  Upstairs: it came from somewhere upstairs.

  I walked over to the staircase and tentatively climbed. Halfway up I paused and looked up.

  And to my horror saw legs dangling in mid air: swaying in time to the ominous creaking.

  Keep calm I urged myself. No need to panic. This was nothing to be afraid of: it was just another spiritual manifestation, borne of some parallel dimension.

  I fled nevertheless, and in doing so, left behind the suicide victim that was Melinda’s tragic father, who, even in death sought justice and an end to his daughter’s eternal suffering.

  I ran for my life, consumed by a terrible feeling that events were about to hurtle towards an unspeakable conclusion.

  At High Bank, I was to discover yet another surprise waiting for me. It was as I entered the hallway and flicked on the light that I felt it. A presence...someone or something lay in wait.

  I first checked the kitchen for any sign of an intruder, but there was only Lennon, who uncharacteristically refused to offer a welcome, preferring instead to remain lying in one corner, with his head resting between his paws.

  I went over to him. “What’s the matter boy? Cat got your tongue?”

  He looked at me forlornly, as if he’d been reprimanded. I turned away and left the kitchen, the wooden panelled door suddenly closing behind me as if eased shut by an invisible hand. With mounting curiosity I arrived back in the hallway, where I paused to listen, before crossing to the stairs, where I was brought to a sudden halt by the sight of discarded clothing. A blue denim skirt, white blouse and a fleece lined denim top, which I recognised almost immediately, and lying nearby, flat heeled shoes, stockings and fine lace underwear.

  “What the….”

  I hesitated but for a moment, before quietly climbing the stairs, my curiosity further aroused by the erotic preview. I climbed feeling deeply afraid of the consequences of my actions, yet powerless to stop. I reached the bedroom door and gently eased it open, allowing light to spill softly into the dark interior of the room. The bed was revealed, its sheets thrown back in an untidy heap. And upon it lay the naked form of Melinda, her beautiful blonde hair fanned spectacularly across the pillow. She smiled up at me with sinister promise and patted the mattress, inviting me to join her.

  I tried to resist, terrified of the consequences of what I contemplated, yet compelled to commit to the act. No words passed between us, any communication being unspoken. I closed the door and heard Melinda’s beckoning voice inside rather than outside of my mind. “Come,” it said ever so softly. “Lie with me.”

  The room was affected by deep shadow. The darkness created felt alive with the presence of others, though I was too mesmerized to care. Instinct told me this was a huge mistake, that it would ruin things and only serve to increase the disharmony pervading the cottage, but I was helpless to heed the warning. I removed my clothing and climbed onto the bed to join the beautiful young woman lying there.

  Only there was no beautiful young woman. In reality Melinda had stopped being that year’s ago. Her beauty died when she did. And so, that night I found myself confronted by what she had become following her death and what she had become was indescribable. Even now, after all this time, I try not to think about it. I try to remember her as she was in life, how she had presented herself to me before physical contact shattered the fragile spell. And I especially try not to think about Melinda’s tortured voice rising from her time ravaged corpse, pleading with me to help, not just she and her daughter, but countless others trapped within the cottage, who begged for release from an everlasting purgatorial existence.

  I know what you’re saying, I really should’ve fled the place at that point, but you see, I knew Madam Lee was right when she told me I would be drawn back. It’d happened before, it would surely happen again. I knew with unwavering certainty that I had to see this thing through. I was as trapped as Melinda and her off spring and countless others of her kind. I was forced to accept that in order to free myself from High Bank’s gruesome hold, I must first of all provide the key to their salvation.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I spent the next morning nursing my injuries, which consisted of a black eye, swollen nose and a skull that felt like it was laden with concrete. Willis had meant business, as had Melinda. Between them they’d succeeded in turning me into a physical and emotional wreck. On the positive side, no bones appeared to be broken and to all intents and purposes, my sanity remained intact. But if the beating was scary, Melinda, in her true form was terrifying. And something told me it wasn’t over yet.

  Following breakfast, which consisted of two cups of strong black coffee and a cigarette, I took Lennon for a walk, hoping a spot of outdoor activity would invigorate me. The route we chose took us across the expansive field that lay between the cottage and the disused chapel. Over time it’d become our private playground, where I would throw sticks and Lennon would give enthusiastic chase. It was also where Melinda had once appeared to me, as if by magic, correction, it was indeed magic, albeit a dark sinister kind. I guess I had known who, or rather what she was, for a while, but simply refused to believe it. And who could blame me? To believe was to believe the unthinkable, for it meant that the spiritual world was in fact a reality, or else my mind was shot and I was not the well adjusted individual I thought I was.

  Of course, I’d grown convinced the former must be true. How could it possibly be otherwise? Whilst there was no firm evidence Melinda was a spirit crossed over into the living world, there was a great deal of evidence to suggest that quite unnatural things happened in and around High Bank. The disappearances had happened, no question about that. There were eyewitnesses. So I must be of sound mind, or at least, as sound as most other mere mortals.

  Here was my dilemma. How did I deal with the situation without actually losing my sanity? The facts were, Melinda, ghost that she was, needed help, as did her young child, or children if you counted the poor creature that might’ve developed into Melinda’s youngest offspring, had Melinda’s pregnancy reached full term. The cottage, or something in or connected with the cottage, seemed determined to cause harm to anyone who dared cross its threshold. All except me, that is. And Lennon, but he didn’t really count.

&
nbsp; Madam Lee had referred to me as the “catalyst” and it followed that I was the catalyst because I possessed the “gift”. As much as I disliked the notion, it appeared to be my responsibility to sort out the mess. But how, what on earth could I do? One thing was certain, I couldn’t ignore the situation, nor could I turn my back on it and run away. Madam Lee’s words rang loudly in my ears. If I left High Bank, I would be drawn back. Both she and the reporter, Norris, let’s not forget him, odious little prig that he was, had been of the conviction that such an event had occurred previously, a theory confirmed by my own mother. Conversely, I had not the slightest memory of having visited High Bank ever before. What I had had to deal with since coming to the cottage this time round, were a series of rather uncomfortable déjà vu experiences: or was it something more than déjà vu, I now wondered.

  Lennon stood in the middle of the field positioned roughly half way between High Bank and the old chapel and in roughly the same spot where he had scratched around in the earth previously. He stood attentively, staring down at the ground with his ears cocked forward, growling from the back of his throat. He appeared to be studying that seemingly insignificant patch of land, as if it held a great secret. I called to him to come, but uncharacteristically he refused to obey. In the end, I was forced to relent and trudged grudgingly across the large expanse of wet grass to where he stood.

  “What is it boy?” I asked. He replied with an excited whimper, glanced up at me and then down at the ground again and pawed at the grass and at the earth beneath.

  “What is it, what have you find?”

  He grew agitated, pawing more insistently, as if trying to tell me something. Here was a retriever who obviously wanted to retrieve, but what on earth did he think the ground hid? I glanced over at the cottage, which stood some way off in the distance almost shielded from view by a small copse, then at the chapel on the other side of the field, where Melinda once appeared to me. Had Melinda been trying to tell me something that day?

  Again I tried to unscramble feelings of déjà vu, which demanded I acknowledge a past I failed to remember, but it was no good. I felt a deep kinship with this place, but the reason why eluded me.

  I looked down at the ground where Lennon had been pawing and suddenly imagined I saw the faces of tormented souls doomed to an existence of eternal imprisonment. Some I recognised, belonging to the missing ones, Mary-Louise, Terry, Des and Coogan. And then, to my horror, I saw buried within the earth my father’s face; the features dark and grainy and distorted by those of another. I blinked and the images vanished. I looked across at Lennon, who returned my gaze, ears cocked, tongue hanging from the side of his mouth. Had he seen them too?

  I headed over to the chapel, with the retriever following. Grey clouds had gathered overhead. I sensed we were in for snow. The wind picked up and bit at my exposed face and hands, forcing me to bow my head and stuff my hands into my coat pockets.

  Lennon overtook me and ran for the chapel, as if he shared knowledge of our destination. The building looked grey and bleak, mirroring the depressing overcast sky. Even the grass, rippling in the wind, seemed to have lost its colour and vitality. The episode was fast developing a strange dreamlike quality. As I walked, voices rode the wind, telling of their anguish and unending suffering, attempting to reveal the terrible secret contained within High Bank, but then, all too soon, they faded away, taking with them the promise of enlightenment.

  As I reached the chapel, spots of icy cold rain fell from the slate grey sky. Something made me glance back over my shoulder and there to my great surprise was Melinda standing in the distance, her past beauty regained, observing me from behind the trees that shielded the cottage. My heart went out to her. I blinked against the wind and when I looked again, she was gone, like a mirage. I suddenly longed to be with her, to be a part of her world. It was always possible of course, if I was willing to commit the ultimate sacrifice, but then I thought of Michelle, Melinda’s equal in every way, and the destructive thought was vanquished.

  Close up, the chapel was intimidating, mainly due to its dark choppy stonework and narrow arched windows. I studied the building more closely and suddenly thought of the child, Kayla. I was finally forced to face up to the fact that I had, at an earlier point in time, developed an affinity with her. We had shared experiences and we’d played together for Chrissakes! Once upon a time we were children and we had committed to the act of playing together. Yet we were of different generations, an unbridgeable divide lay between us, so how on earth was it possible?

  The wind blew relentlessly. Standing beside me Lennon looked forlorn. He gazed up at me, appearing to cock an eyebrow, glanced towards the age-old solid oak door that was the gateway to the chapel, then at me again.

  “Shall we,” that look seemed to say, to which I silently replied, “Why not.”

  My hand grasped the cold metal doorknob and turned it, but the door refused to give.

  I cursed beneath my breath.

  I tried again, employing my shoulder to add leverage, until finally, the big heavy door swung slowly inwards, creaking in protest as it went.

  Lennon was first in and headed straight up the central aisle towards the derelict altar, where a stone pulpit stood. He was so quick off the mark he failed to spot what I had seen. Hundreds of birds occupied the chapel’s thick timber rafters. They observed us in complete, unnerving silence. Like sentinels guarding forbidden treasure, I thought. Above them was the old slate roof. Tiles were missing here and there, allowing minimal daylight, together with spots of rain, to enter the building’s interior. I stood and observed the birds as they observed me. Despite my growing unease, I felt compelled to follow Lennon over to the altar, convinced further investigation was required. Jumbled memories filled my mind, of a time long past, of events that affected the present and would continue to dictate the future of High Bank and the surrounding area, unless they were dragged out into the open and confronted.

  If there was danger here I would have to deal with it. At least I had Lennon to offer protection.

  I walked into the main body of the building, keeping central to the aisle, passing row upon row of redundant wooden pews that’d once borne witness to a healthy congregation. A steady breeze blowing in through the open slit windows spanning the chapel walls either side of me, disturbed a thin carpet of autumnal leaves and a few ragged bits of paper.

  Close to the main altar was a walled stairwell, leading down into what I surmised might be an anti-chamber of some kind.

  Lennon, who’d waited patiently until I caught up with him, was first to descend.

  “What’s down there, boy?” I wanted to ask as he reached the bottom, some ten or twelve feet down. I took one final look at the birds inhabiting the building, wondering vaguely if their presence bore any real significance and then followed, deeply apprehensive, yet somehow knowing this had to be done.

  It was dark down there, which meant I was forced to wait until my eyes grew accustomed to the change of light. I gazed around, eyes narrowed against the dusty gloom filled interior. Here was a small empty room. Within it Lennon skulked around, sniffing the stone floor with avid interest. The floor like the walls was constructed of thick stone. No doorway led off from this strange little vault. I cast my eyes upon the cold uneven floor and for the first time noticed the great iron ring at its centre, designed to provide leverage to open what appeared to be a solid trap door.

  Lennon had come to stand directly over it and would, I sensed, have raised it himself was he able. I took a deep breath, inhaling a lung full of stale musty air and then stepped forward. Easing Lennon aside, I hunkered down in order to grasp the rusty old circular handle, my intention being to raise the trap door and inspect whatever lay beneath. I did this without hesitation, for that familiar déjà vu feeling was back, insisting I’d been here before, in this very building, in this very anti-chamber.

  Previously however, I was a child, escorted here by Kayla. We’d played a game, daring each other to op
en the trap door and enter the subterranean world below. But something had prevented it from happening. Did we merely lack the strength to open the door? Did adults put a stop to our little game? Or did the birds intervene and frighten us away? I could hear them quite clearly now. They had grown restless, cawing noisily from the rafters in the main part of the chapel.

  Moments later I heard an ominous flapping of wings as the creatures took flight. I did my best to ignore the growing din and concentrated on the task at hand, but the door was stuck fast. Despite my best efforts, it refused to give. In the end, exhausted from the sheer effort, I released the clanking iron ring in defeat and slumped cross-legged to the floor, where I rested.

  Lennon came to sit at my side, nudging me with his broad snout, as if trying to encourage me to persevere. One more try, I decided, one last attempt and if it failed to work, I would...

  Return

  It was a foregone conclusion. Of course I would return. Like the cottage, the chapel was part of the puzzle, I now realised, whose pieces not only begged to be interlocked, but had in the first instance to be discovered. I rose to my feet, whilst trying to ignore the worsening cacophony of sound, that insane chorus of birdsong reverberating from above. Grabbing hold of the cold metal ring I pulled upwards as hard as I could, until finally, the heavy stone trap door moved. It was but a fraction of an inch but it’d moved, its resistance having been weakened by my efforts. Lennon barked, was it approval or concern? I heaved with all my might, gradually succeeding in forcing the slab upwards. Stone scraped against stone. My leg and arm muscles grew tense, began to ache and then burn from the exertion. I stubbornly persevered until at last, the slab rose more freely, still resistant, but to a far lesser degree.