A Cry From Beyond

by WR Armstrong

  But wait...

  Set into the wall to its right, was what looked suspiciously like a doorway.

  “Jesus Christ,” David breathed having spotted it too. “What is this place John?”

  I didn’t bother answering, because I didn’t know. What I did know was that in the tiny anti-chamber above us I had somehow managed to play with Kayla when I was a child, long after Kayla’s young life had ended.

  But it’d happened sure enough, and the reason it happened was because High Bank was haunted. Yet up until my mother’s admission I’d had no memory of the episode.

  David nudged me, demanding my attention. “Temperature’s dropped.”

  “Huh?”

  “Temperature’s dropped,” he repeated.

  He was right. I led him over to what appeared to be a door sunken into the wall at the blocked end of the tunnel. It looked incredibly old and weathered and was covered in lichen. There was a large iron latch as well as a handle.Positioned directly underneath was a lock into which a key of some magnitude could be inserted. I attempted to lift the latch, but it was rusted solid, proving to be immovable: the same went for the handle.

  “Where do you think it leads,” asked David, his voice hushed as if he was afraid of being overheard.

  “My guess is as good as yours,” I said. “Do you notice something, Dave?”

  “It’s getting colder,” he said.

  “Got it in one...”

  The temperature had continued to dip quite noticeably.

  Shivering collectively, we slowly moved away from the secret door. As we did so, all hell broke loose above us.

  “What’s happening?” David asked looking up.

  “The birds are back,” I said, having to raise my voice to be heard above the escalating din.

  One of the creatures suddenly entered the tunnel; a big black ugly thing that made an aggressive bee line for David. Caught off guard, he stumbled and fell and the bird attacked going for the eyes, using its large hooked beak. Somehow David managed to dislodge the creature. It flew around wildly, until I managed to catch it with a lucky blow from the hammer. It fell limply to the dirt floor where it lay stricken, its wings fluttering weakly. From his prone position, David brought the heel of his boot down hard, crushing it underfoot.

  “Christ almighty John,” he blurted. “What on earth have we got ourselves into?”

  A good question: it was one I was unable to answer.

  Training the torch upwards through the open trap, I saw others flying around. Another came at us. Better prepared this time, we reacted swiftly. David ducked out of the way, leaving me free to employ the hammer once more, this time to propel the bird against the wall. Stunned, it dropped heavily to the floor, where it lay twitching. An uneasy lull followed.

  “I don’t fucking believe this,” David said in a shaky voice.

  We listened and waited, all too aware that another attack could be imminent.

  The way I saw it we had two choices; either we left the tunnel and took our chances with the birds, or we tried to close the trap door and travel along the tunnel towards God only knew what. A dead end perhaps? Logic said it was unlikely. After all, what was the point of a tunnel that led nowhere?

  Of course, there was always a chance it was unfinished, it was possible that its architects failed in their attempt to create their desired labyrinth, or even if they had succeeded, there was nothing to say that the neglected tunnel hadn’t decayed and collapsed. The doubts kept coming and the panic rose, our choices were worryingly limited. Take our chances with the birds in the chapel, or with the tunnel ahead.

  David was speaking, but couldn’t be heard above the riotous barrage of noise. It appeared the birds sense of excitement, (or was it fury), was mounting. I was convinced that to return to the chapel would be shear madness. The maniacal birds were large enough and in sufficient numbers to cause us serious harm. The way I saw it, we had no option but to travel the tunnel and see where it led us. The prospect was daunting, more than daunting, it was terrifying if you allowed yourself to dwell on the fact that with the trap door closed, we’d be sealed into an extremely long coffin. At that point my fear of being buried alive increased tenfold.

  First things first however, we had to address the problem of sealing the trap against the infernal birds. Taking the initiative, I quickly explained my plan to David, handing him the flashlight and hammer before ascending the ladder.

  “Be quick!” he called from below. “You’ve got to be quick!”

  And he was right, just as I reached the half way stage in my ascent, two huge birds swooped. I kept my head down and my eyes shut and continued to climb. One of them caught my hand with its beak. It pecked viciously. I struck out managing to fend the creature off. Those above circled the anti-chamber frenziedly.

  I reached the top of the ladder. Blood ran from a deep cut to my hand. Another bird attacked and received the same treatment as the last; and then another. This one caught me on the forehead with its talons. I knocked it away and it fell, mortally injured.

  Then my head was above floor level. I made a desperate grab for the trap door. Burning pain shot through my injured hand as my fingers curled around the handle. Birds pecked at my head and face, drawing blood. From below, I heard David shouting, but whatever he was saying, whatever words of warning or encouragement he offered were lost within the monstrous bird song.

  Using both hands I pulled at the handle, failing miserably to move it at the first and second attempts, partially succeeding in the third, before finding success on the forth.

  But there was a cost to be paid. When finally the door passed its pivotal point, it fell quickly with the stone slab catching my forehead, knocking me from the steps and sending me crashing to the floor some several feet below. For a time afterwards there was only blackness. David reckoned I was unconscious for as long as five minutes. He said that as I lay unconscious, he had to fight off two giant birds that had gained access to the tunnel prior to the door being closed. He too had sustained injuries to his face and hands.

  I looked around, feeling dazed. Light from the torch made the atmosphere in the tunnel eerie and unreal, the numerous dead birds lying hereabouts only adding to the unpleasant, surreal quality.

  “Any ideas what we do now,” David asked once I’d regained my senses.

  I looked at him feeling as guilty as hell for bringing him here. “I need to think,” I said.

  “What is there to think about,” he said bitterly. “Why not admit it, we’re completely fucked.”

  “Where’s there’s a will,” I told him, but he ignored the remark.

  “While you were out of it,” he said, “I tried to force that old door open, but it’s stuck fast.” He glanced up, his face turned into a shadowy mask by the torchlight and added, “No way in this world can we leave the way we entered. It would take Superman to raise that slab from below.”

  “Only one thing for it then,” I said standing and brushing myself off. “We explore the rest of the tunnel.”

  David grimaced at the thought.

  “Give me the flashlight,” I said and shone it ahead. Moments later we were travelling along the narrow passage, which appeared to descend imperceptibly.

  “I feel like a character in “Journey to the Centre of the Earth”,” David commented in an attempt to lighten the mood, but his tone was anything but light hearted. He was scared stiff, but why wouldn’t he be, I asked myself. We had absolutely no way of knowing where we would end up. For all we knew we were walking to our deaths.

  The tunnel grew still narrower the further we went, which only added to the claustrophobic feel of the place.

  “The birds back there,” David said after a while, breaking the silence between us.

  “What about them?”

  “I think they were Ravens.”

  “How do you know?”

  Jenny is forever pointing them out to me.”

  “Why does she do that?”

  Dav
id was silent.

  I stopped and turned to face him. “Out with it.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he said.

  “Well, you did, so you may as well give me the bad news.”

  “If you insist, but you won’t like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “They’re supposedly birds of ill omen. It’s said that they predict the future, particularly when it comes to death. They’re allegedly messengers of death and are closely associated with...”

  “Come on, say it.”

  “With the devil, they’re closely associated with the devil.”

  I swallowed hard. “Thanks for sharing that with me, Dave.” I was suddenly aware that the torch wavered in my hand. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  The laboured silence told me there was.

  “Let’s have it mister.”

  “Generally speaking,” he relented, “birds are said to be messengers of departed souls. There are those who believe that the souls themselves return to guide those about to die.”

  I grunted disapproval. “Do you have any more cheery information?”

  “Sorry John, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  “You’re doing more than that,” I said, “you’re scaring the living daylights out of me.”

  “It really wasn’t my intention. It’s only folklore, when all’s said and done.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I decided to tell him about my own personal experiences relating to birds since arriving at High Bank.

  “And they can be so brazen,” I said.

  “Brazen? In what way,” David asked.

  “They’ll think nothing of staring in through the window and repeatedly tapping their beaks against the glass. It’s as if they’re deliberately out to torment me.”

  “Oh dear,” David said.

  “What now,” I asked, sensing more bad news. “What’s the significance, best tell me.”

  “A bird tapping on the outside of a window is supposed to signify death,” David said bluntly.

  “I thought you were a sceptic when it came to the supernatural.”

  He failed to reply. I let the subject drop and we continued on in stony silence.

  After about another fifty yards David said, “Hold up a moment.”

  I stopped and turned. “What’s the matter?”

  “Didn’t you hear it?”

  “Hear what?”

  He placed a finger to his lips, indicating I should keep quiet. We stood perfectly still and listened. Seconds passed, and then we both heard it. Back the way we came: the ominous sound of a door creaking open. We simply stood there, unable to move.

  “What do we do?” David asked in a tremulous whisper.

  “Have you still got the hammer?”

  He nodded.

  “Then we continue onwards, use it if you have to, it’s all we can do.”

  “I can’t believe we didn’t bring along two torches.”

  I shone the flashlight back down the passage, but saw nothing other than slate walls and an arched roof, shrouded in semi darkness.

  The sound of creaking came again.

  “I really don’t like this,” David said unsteadily.

  “Let’s carry on and hope to God we eventually come upon a way out of this hell hole.”

  So that’s what we did, we carried on walking whilst hoping we’d find an escape route, and when the temperature dropped still further and a truly unwholesome breeze drifted from the section of tunnel we’d just left, we quickened our pace, instinctively knowing that whatever had caused the creaking was responsible for the other two events.

  “I’m scared,” David finally admitted as we continued the thankless journey, the slope of the tunnel now rising, growing gradually steeper.

  “Stay with it,” I encouraged.

  The tunnel straightened out. As I trained the flashlight’s beam dead ahead I made out what appeared to be steps leading up, which I took to be a reasonably encouraging sign.

  “Forget “Journey to the Centre of the Earth”,” David said upon seeing them, “This is more like a bloody Indiana Jones movie!”

  “The creaking back there,” I said, pausing. “Any ideas what caused it?”

  “It was that old door moving,” David said with certainty, “What else could it have been?”

  “I agree. But who or what managed to force a door open that was to all intents and purposes, immovable?”

  David didn’t reply. I guess he was too busy considering the implications of my words

  We looked back the way we’d come. Everything was perfectly still and as silent as the grave. No movement, no creaking, no nothing. However, the peacefulness of our surroundings did nothing to lessen our unease, for the temperature had dipped again and the odious breeze that’d suddenly blown up, incredible though it seemed, was now strong enough to ruffle our hair and clothing. Just as it had on the night Madam Lee conducted the séance at the cottage, I thought uneasily, when the formidable Coogan was taken. So why hadn’t my friend Mike gone the same way, I now wondered. There was no doubt in my mind that something had stalked him. Then, quite suddenly, it came to me. Why the hell hadn’t I twigged it before?! Light, or rather the absence of it, was the key, for light was very much the common denominator in all of this. It’d played an integral part in every single disappearance. At the party when Mary-Louise had vanished and on the respective nights Terry and Des had been taken. It was the same story with Coogan’s disappearance. During the séance, the lights had failed. Had my presence contributed to all this, I wondered. Did I fulfil the role of some kind of mediumistic vessel? If so, who or what controlled the process? Melinda, Kayla? I refused to accept they were behind the disappearances. I saw them as victims rather than perpetrators.

  My heart pounded with the sudden realisation that the flashlight might be the only thing stopping David from going the same way as the others.

  “Are you all right?” David’s quavering voice. He sounded as scared as I felt.

  “As well as can be expected under the circumstances,” I replied.

  And then, my worst fears were almost realised, as the beam of the flashlight flickered uncertainly. The damn batteries were running low. Christ, not now, not down here.

  Back the way we came, shadows shifted within the dim light provided by the now ailing torch.

  I thought I saw something move down there, just for a second, but managed to convince myself it was imagined. The strengthening breeze however and the stale odour that accompanied it, was undeniably real.

  “Let’s go,” I said turning and heading for the steps.

  And that was the moment the wind increased and the foul odour turned to a vile stench. It was also when the flashlight finally called it a day and the tunnel was plunged into thick impenetrable darkness. And from within that black void something unholy could suddenly be heard flying rapidly through the air, screeching insanely at the top of its lungs, drawing closer and closer.

  “What the hell is that?” David shrieked.

  “I-I’ve no idea,” I said unable to keep my voice steady, “but I don’t intend hanging around to find out. Come on, let’s go!” I grabbed his arm and ran blindly for the steps, stumbling drunkenly as I went. Whatever stalked us was closing in fast! We quickened our pace. And then, catastrophe, David fell.

  “My ankle,” he groaned. “I think I’ve broken my bloody ankle!”

  I reached for him in the darkness, found his shaking hand, and pulled.

  “Get up, Dave; you’ve got to get up!”

  “I Can’t!”

  “You must!”

  Around us the wind howled, and the horrible avian sounding screeches increased dramatically in volume.

  “Get the fuck up!” I repeated, sensing intense danger.

  “C-Can’t,” David groaned, “I’ve told you, my ankle’s bust!”

  And then, without warning, he screamed, a terrible g
ut wrenching sound that momentarily eclipsed the infernal screeching. I tried desperately to retain hold of his hand knowing I was his only chance of survival, but whatever was out there in the darkness was too powerful to resist. He was ripped from my grasp like a leaf torn from a tree. One final tortured scream, and he was gone.

  Within seconds, the howling wind and monstrous avian cries diminished until the tunnel was silent once more. The stench that’d filled the air also receded, to be replaced by something altogether different, and strangely familiar. It was in fact a scent that pulled me back in time to my childhood, a scent that was profoundly reassuring, although its exact association evaded me frustratingly. As was the case with Melinda’s daughter, Kayla, here was one more connection with a past I’d long since buried deep within my psyche.

  My thoughts returned to David. Hands cupped to my mouth I repeatedly called out his name, hoping by some miracle he would reply. Deep down however, I already accepted he was beyond help. He’d gone the same way as all the other abductees. How many were there now? I couldn’t think: too many. I continued to stare blindly into the darkness, overwhelmed by a tremendous sense of guilt, feeling ultimately responsible for his abduction.

  Seconds passed. I somehow managed to clear my mind and set about concentrating my efforts on my own plight. Reaching up, my fingers brushed the cold, damp surface of the tunnel roof. I took a little time to consider where I might be in relation to High Bank and the chapel. Certain in my own mind that the tunnel I presently occupied followed a ley line, I was equally confident there were others, interconnecting, which travelled along similar paths, forming an esoteric network to include the folly, the Manor House and the crofter’s cottage: possibly even Ashley Church, the objective being to harness spiritual power to further the twisted ambitions of its architect, the late Lord Ebenezer Grimshaw. And what of that dark and sinister energy now: did it feed a different entity: did it perhaps nourish whatever haunted High Bank? I could only guess.