A Cry From Beyond

by WR Armstrong

  I peered nervously into the darkness in the direction of where I believed the ascending steps to be. Where would they take me, I wondered ruefully, to the surface and freedom, or to a dead end? There was only one way to find out.

  Behind me a sudden scraping and creaking drifted eerily from the darkness some way off in the distance. I spun round, my heart pounding. What now? Would the insane screeching start again? Would the sound of some hideous thing in flight begin to fill my ears?

  And then, quite suddenly, the sounds stopped. I concluded they were the result of a door being forced shut against its will. The heavy old door at the end of the tunnel that perhaps led into another; which traced the ley line to High Bank Cottage. All roads lead to High Bank I thought dismally. My mind was working overtime, trying to fit pieces of the jigsaw together as I endeavoured to solve the mystery. I sensed I was close, so very close.

  I turned once more to face the steps, or where I guessed the steps to be and felt my way gingerly along the tunnel. The walls were damp, in places slime ridden. Unable to see, I arrived at the first step unprepared and ended up falling heavily.

  I cried out more in frustration than pain.

  Remaining on my hands and knees I crawled forward, climbing each ascending step cautiously. My breathing was steady and measured. I’d stopped shaking. My thoughts were rational. I seemed to be coping reasonably well under the circumstances. In fact I was coping exceptionally well. But I was scared, so very scared. I shut my eyes, inhaled deeply and tried to make my mind a blank. That’s better, I told myself. Now, focus. Concentrate on climbing to the top of the steps. That’s all you’ve got to do. Keep calm, remain rational and climb to the top of the fucking steps.

  But what if they lead nowhere, a doubting inner voice asked.

  Don’t be ridiculous, another side of my rational answered. Why on earth would someone take the time and trouble to build steps that led nowhere?

  For a joke, that’s why. You got to remember Johnny boy, the crack pot who built this place was not your normal run of the mill dude. Grimshaw! This was all down to him. Lord fucking Grimshaw, lord of the manor, landowner, landlord, philanthropist, chief architect of High Bank, the crofter’s cottage, the chapel, the folly, Manor farm and all the interconnecting tunnels that followed the ley lines, upon which those structures were built and oh yeah, head fucking Satanist, devil worshipper and slayer of innocent woman and children to boot. Or so the theory went...

  And then, with his death, the disappearances stopped: only to start again when Martin Willis took up residence at High Bank.

  Was it possible Willis became possessed by the corrupting soul of old man Grimshaw?

  It wasn’t me guv, honest, it was the evil spirit that got inside me.

  Yeah, right.

  But was the premise really that farfetched, given all that had happened? Maybe not, and that being so, did it mean I was close to discovering the fate of the abductees?

  Of course not: because Martin Willis was long dead. He may’ve been responsible for the disappearances of yesteryear, but what about the recent incidents involving Terry and the others? Was his demon ghost responsible? Now there was a thought. What’d happened to David certainly couldn’t be attributed to natural phenomenon.

  It really was all down to Martin Willis then, or more correctly, Grimshaw and Willis. The fused faces that Pixie had described following her psychic episode, was that symbolic of their deadly alliance?

  Two corrupt souls fused together for all eternity. Amen.

  If I was right, how would I break the news to a cynical outside world? I couldn’t. I would be laughed at and ridiculed and then the white-coated men with the friendly smiles would march me off and place me in the first available padded cell. It would have to remain my little secret then. And what of Melinda and Kayla and Kayla’s stillborn sibling, would their souls finally find everlasting peace, simply because I had solved the mystery? Hell no, it would take more than that. I looked back over my shoulder into the all consuming dark and considered what had to be done in order for that to occur.

  Within this underground labyrinth lay the answer and I would have to find it, or else guide others towards it. Then, and only then, would Melinda and Kayla and all the other victims of High Bank’s resident evil find peace. But for that to happen, I first had to escape from my present predicament.

  With that thought in mind, I returned to the task at hand and continued ascending the cold damp steps on all fours. I counted sixteen risers in all, before I reached some kind of landing. I stood up and managed to crack the top of my head painfully against a low flat ceiling.

  For the second time in as many minutes, I voiced my frustration, only this time it wasn’t just my pride that was hurt, the ugly bump to the head I’d received made me feel dizzy and nauseous. I was tempted to rest up, but knew it was a luxury I could ill afford. I must leave the tunnel and fast. Ignoring the aches and pains afflicting my head and body, I raised my hands blindly above my head, hoping and praying I’d make contact with a trap door, which would ultimately lead to freedom.

  The ceiling above me was constructed of timber, which was promising, and when I pushed against it, much to my relief, a section started to rise. But it was heavy, maybe too heavy...

  “Come on,” I urged, straining to keep the momentum going. It rose another inch or two, before resistance suddenly occurred. I struggled to hold it in position.

  “Not now, please God, not now...”

  I started to panic. My mind raced. Say a heavy object rested on top of the trap door, one that might ultimately prove immovable? What then? I’d be doomed for sure, just like Terry and all the others. Moreover, my worst fear would be realised; I’d be buried alive!

  That thought, combined with a profound sense of dread, had the effect of spurring me on. Summoning up my remaining strength, I pushed against the trap door until my arms smarted with the increased effort. Finally, the stubborn door gave and rose steadily upwards to its pivotal point. Once there, I gave it one final push. To my immense relief, it fell back with a resounding thud, to reveal an opening large enough to climb through. High above the opening, virtually obliterated by the dark, I spied a solid timber ceiling.

  All I had to do now was raise myself out of the trap door opening, which was easier said than done given that the ground was level with the top of my head. But others must have managed it in the past, I reasoned, therefore it must be possible. And it was, but only just. Mustering fresh reserves of strength from God knows where, I bird winged my arms over the sides of the trap door’s frame and levered myself slowly and painfully up and out through the opening, until I finally came to lie gasping on a cold slate floor.

  I was in a darkened room, circular in shape from the little I could make out. Snow flakes and watery moonshine drifted in through one of two open arched windows similar in design to those in the chapel. I sat up and then quickly twisted round with the sudden notion that I might not be alone. I needn’t have worried. I was very alone. In fact, at that particular moment in time, I might’ve been the last person on the face of the planet.

  I rose slowly to my feet, dusted my hands together and that was when I spotted the flight of stairs over in the far corner of the room, stairs that looked oddly familiar. Then I happened to glance down at the floor. Despite the poor light, I was able to detect a large symbol painted there. That was when I realised where the tunnel had brought me to. Here was a place I’d visited before and swore never to visit again.

  The folly.

  I was standing in the folly, staring at a floor that held the sign of the dreaded pentangle, depicting some kind of mythical winged creature at its centre. The image was unclear; the detail eroded by the passage of time, yet despite its lack of clarity I somehow knew it represented ungodliness and ultimately death. But that wasn’t all. Less than two feet to my immediate left was something I’d failed to notice on my original visit. That something was a well. Curious to gauge its depth, I tested the theory that wh
en dropped, a coin travels at around one hundred feet per second. Two full seconds passed before the sound of a splash was heard. Seemed I had my answer: the hole was deep, frighteningly so...

  Recalling rumours surrounding the folly, of devil worship and human sacrifice, I couldn’t help but wonder if the primary purpose of the well was one of disposal. Drop an object down there, anything from a coin to a human body and it was gone forever.

  Suddenly I was looking skywards, distracted by the restless cawing of a great many birds. They were up above me, in the observatory, just like last time, guarding the place, it seemed. Were they the same birds that had attacked David and me in the chapel earlier? I must get away. I was in grave danger. So far I’d been lucky, but I didn’t want to push that luck any farther than I had to. I abandoned the folly without delay, departing through its open doorway, heading off in the direction of High Bank.

  The wood through which I travelled in order to get there seemed as dark and forlorn as the tunnel. From high above came the unnerving sound of a large number of birds in flight, or was it simply my imagination. I was suddenly unsure, was finding it hard to distinguish reality from unreality. I ran languidly along a snow covered path that dissected the wood, glanced up and glimpsed sight of a pale half moon peeking down at me through the foliage.

  That momentary glance skywards not only disorientated me, it also cost me my balance. Next thing I knew I was flying through the air like a lunatic gymnast. The landing proved incredibly painful. Worse, I felt something give in my ankle. For what seemed like an eternity, I lay face down in the wet snow, scared to rise in case my concerns were realised and I was unable to stand. And then, out of nowhere, a bird screeched loudly from the treetops. That in itself was enough to spur me into action and send me on my way again, albeit in an awkward hobbling fashion.

  The route I travelled from the folly to High Bank led me past the lake where Michelle and I had spent an enjoyable afternoon during her last visit. The same lake Pixie had referred to on the night Des disappeared. I paused briefly, to gaze upon its dark shimmering surface and wondered, not for the first time, or the last, what guilty secret it harboured and what on earth it had to do with my father?

  Feeling like a war casualty, I continued my trek towards the cottage, deliberately bypassing the chapel, (I really didn’t want to go near that place ever again), journeying on until I arrived at what I considered to be the half way point, where I stopped to rest at the foot of a mature oak. Massaging my injured ankle, I tried to make sense of all that’d happened following my arrival at High Bank. Once again, I considered the geographical relationship between the buildings constructed by Lord Ebenezer Grimshaw and the historical chain of events that had taken place around them. I pondered on Norris’s conjecturing and thinly veiled accusations and recalled the horrific episode that’d occurred earlier that night in the subterranean tunnel, which had ended so tragically for my friend, David.

  I thought about Jenny, who’d had such high hopes for their future together and on the back of that, I recalled Madam Lee’s reading in which she foretold of a “dramatic shift” in Jenny’s fortunes, which would see her begin a new life elsewhere. Without David, she might have added. Perhaps she knew and chose not to say. I took a little time out to shut my eyes and make my mind a blank, before continuing my journey.

  Crossing two grazing fields, I eventually arrived at a third, which followed a gentle slope towards a fence guarding High Bank’s boundary. Home sweet home, I thought ruefully. I paused briefly at the back gate to the property, suddenly reluctant to travel any further. My reticence was short lived however, knowing as I did, that I had little choice in the matter. The rear garden that had once played host to a debauched party that ended with the disappearance of a teenage girl, was presently covered by virginal snow, crystallized by the moon’s reflected light. The cottage on this particular night looked magnificent, the perfect country retreat. How looks can deceive, I mused. The kitchen light was on, just as I’d left it. Lennon was in there no doubt, either listening to the radio, asleep or snoozing: a dog’s life for sure.

  Retrieving the house key from my trouser pocket, I found myself once again thinking about Jenny. How the hell was I going to break the news to her? What exactly was I going to say? I had not the foggiest idea. But that was for later. Jenny wasn’t around and wouldn’t be until the weekend. If she phoned me in the meantime having been unable to contact her husband, I would play dumb. Or maybe, I would simply blurt out the awful truth and have done with it. I really wasn’t sure how I’d react.

  I inserted the key into the lock and turned it. By the time I entered the house, I was in a virtual state of collapse. Lennon welcomed me of course, enthusiastic as always. He raced around the kitchen reminding me of the puppy he once was. I fussed him until he calmed. He sat and insisted upon licking my hands, (my bloodied hands), as if offering sympathy. My clothing was filthy dirty and torn in places. I checked my appearance in the hall mirror and was utterly dismayed by what I saw. Lacerations scarred my face and an ugly bruise darkened my chin. I pulled off the beanie I wore and ran a hand through my hair to discover a large tender bump where I’d earlier cracked my head. I looked and felt like a war casualty. I drifted into the living room drinking from a can of Coke grabbed from the fridge, saw the mobile phone lying on the table and recalled the conversation I’d had with my mother. The one in which she’d reliably informed me that Ashley was once our home and that my father had wanted to purchase High Bank, was desperate to purchase High Bank . As much as he wanted the place, the closest he ever got was to holiday there. Pixie’s voice suddenly echoed inside my head.

  There’s something in the lake.

  Your father, he knows.

  So what exactly was it that my father knew?

  I experienced a sudden urge to talk to someone, anyone. Inevitably my thoughts turned to Michelle. There was one small problem however. She didn’t want to talk to me. I glanced at the clock on the mantle, which informed me it was close to midnight. My conscience told me it was too late to call someone who made a habit of retiring early to bed during the working week. But it really was a case of needs must on this occasion. And if she was pissed at me, it would be too bad. I grabbed the mobile off the table, punched in her number and waited. It took a dozen rings for her to answer.

  When she found out it was me on the other end of the line she exploded. “Christ John, do you have any idea what the time is?”

  I apologised, but she was unappeased.

  “Not good enough mister. I was asleep: you remember what that is, don’t you? What’s so important that you have to wake me in the middle of the night?”

  “Us,” I said simply.

  She fell silent.

  “Are you still there?”

  A slight pause, and then: “Of course I’m still here.”

  “Listen to me Michelle: I don’t want us to be enemies. Life’s too short for fall outs.”

  “What’s brought this on,” she asked, sounding calmer.

  “I just want you to know how I feel.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “What other reason could there be?”

  “You sound kind of strange.”

  I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.

  “Has something happened? Something has happened hasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said, reluctantly. “But I can’t explain over the phone. Can we meet?”

  “Is this some kind of ruse?”

  “It’s no ruse,” I said.

  “Just tell me what’s happened, John.”

  “I can’t. I haven’t got time. Besides, I don’t think you’d believe me anyway.”

  “Try me.”

  “All I’ll say is this: I know who Melinda is.”

  “Like you didn’t really know before?”

  “I not only know who Melinda is,” I said ignoring her, “I also know what Melinda is. And she’s key to what’s been going on here.”

  “You’re st
arting to freak me, John.”

  “She lived at High Bank a long time ago,” I said, “and then she went away.” Went away! What the hell was I saying! She was murdered for Christ’s sake! But how on earth could I tell Michelle that? The simple fact was, I couldn’t. So I decided to quit while I was ahead and that was probably for the best. Michelle already saw me as selfish and unreliable. I didn’t want her to think I was delusional too.

  “Let me call you at a better time,” I suggested.

  “It’s a little bit late to play the considerate card,” she complained.

  And then she hung up the phone, just like that, without giving me the opportunity to redeem myself.

  I slumped down onto an armchair, feeling utterly disillusioned. I shut my eyes and slowly drifted away. When I woke some twenty minutes later, I knew what I had to do. Funny that, how things suddenly come together, how they click for no apparent reason. Of course, that wasn’t strictly true, there were reasons why I came to the conclusion I did that night, there were the energising ley lines for a start, and my theory that underground tunnels followed them, interconnecting with one another, with High Bank Cottage at their epicentre. High Bank, I reasoned, had originally been some kind of head quarters, cum safe house, for Grimshaw and his acolytes. Later, Martin Willis had discovered the secret. Now it was my turn, but whereas Grimshaw and Willis wished to protect the labyrinth and all that it stood for, I on the other hand wanted its ultimate destruction. The place was evil and so long as it existed, bad things were going to happen to good people.

  With that thought weighing heavily on my mind, I retired straight to bed, where I slept, failing to wake until lunchtime the following day. I slept extremely well, which I initially thought surprising under the circumstances. Then again, I’d been through a lot. I guess my mind and body were in need of a complete shutdown.

  That afternoon, following a belated breakfast of toast and black coffee, I travelled into Shrewsbury, the nearest major town to Ashley, where I visited a DIY store and purchased a heavy duty flashlight, a pair of protective goggles, and a hefty sledgehammer.