by WR Armstrong
I listened, frozen with fear, as the voices rose in pitch and volume to converge in their hostile opposition to one another. I dared raise my head and watched disbelievingly as that which played host to two embattled souls, began to smoulder and burn, overwhelmed as it was by inner conflict and psychotic fury. And then, quite suddenly and without any warning, thick tongues of flame erupted from the creature’s body. The resulting conflagration was violent in the extreme and all consuming. In no time, the creature responsible for the deaths of so many innocent people was reduced to a scorched and smoking ruin. Having collapsed in a burning heap, it rolled slowly onto its back to expel its final, laboured breaths, signalling the end of a seemingly endless nightmare.
It was over: almost.
The death beetles had yet to play their part, emerging from nooks and crannies to dispose of the creature’s charred and blackened remains in the only way they knew how. Satiated, the legion of insects withdrew en masse before merging anonymously with the shadows once more.
And when finally justice had been served, I turned my attention to a point further along the tunnel, near to where the big old door stood: and prepared myself for the worst. You see, I’d glimpsed figures in the darkness up ahead, numbering a dozen, maybe more. They did not move, for they were incapable of movement.
Not only had I avenged “the lost ones”. I had, it seemed, uncovered their final resting place. But that was going to change. I was more than determined that the poor souls awaiting me at the end of the tunnel would be removed from this unholy place and given what they deserved: a decent God inspired burial.
And when I arrived at the spot they occupied, I paused to reflect. Here lay the victims of High Bank all right, in all their horrific glory. I did not inspect the carnage too closely, (it was enough to know they were here), suffice to say that most occupied one particular corner. It was, I thought, almost as if they sought warmth and companionship from each other, even in death. The majority of bodies were propped against one wall, like discarded memorabilia, arms hanging limply, faces ravaged, or completely destroyed by the passage of time.
An object lay upon the ground, I noticed, in close proximity to the bodies. I played the torch beam in its general direction and began to understand why the dream in which my mother brandished an axe had so troubled me. Here was that very axe, small with a short stumpy handle, but no less lethal for it. No sooner did my eyes fall upon it, than the memory which had triggered the dream flashed into my mind, and with it yet another piece of the jigsaw slotted neatly into place.
I was maybe five years old when my mother confronted my father with that axe. It’d happened one summer’s day while I was out playing in the back garden. Raised voices coming from inside the house alerted me to something being wrong. Curious to know what was going on, I crept up to the back door and was horrified to see my mother and father arguing violently. When I saw my mother holding the axe, I wrongly concluded she was the aggressor, when in fact she’d been confronting my father regarding the axe’s purpose. Perhaps she suspected him of being involved in the spate of disappearances in and around Ashley and sought closure? Whatever the case, the incident must’ve traumatised me in a similar way to that which had occurred in the chapel. In both cases I’d simply blocked the incidents from my mind.
I returned the main focus of my attention to the corpses. The wasted bodies of a woman and child lay isolated near to the door made impregnable to David and myself. The child cradled in its arms an infant ripped prematurely from its mother’s womb, the end result of unholy worship, I mused, though I would never be sure. The infant was draped in the soiled remains of a blanket. I looked over at the others. A couple of them I recognised, (David being one), despite the severity of their injuries. Inevitably, I left the so called “lost ones”, albeit temporarily, to return to the living world.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The dreams stopped after that. So too did my dependency on alcohol and drugs. (It seemed that the two went hand in hand, one fuelled by the other). Police investigations and forensic tests were carried out on the bodies in the tunnel and identifications were made. I have no idea what happened to Madam Lee, although I suspect she remains part of the fairground troop and will continue to do so for many years to come. Something tells me she has always been a part of that particular troop in one guise or another, and always will be.
Jenny moved on, just as Madam Lee prophesised, securing a teaching job up north where she started a new life. The last time I saw her was at David’s funeral. We didn’t speak. We didn’t even acknowledge each other. Feelings ran too deep, anger on her part, guilt on mine.
I’ve never been back to High Bank. I understand the cottage was put up for sale, following repairs to the cellar. Two years on it remains on the market at a drastically reduced price. In my view, the place should’ve been razed to the ground. Maybe I’ll pay a visit one of these fine days to carry out the deed personally. Then again, that kind of talk might simply be the rants of a man who has lost the plot a little.
Michelle, loyal soul that she is, stands by me to this day, although we could hardly be called an item. What happened at High Bank gets in the way of that and possibly always will. We communicate regularly by phone and by e-mail, but we see each other rarely. She doesn’t really understand and probably never will. And who can blame her. Believing what happened during my brief stay at High Bank is a pretty tough call.
Remember Pixie and her off the wall comments about the lake and my father knowing something or other? Well, it turned out she was right on the money with that little number. Seemed my father committed his final murderous deed just before doing his vanishing act. Another young woman disappeared in the vicinity of Ashley around the time he did. Evidence suggests that having transported her, or rather her body, to the lake by car: a red Ford Orion, he then dumped the car in the lake so as to cover his tracks, (the car was discovered after the lake was dragged, following an “anonymous” tip off). His next stop was the notorious folly. From here he was able to deliver what was to be his final victim into the subterranean tunnel, home to his previous victims, and where I later confronted his demonic counterpart.
It’s anyone’s guess what happened next: my hunch is that having made it as far as the tunnel, he either died as a result of ill health, or he committed suicide. That’s when the spooky stuff probably kicked in, producing a malevolent entity possessing traits belonging to both he and Grimshaw; two individual’s evil in equal measure.
The demon borne of their terrible acts might have festered there for all eternity, was it not for Melinda and Kayla’s determined efforts to draw me, their hero to be, back, in order to save the day. There was a cost involved however, namely Terry, Dave, Des and all the others who lost their lives there that winter.
I think I’ve said enough: more than enough. Besides, I’m in dire need of a drink, the non alcoholic variety, and Lennon requires his daily exercise. Before I close however, there’s just enough ink left in the pen so to speak, to tell you that I’m about to release a brand new album, its theme being the time honoured one of lost opportunities and lost loves. Mike reckons it will do well commercially and described it rather aptly as a haunting piece of work, which I guess is testament to its title, “A Cry From Beyond”.
THE END
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR.
Dear Reader,
I’d just like to thank you for taking the time and trouble to read my novel, A CRY FROM BEYOND. I only hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Why not let me know either way by using the “review” facility on the Smashwords book store. If you did enjoy A CRY FROM BEYOND, why not check out my other novels at Smashwords entitled, HELL PIT and BARK AT THE MOON, and there’s also my free short story, THE UNINVITED, taken from my paperback collection of short stories entitled, THE LITTLE BOOK OF DARK TALES signed copies of which can be purchased from my website at www.wrarmstrong.com
Thanks once again,
W. R. Armstrong.