The Tide of Terror

by Stuart G. Yates

  Paula screamed. She stepped back, clinging on to Jenny's arms, pulling at her. “Jenny, please, come away!”

  Jenny tore herself free, set her jaw and stood

  rooted to the spot. “I'm not going anywhere. I need to know what it wants.”

  It was only a few yards away now, and still it advanced. It didn't so much walk as glide, almost as though being conveyed to them on a sort of invisible flying carpet.

  Paula took off, beating her retreat faster than anyone Jenny had ever seen. Probably for the best, she thought. Jenny, after all, had been here before. Meeting with supernatural forces, standing up to them, was a well-trodden path.

  Somewhere, in the far-off distance, dogs barked.

  But Jenny had no interest in any of that. All of her attention was focused upon the apparition that loomed ever closer.

  It stopped abruptly, some ten feet or so away, suspended above the ground, swaying slightly as if buffeted by the breeze.

  With her eyes locked on the thing before her, Jenny knew that to try and run away would be useless. Not that she could, had she wanted to. The fear rendered her limbs useless. Her mind whirled, unable to concentrate and even the growing wind made no impression upon her. Only the phantom could do that, or creature, or whatever the thing was.

  Slowly the earth beneath it began to brew up, blades of grass flying into the air. At first randomly, until gradually the soil took on more purposeful patterns. Jenny managed to drag her eyes downwards. She gaped. Letters slowly appeared, as if the thing were deliberately churning up the ground, cutting through the soil with invisible tools to create a word, or words.

  Suddenly it finished and rose upwards, its arms outstretched even more widely, and slowly it began to fade. Even as Jenny looked, its outline grew more diffuse until, finally, it simply disappeared.

  She stood gasping, not daring to believe she was once more alone. Its arms seemed to have been inviting her forward. But she waited a few seconds more, to make sure it had completely disappeared and wouldn't suddenly strike out at her the moment she moved. But only the wind remained to keep her company, the gusts decreasing, the colour draining from the fields. Taking hold of what little courage she had, she bit her lip and tentatively moved towards the words in the earth. As she came to them, she looked down.

  Richard De La Croix,” Jenny read aloud. The words were clear to see, cut into the blackened soil. Crouching down, her finger traced the letters. Quickly she pulled her finger back. The earth was warm, as if scorched. But how could that be, there had been no hint of flames or heat of any kind? And yet…She put out her hand, palm down, over the letters. Definite warmth radiating from them, though slowly dissipating.

  Sitting down on the ground, Jenny drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and slowly rocked herself backwards and forwards. What did this all mean? The name, the pendant, the repeated scene of the murder on the beach. All of these messages seeming to point her towards something, something that she couldn't quite understand. Unless – unless of course…

  Of course. It was childishly simple, conveyed to her in the most terrifying of ways. For how long the apparition, or ghost, or whatever it was had waited to send its message could only be guessed at. But Jenny had no doubts. She was the catalyst, the reason it had come forward now. Through her, the ability she had to vent supernatural or unseen forces, the ancient murder victim had projected the memory of what had happened onto the fabric of the world. And now the name, scrawled into the earth, would lead her to discovering exactly who had committed the dreadful deed. She had no choice. She had to follow it through.

  As Jenny wandered half-dazed through the entrance to the rescue centre, Paula came running up to her.

  “Oh God, Jenny…are you all right?”

  Jenny forced a smile, nodded her head, and shuffled down the little path between the dog pens and into the portakabin at the far end. Paula followed her, helped her to a seat, then hurried to make her a cup of tea. Whilst the kettle boiled, the sat down next to Jenny, taking her hand in hers.

  “You look dreadful.”

  “I'll be okay.”

  Paula squeezed her hand. “What was that thing, Jenny? It was like nothing I had ever seen before, almost like…like…”

  “Say it Paula, don't be frightened. You've seen a ghost. But now it's gone.”

  “Gone? Why, what did it do to you?”

  “It didn't do anything. It gave me a name, that's all.”

  The kettle came to the boil and Paula shot up to pour the water into the pot. “I tried calling the police, but all the lines were down. Even now, I've no signal…” As if to prove it, she pulled out her mobile 'phone and gazed down at the screen. She gave a little, startled cry. “Oh God…”

  “Paula, try not to worry.” Jenny's voice was flat, dead calm. She had been through this sort of thing before. As long as she remained calm, kept her mind clear, didn't allow herself to become a victim of panic, then she would get through this. Quietly, methodically. All she needed was some time; time to gather her thoughts, formulate her plan.

  Paula gently placed the teacup in front of Jenny and sat down again. “I think you should take some time off.”

  “Eh? Don't be silly, I'm—”

  “I insist. No arguments.”

  Jenny slowly nodded her head, took a sip of tea, then smiled. “All right. But first, let's finish getting those dogs back in their pens.”

  “I'd rather you took the time now, Jenny. I hate to sound rude, but you look awful. You should go to bed, get some rest. Come back in a couple of days, or whenever you feel up to it. You can ring me to let me know when. And don't worry about the dogs. They were acting strangely, but just before you came back they had begun to settle down again.”

  “It must all be linked to that apparition.”

  “The least we say about that, the better. If there are any problems, I'll let you know. Try not to worry.”

  Giving in, knowing that what Paula had said made perfect sense, Jenny finished her tea and stood up. As if the manageress's words needed underlining, Bruno, the great Saint Bernard, came plodding into the portakabin and plonked himself at Jenny's feet. He let out a meaningful sigh, gave a few tentative licks of her ankle, then promptly fell fast asleep.

  “You see,” grinned Paula, “he's forgotten about it already.”

  Jenny smiled, despite how she felt, and pulled her foot out from under the huge dog's head, not without considerable difficulty. “Let's hope I can switch off that easily.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She called Mark at home. His voice sounded rough when he picked up the receiver, as if he had been disturbed from sleep. “Hello?”

  Jenny took a deep breath. She had decided, on her way home, that she must share something of what had happened with Mark, knowing that he was the only person who would fully understand. But, careful not to sound hysterical, she kept her voice mellow, neutral. “Hi. Hope I haven't woken you.”

  “Woken me? No, it's not even…are you all right?”

  The question troubled her. Was he that perceptive? “Fine. I just wanted…do you think you could come over? I need to talk to you about…something.”

  “Oh…”

  Her heart thumped in her chest. His manner, forced, strained, made her begin to doubt her decision to ring him.

  “Just a minute…”

  His voice grew muffled. Obviously, he had his hand over the mouthpiece. Someone was there, and Jenny knew for certain who.

  “Can you give me an hour or so…” He was flapping now, caught not knowing which way to turn.

  Jenny angry, not just at herself, blurted, “You can bring Donna, if you like.”

  A prolonged silence. She could see him standing there, shocked, doing what all men do when they are caught out – dithering. “I-er…” his voice trailed away and Jenny replaced the receiver, sat down on her bed and pressed her face into her hands.

  After her shower, she grabbed herself a piece of toast an
d quickly tidied away a few things, trying to make her flat a little more presentable. Scruffy lay on the sofa, stretched out on her back, eyes open but fast asleep. Jenny looked at the little dog and envied her. The simplicity of her life, the lack of worry or concern. 'A dog's life' the saying went. Uncomplicated, everything provided. Jenny flopped down next to her and stroked the little dog's chin. Scruffy murmured, gave a sigh and rolled over onto her side, content. It would be nice to be a dog, to live a simple life, go from day to day with nothing much to look forward to except dinner and a quick sniff around the neighbourhood. Wonderful.

  The doorbell rang and she sat up with a start. Scruffy was already scrambling towards the door, growling, tail whirring like a rotor blade. But now, with her nose pressed against the foot of the door, her growls were replaced by impatience whines.

  It was Mark, smiling a little self-consciously. Beside him, the reason for his discomfort – Donna. The look on her face was one of complete indifference and as they both stepped inside, Jenny noticed the little smug grin. No doubt she had noticed Jenny's flushed face, that little tremor of jealousy running around her eyes?

  Jenny forced a smile, beckoned them to sit down, then brought out some tea and biscuits. No one spoke. Scruffy, the only one making any noise, settled herself on Mark's lap, and he gently stroked the top of her head, no doubt relieved that he had something to occupy him.

  With the tea poured, they sat, drinking in silence.

  Jenny made a decisive movement, leaning forward, measuring them both with a stern stare. “I saw something. A man, a ghost, I don't know what.” She held up her hand before Mark could speak. “Just listen. Please. I didn't imagine it, it was real. Paula saw it too, so there's no question. It wrote something in the ground. A name. I need you to find out who it was. The name, I mean. You can do that?”

  Mark blinked, no doubt struck, not only by Jenny's abruptness, but also by her strength. It reflected how she felt inside. She wanted Mark's help. No point in skirting around that fact.

  Surprisingly, it was Donna who spoke. “Yes, he can do that. You know something else, don't you? You know who the name belongs to?”

  Jenny held the other girl's gaze. “I can only guess. But I believe it is the name of the murdered man.”

  “The monk?” asked Mark.

  “Yes. All of these things, from the discovery of the pendant, the film we saw, and now this. Everything points to the same conclusion. The identity of the murdered man.”

  “And what do we do with it once we have it?”

  Jenny looked at Donna again. “It'll be a kind of justice, I suppose. The unveiling of the killer.”

  “But we don't know the killer,” continued Donna, “If the name is that of the murdered man, how can that help us with the identity of the man who murdered him?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Unless,” said Mark, looking from one to the other, “the name is that of the killer…”

  Mark sat back. Scruffy, annoyed that her resting place had been disturbed, jumped down from his lap and went to lie in the far corner, sighing loudly. But Mark didn't notice. He was gazing at the ceiling, mouth slightly open. Jenny watched him, waiting. Donna drank her tea and silence settled upon them once again.

  Mark rubbed his face. “There's a chance…I'll have to do some digging around in the archives. The rolls of the old Priory, some of them still exist. Records of who served there. But we're on flimsy ground; it's simply too long ago. We might be lucky, but the likelihood is we'll come to a dead end.”

  “But you'll try?”

  Mark looked at Jenny. “Of course.”

  Donna leaned forward and Jenny saw her hand pressing down on Mark's knees, the little squeeze. “We can start tomorrow. Can we 'phone you at work?”

  “Paula's given me a few days' leave – to recover.”

  “Recover?” Mark, voice tinged with concern, glanced towards Donna. “It didn't…didn't harm you?”

  “No.” Jenny stood up. “No, it hasn't hurt me.” Did she mean to put the emphasis on that word? She didn't know, she was past caring. And, in a funny sort of way, she felt a little amused by Mark's pained expression, by the return of his discomfort. Part of her wanted to prolong it, but she'd never been a vindictive type. So she simply went to the door and eased it open. Taking the cue, Mark and Donna both stood up and slowly made their way out.

  “I'll be in touch,” Mark said, quietly.

  “Yes,” Jenny said, not wishing to meet his eyes, “I'm sure.” And with that she shut the door behind them, though with not quite as much force as she would have liked.

  She didn't know why she had 'phoned him. Perhaps she needed to hear a friendly voice, something to reassure her, to convince her that what she was doing, or planning to do, was the right thing. The correct thing. Leaving the island…with every passing day it became clearer that she had been wrong. Whatever it she was looking for, the mainland didn't hold it for her. There had been times when she thought she and Mark…but the island did that. A microcosm, a place where feelings became accentuated, where it was so easy to forget the outside world with all its complexities, all its layers of worry. Not unlike living a dog's life. She laughed. What a foolish girl she'd been, trusting in a man she hardly knew, hoping against hope that…

  “Hello? Detective Sergeant Mills.”

  She gulped, surprised to hear his voice, never expecting him to answer. Not at this time, not at this moment…Panicking, she put the 'phone down and sat back, gazing at the receiver. What had she been thinking? Sergeant Mills was part of the investigating team that had helped her through her ordeal back on the island, with those creatures. The memories grew large in her mind. He'd been kind, patient, he'd held her in his arms and it had been…nice…

  Jenny got to her feet and went into the kitchen, turned on the tap and filled up a glass of water. She drank it down in one mouthful. Ridiculous. She would have to get through this without anyone else. Mark and Donna, they were an item, okay, so let's deal with it, push it to one side. It's not important, what is important is that I try to find out what the hell is going on with this—

  The 'phone rang. She span round, heart pounding. It was him, it had to be. He'd pressed the recall button, that was obvious. And now he was sitting there, in his island office, wondering who the hell was calling him from the United Kingdom. And when she answered, he'd know, and she'd have to explain why she hung up.

  She let it ring.

  He'd soon give up, perhaps try again later. Or maybe not. Maybe he'd think it was a wrong number, a mistake. Because that's what it was, just a stupid, simple mistake.

  But it didn't stop ringing.

  She paced up and down a few times, then held on to the edge of sink, looking down into the plughole. What she wouldn't give to dive down there, get away from all of this…this mess.

  Angrily, she stormed over to the 'phone and grabbed the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  A silence. Long. But someone was there, someone waiting. The sound of breathing, very low, but unmistakeable. Had he recognised her voice, been shocked into silence? She calmed herself, suddenly feeling guilty. It wasn't his fault, why take all her anger out on him? Would he have ever 'phoned her? Of course not, but now it seemed that that he had…

  She closed her eyes, took a few breaths, then quietly said, “Hello. This is Jenny. I—”

  “Jenny.”

  The voice sounded cold and coarse. Not a nice voice, not a voice she knew. She tensed, eyes wide open now. The breathing grew louder.

  “Richard…De…la…Croix,” it said, every word of the name drawn out with deliberate, menacing slowness. “Beware what you seek, mistress. Beware what you seek.”

  The 'phone went dead. And so did everything else. The ceiling pitched over and she was falling into darkness, not unlike that plughole that she so wanted to dive into. Dark and utterly overwhelming.

  * * *

  Wet. Across her eyes, her cheeks. The water from the sink, down in the plugh
ole. All over her face, centring on her nose, running over the flesh, the sound lapping in her ears. She tried to turn her head, screwed up her face, and opened her eyes.

  Scruffy's head filled her vision, licking her repeatedly, bringing Jenny out of unconsciousness. She sat up, holding onto her scalp, and winced.

  Scurrying around, Scruffy gave a couple of barks. Jenny held her throbbing head and, holding onto the small side-table for leverage and support, gingerly hauled herself to her feet. She looked and realised that when she'd passed out, she'd fallen and struck her head on the edge of the table. Reeling slightly, she fell into the sofa and sat there for a long time, trying to gather her wits, head back, eyes closed, hand pressed against the raised and tender part of the back of her skull. It was sticky. Blood. When she drew back her hand and looked at her fingers, she saw it was true.

  The telephone rang again and it all came back to her at a rush. The voice. The words. Her breathing became hard, short and fast. It was him, the killer, crossing the years, the centuries, returned to wreak havoc again…

  Calm, I have to stay calm. This is not the way to deal with any of this. If he is real, then confrontation is the only answer. This has to end.

  Despite the pain, she leaned forward and picked up the receiver. “Hello? This is Jenny. If you think for a moment I'm—”

  “Jenny? My God, I hoped it would be you when I saw the number. How are you?”

  It was him. Detective Sergeant Mills. “Oh Danny,” she gushed, the relief pouring out of her, “Thank God it's you!”

  “Jenny? Are you…what's the matter? Are you in some sort of danger?”

  “Danny…” She squeezed fingers into her eyes, the tears spouting, uncontrolled. Sobbing, she could hardly speak, “Danny…I – I shouldn't—”