by Devon De'Ath
It was twenty minutes before midnight when Vicky inserted Martha’s front gate key into a pedestrian access point on the small road frontage. Bill tucked the camera and telephoto lens out of sight beneath his jacket. A slow-moving police patrol vehicle cruised into view. Bill’s pulse thumped. If the rozzers saw them attempting to make entry at this time of night, it would flush the entire plan. He grabbed Vicky’s waist, spun her around and yanked her into his arms. As her confused eyes flashed with concern, he shot her a warning stare and whispered. “Police. Trust me.” He locked his mouth onto her sweet, juicy lips, fighting to conceal and push down any unintentional arousal.
Vicky allowed her arms to wrap around his neck. She melted into his embrace while her ears followed the passing vehicle for any hint of it stopping. The police car passed without slowing further.
When it disappeared from view, Bill let Vicky go. He gasped and looked away. “I’m sorry. It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment.”
Vicky relaxed her posture and yawned. Bill risked looking back, like a sheepish puppy next to a pile of poo. That yawn was genuine and unintentional; her relaxed posture an attempt to underscore a lack of emotional response to their shared, intimate experience. There was no sense blowing up at Bill. He’d avoided impossible questions and an interruption from the police. Besides, after his frank disclosure during their Dover picnic, Vicky believed him to be genuine. “Let’s get off the road and out of sight.” She fiddled with the keys again, then opened the gate.
Bill glanced at the entryway. “Are you going to lock that? If our nocturnal visitor makes an appearance, they’d become a mite suspicious to find it open.”
Vicky secured the gate. “Once we’ve had a look round, we should unlock the undercroft but leave its door shut.”
The police car rolled back in the opposite direction, causing the pair to retreat beneath welcome concealment from the many trees.
Bill licked dry lips. “I see where you’re going with that: We make it look like the security guard forgot to lock the lower door, then catch our hooded menace red-handed.”
“Precisely.”
They sidled up to the tall, dark manorial structure clad in bonded English brickwork. A sturdy chimney and mullioned dormer poked out from a high pitched roof. At the front, a covered wooden stairway led down from the first floor entrance, turning at a right angle halfway through its descent. Bill nodded at thin lancets notched in the flint and ragstone building material comprising an older part of the structure. “I see what you mean about not squeezing through the lower windows.”
Vicky fumbled around in the dark, feeling for the wood-panelled undercroft door.
Bill checked over his shoulder for any passing traffic on the road. A mid-lawn tree provided some appreciated cover from any curious passers-by in the night. He clicked on his torch and narrowed the beam. Its darting shaft of light provided Vicky with enough illumination to locate the keyhole. She unlocked the door, then slipped inside with Bill close behind. He scanned his beam around three bays of ribbed stone vaults, careful not to allow the light near any of the narrow windows. “Delightful. What time does Dracula get home?” He winced as his voice bounced off the curved ceiling, louder than expected.
Vicky moved back to the door. “No sign of any disturbances so far. We’d best find a place to hide-up outside. There’s nothing to conceal us in here.”
“Agreed.” He followed her out into a chilly night, his breath a cloud of vapour in close proximity to the river.
The pair settled on a section of undergrowth to one side of a turreted staircase with elegant windows. From there they enjoyed a reasonable view of the undercroft doorway. Anybody entering the site from the road would approach along the opposite bank of trees, minimising chances of compromising their presence.
At three-thirty in the morning, Vicky shifted to induce fresh circulation into her numb feet. She leaned closer to Bill with a hushed voice. “How do you do this so often?”
Bill released a gentle puff. “Not as glamorous as it sounds, is it? There was this one job wher-” He stopped dead, cutting off his own flow of speech.
Vicky followed his gaze through the low-hanging branches. What at first appeared as shadows from the swaying boughs silhouetted against the building, took on a life of their own. Something broke away from the nodding mass. A tall figure, clad in a black hood, almost appeared to slither around the side of the turret. “We didn’t see anyone come in.”
Bill grunted. “The sneaky bastard must have crossed the railway line and crept through the back. Bloomin’ lucky they didn’t get toasted on the third rail.” He lifted his camera for a better look. “No good. Let’s see if they take our undercroft bait.”
They watched and waited. The dark pilgrim moved away from the wall, standing with a slight stoop facing toward the vaulted chamber. One robed hand reached up to test the wooden door’s handle. As the portal opened without resistance, its hood darted from side to side, as if expecting a security guard to appear on the steps at any moment. When all remained still, it slunk into the gloomy entrance.
Bill inched forward. “Come on. Keep low and stay clear of the windows.”
Vicky darted across the lawn behind him until they reached the undercroft entrance. The door had been pushed to, but not secured. It was heavy enough to not swing open in a gentle night breeze. Bill pushed against the rough wooden surface with the ginger hands a safe-cracker might exhibit on a combination lock. The door moved a half-inch at a time. Vicky balled her fists and held her breath, a silent prayer offered to the God of well-oiled hinges that these would remain free of creaks. From inside, the definite sibilance of a discharging aerosol sliced the inky blackness. Bill crept through the gap, almost leaping out of his skin as Vicky’s hand rested on his shoulder from behind for moral support. A faint glimmer of candlelight danced on the vaulted stonework. The pair stopped inside the door, far enough into the chamber to locate their target. On the floor at the far end of the undercroft, a small iron lantern illuminated the ritual space, courtesy of an encased night-light. An identical red symbol to the one from Martha’s photograph, stained the flint wall. The robed figure, still with hood raised, stood with its back to them. Its shoulders jostled in time with a rhythmic slapping, like a bulldog shaking slack chops. The motions echoed in exaggerated silhouettes cast by the scant light source. A male grunt reverberated around the chamber. The robed figure muttered a word with gasping reverence, then stilled. “Baphomet.”
Bill brought up his camera, foregoing any hopes of a long exposure. He flicked the selector to ‘full auto.’ As he half-pressed the shutter button to sharpen focus, the Canon’s built-in flash popped up with a click that might as well have been a gunshot.
The robed figure whirled on the spot, garments rising with centrifugal force.
Bill half smiled, grinding a rebuke through clenched teeth. “Say ‘cheese,’ arsehole.” The camera flash fired, followed by a confirmation beep and whir.
The shady pilgrim rose to its full stature, appearing to fill the chamber near ceiling height. A low growl rose to a deafening roar from beneath its hood. The undercroft door swung shut with a violent bang that caused Vicky’s ears to whistle. Two red pulsing lights shone like eyes beneath the dark cowl of their adversary. Bill lifted the Canon again, squinting as the lantern extinguished. A rush of hot air knocked him to the floor. His camera burst into flames with a crackle, scorching his fingers. Bill threw it aside, hands wracked with pain at the sudden burning sensation. He stared into those twin red lights like pulsing coals in the head of some mythical hell hound. Another blast of air shot him and Vicky against the nearest wall, their heads thudding into the stonework.
When Vicky came to, she found the first light of dawn casting dim shafts through the lancet windows. Bill jerked in a spasm on the floor, like someone enduring a frightful dream. She crawled over to him and shook his shoulders. “Bill. Wake up.” Her voice croaked, throat sore from the cool, damp air.
; Bill’s eyes drifted open. He sat up with a start. The undercroft lay empty. Only the spray-painted symbol remained. His incinerated camera rested near the door, looking like the charred contents of some extinguished house fire. “Oh man, not another one.” He rubbed the back of his head, then looked at Vicky. “Are you okay?”
Vicky attempted to stand, pushing against the cold walls for support. “I believe so. Bill, what was that thing?”
Bill rubbed stiff limbs and rose beside her. “You’re asking me?”
Vicky massaged tired eyes. “Right before you interrupted it with your camera, it said ‘Baphomet.’ Did I imagine that?”
“No. I heard it too. I’d say that cements its association with our friends from Hirsig House, wouldn’t you?”
Vicky stumbled towards the symbol on the far wall. “But we’re no closer to understanding what’s going on.” She pulled out her mobile phone and opened the camera application. “At least this didn’t cook. I’d better snap a couple of shots.” She took several images at different ranges, then leaned closer. “Bill. Come here a second.”
Bill straightened from where he’d crouched to mourn another piece of departed, expensive photography equipment. “What have you got?”
Vicky moved one index finger above the flints. She indicated a glistening substance coating some of the red, painted symbol in several yellowish splatters. “Is that what I think it is?”
Bill frowned, then moved his nose close to the goo for a good sniff. He recoiled. “Oh, my God. How sick are these creatures?”
“So it is?” Vicky stepped back, nose wrinkling.
Bill nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got a lone cultist who vandalises historical monuments with paint, then ‘chokes the chicken’ all over them.” He made the universal jerk-off gesture in midair.
Vicky put her phone away. “We’d better lock up and clear out of here before full daylight arrives. Once I can fathom a way to to explain this to Martha, I’ll call her with a report on the graffiti at a more civilised hour.”
Bill picked up the crispy remains of his fried camera. “Right now I’d be happy if we could explain this to ourselves, even without selective omissions. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
7
A Family Farewell
The journey back to Allington from Temple Manor passed in near silence. Vicky and Bill had both run out of suggestions to explain their unsettling encounter. What rational argument existed to dismiss the supernatural manifestations surrounding that hooded figure on its perverted mission? When they reached the outskirts of Maidstone, Vicky broke the deafening silence.
“Whatever else that thing was, it can’t have been a ghost.”
Bill kept his eyes on the road. “Because it opens doors before passing through, carries lanterns and uses spray paint? Or do you mean because the residue it left behind was semen, not that weird goo spooks emit?”
“Ectoplasm. Yes. All the above, I suppose.”
Bill turned into Vicky’s road. “I'd feel happier if that creature was a ghost. What sort of man has glowing red eyes, ignites objects at will and can blow two people across a room with furnace-like breath? If I chuck in a claim for another camera, my insurance premiums will skyrocket.” He drew up to the kerb behind Vicky’s Audi. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”
Vicky detached her seatbelt. “Fancy a warm drink and a spot of breakfast?”
Bill studied the bags beneath his eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Why not? It was an interminable night and today’s Sunday. Neither of us have to work later.” He switched off the engine. “You'll make Martha’s day when you tell her about that new graffiti.”
Vicky got out of the car. “You don’t say. I know it’s not a place that attracts hundreds of visitors, but they open the manor to the public at weekends.”
Bill locked the vehicle. “It wouldn’t surprise me to find a ‘closed for repairs’ notice outside the undercroft, later today.”
Vicky reached her front door. “I’ll drop Martha’s keys round later. Then I can deliver some concocted story in person. The site doesn’t open until eleven.” She stepped into the hallway. “Flippin’ heck, it’s chilly in here. I hope my boiler isn’t on the blink.” Vicky deposited the thermos flask on a kitchen worktop.
Bill shut the front door, its sudden draught causing an adjoining living room door to swing open. He poked his head through. “Oh no. Vicky?”
Vicky caught a grave tone in Bill’s voice. She wandered back through the hall to join him. One of her patio doors hung half off its track near the dining table. It allowed a crisp, spring breeze to ruffle the curtains facing onto her back garden, like regal pennants. Drawers hung open on a dresser, their contents tossed across the room. Vicky pressed both hands to her mouth. She took a hurried mental inventory. Apart from a mess at odds with her usual tidiness, nothing of obvious value appeared missing or out of place.
Bill tapped the top of a large TV in one corner of the room. “At least they didn’t nick this.”
Vicky pivoted to run for the staircase. Determined feet thudded on the stairs during that ascent. “My laptop.” Her outburst, upon reaching the box room, confirmed the intruders had stolen one item for sure.
Bill followed. He made the doorway to find her leaning over an empty desk where once the computer stood. “Anything else gone from here?”
Vicky looked around. “No. They’ve tossed some papers about, but they’re only old invoices. I intended to sort through that pile next week. There’s nothing of value about them. I’d deleted the Dover graffiti image from my web-mail and saved it to the laptop hard drive. I suppose Martha still has the original, if we need it.” She straightened, then pushed past him to her master bedroom. A chest of drawers stood empty. All four drawers were pulled out and now lay criss-crossed on the bed at assorted angles. Undergarments, t-shirts, and two jewellery boxes had tumbled out for inspection. Vicky turned over the open boxes. “They’ve taken a gate bracelet and earrings. Twenty-first birthday presents from my late adoptive parents.” She eased down on the mattress to wipe her face, turning it aside from Bill.
He squatted before her. “I’m sorry. If you hadn’t come along last night…”
Vicky shook her head, cheeks rouging. “No. It would have happened while I was at work, or some other time after I left the house.”
Bill pushed the drawers aside to join her on the mattress. “Hey, you don’t know that.”
“I do, Bill. It was them. The cult. I know it was. Before you collected me yesterday, I could’ve sworn I saw Katie Tomlinson watching the house from across the road.”
“I suppose it’s possible. Those break-ins at my office and home are too much of a coincidence for a random crime series. And you mentioned Katie knows you’re involved in our snooping around.”
“What did they hope to find?”
“That’s just it. I’d say your burglaries and mine are an attempt to learn how much we’ve discovered.”
Vicky got up, then trudged back to her study to retrieve the scattered papers.
Bill appeared beside her again. “I would ask if you’d like a hand tidying up, but you’ve seen my house.”
Vicky couldn’t force a smile, but a soft light in her eyes told him she appreciated his attempt to cheer her up. “I’ll chuck these away, then call the police.”
Bill stepped aside.
Vicky trudged downstairs clutching an armful of old invoices. A sickening wail arose from the kitchen, five seconds later. Bill’s teeth went on edge. He took the stairs two at a time, nearly twisting an ankle at the half landing. When he reached the kitchen, Vicky stood before a shiny metal pedal bin. She’d pressed the foot pedal to lift its lid and discard the unwanted paperwork. Instead, her papers now lay scattered across the tiled floor. A vacant, lifeless stare from Chuckles, the tabby cat, peered out of the tubular receptacle, paws together near the rim. Even from the doorway, Bill could tell Vicky’s cat had been placed rear-end first into the bin; its body deliberately arranged to look at
whoever opened the lid first. Vicky’s trembling forearms reached towards her beloved pet. She sank to her knees. Chuckles rose from his temporary metal coffin in her arms, head hanging limp on a broken neck. She pulled the cat close to her face, hugging him and rocking from side to side. Now the tears and sobs flowed unhindered. Vicky didn’t care to hide them from Bill any longer. Chuckles’ dead eyelids closed at her tender motion, presenting the poor cat’s face in a merciful aura of peace.
Bill stayed put and remained silent. Deep inside, fresh rage seared, like that he’d experienced after his confirmed discovery at the homeless charity. These monsters think they’re untouchable; that they can intimidate anyone without consequence. He’d seen deliberate acts of spite during jealous adultery cases before: car paintwork keyed or covered in acid, treasured possessions broken or deformed, lies promulgated and characters assassinated. This was like nothing he’d ever encountered. But then if you could abduct and murder a homeless man - or an entire family like Vicky’s - in the name of your sick, spiritual beliefs, how insignificant was the matter of some throttled feline?
Vicky choked back the tears, not looking round as she spoke to the quiet man waiting in her kitchen doorway. “Is this a warning, Bill?”
“Were it not for your cat, it'd look like another random burglary. The same way my break-ins did. This takes it to another level. It’s as though they’re not concerned about a police investigation.”
Vicky faced him, still clutching the dead animal. “So it’s a taunt, then?”
“Who can say? Both, maybe. Do you want me to report it?”
Vicky nodded, stroking and kissing Chuckles’ head. “Please. There’s a landline in the living room.”
It came as some relief when the inclusion of a strangled cat to her burglar’s M.O. induced an immediate visit from the law. The fact one attending female officer was a cat lover herself, added to the attention and support Vicky received. Before their arrival, Bill concocted an agreed upon narrative that they’d spent the night together elsewhere. Without the addition of specific details, it remained the truth and afforded them the opportunity of not concealing a lie. He stood by while Vicky detailed her missing items for the record.