The Chapel

by S. T. Boston

  Her belly grumbled for food despite the fear that lay in a deeper part of her gut, fear that twisted, turned, and felt as if it were a living thing inside of her. Stronger than her hunger though, was the thirst she felt. her tongue lay like a dirty roll of carpet in her mouth. She had no idea when she’d last drank and the fast setting dehydration had now developed a nauseating headache that threatened to morph into a full blinding migraine. The throb of pain beat a slow rhythm behind her eyes and pulsed at her temples, thrum-thrum-thrum-thrum.

  She rolled from her side and onto her back, the stabbing pain from her hip making her wince and in the blackness of her cell, her face creased in pain. Her lips felt dry and cracked and she ran a dry tongue over them in a futile attempt to apply a little moisture to the parched skin.

  Questions raced through her head; what the hell had happened? Where was she? Henry, he had been in the room with her, what had happened to him? It made her feel sick to think that he might be in danger, might be laid in a room like this, in the dark sobbing for their mother. Oh god, Ellie thought, he’ll be so terrified, so scared. She fought back tears, not tears for her own situation, but for her brother’s.

  “Henry?” she croaked to the darkness with a broken voice. For all she knew he could be in the room with her, for she had no idea of how big it was.

  “Heennrryyyy…….” a multitude of voices answered, startling her on the mattress. The sound of them spoke inside her head as well as being audible to her ears. As they spoke his name, she heard insectile feet hurrying across the floor. Busy legs moving with purpose. She shuffled back but her head met the dampness of stone with a painful bump that made her eyes water.

  “Elliiiieee ……..” the voices spoke again en masse. She felt a spiny leg on her hair, it began to stroke at her brow with the lightest of touches, moving back and forth, the way her mother would stroke her hair when she’d been a child. Its touch made her stomach turn and froze her with fear. Somewhere close to her ear, mandibles clicked and as they clicked the smell of fetid and burnt flesh hit her in a wave of chilled air that washed over her skin like a breaker striking a stone shore. The sounds and the smells were all too familiar, she’d experienced them before. However, this time there was no open road down which she could flee, she was trapped and at its mercy. There was no escape.

  "Who are you?" she asked, channelling her fear into anger. It almost worked, and her voice sounded far more assertive than she’d expected, albeit a little croaky.

  “Weeee areee manyyyy,” a thousand voices said in a sickening symphony. “And I am one,” a singular voice said. The voice was smooth, audible silk on the ears, and yet it didn’t soothe, it carried something insidious in its tone. In the darkness, something moved toward her, something not insectile, something bigger on feet that shuffled.

  “I – I saw them, the girls, the babies,” Ellie said, the dream that had led her to this room still so clear in her mind. It was as if each memory were one of her own, and as she remembered her anger grew. As she thought of her brother, scared, alone and sobbing for mummy, her anger grew, and she let it. The anger quelled the fear and it felt good. “I saw what happened here. How many were butchered, and for what?” she spat. She wanted to reach out to the thing on her brow but that insectile touch still froze her, as if someone had cut her spinal column in the thoracic region and totally paralysed her lower limbs.

  “Elliiieeeee …..” the voices hissed. “You are the key, the key, the key…” they trailed off and died as an echo in a cave might do. “Hennrryyy…” they came back with excitement as if his name brought them power. "The vessel, vessel.”

  The insectile leg ceased on her brow and she felt something large scurry over her face and she bit back a scream. “Elliiiee ………. The key ………. Hennnryyyy ……. The vessel ……. Vessel…….” The voices trailed off, repeating, overlapping like ripples in a pond until they melted to nothingness.

  “If you harm my brother,” Ellie began, the paralysis gone with the passing of those legs on her flesh.

  “You’ll what, Ellie?” the silky voice spat. “You have no idea Ellie Harrison, no idea. You think it’s dark in here, just wait until you’re in the Abyss. It’s so dark Ellie,” the voice spoke faster, with passion and venom all at once. “It’s so dark, so beautiful, when you feel it, when you experience it, which you will, you’ll scream, ohhh how you’ll scream, just like they all do. But when you scream in the Abyss the darkness is so thick it consumes it. It consumes you!”

  She felt it, him. The Man. She’d seen him in the dark robes in the field. Henry – poor Henry – had seen him in his room that first night and now in that blackness, he drew closer. If the room were suddenly bathed in light, she knew he’d be almost on top of her, she could sense his presence, smell the rot of him, and she felt thankful for the darkness.

  The stench grew and now she knew he was looming over her, likely inches from her face. The thing had no breath, for the dead did not respire, but the smell of it and the cold consumed her, she felt her skin goosebump and the frigid air chilled her to her core. “Time has no meaning there,” the thing continued. Ellie could feel it bearing down on her as if his spirit had a mass that in the world and reality of the living was able to exert physical pressure upon her. “When you scream in there, and you will scream, Ellie, you scream forever!”

  In an instant that pressure lifted, the cold abated and the smell cleared just as quickly as if the wave of horror that had brought it forth had just been called back by its ocean master. In the darkness, Ellie trembled and felt a tear roll down her cheek.

  Chapter 28

  In her dream Tara was standing in the entrance hall of The Old Chapel, the light was fading slowly as if it were losing a battle against the dark. As it fell, Tara felt panic grow inside of her, maturing moment by moment. Something felt wrong, she didn’t know why but she could just feel it, and that feeling went right down into the core of her bones.

  She knew she needed to find Mike, but Mike was gone. He was somewhere out of reach and she sensed he was in danger, lost somewhere and unable to find his way back to her. She tried to call out to him, but she had no voice, his name falling silently from her lips.

  Slowly, from that encroaching darkness, shadows began to birth themselves in the corners, spawning in multitude in the nooks and alcoves, and when the light failed altogether, she knew then that they would truly be free, free to stalk her unhindered, the way a lion might stalk its prey on the plains of the Serengeti.

  Tara turned, moving for the door, her progress felt laboured; as if she were struggling through a thick liquid, one intent on impeding her progress and not air. Reaching the door, she began to hammer her hands against the thick wood, and once again, like her voice, the blows fell silently upon its surface. She needed to get out, get away from the place and be anywhere other than there.

  The light was almost gone now, reduced to a dim murk, and behind her, she sensed those shadows were now moving, they’d broken free and now they stalked her, keening as they came. That terrible sound echoed through the entrance hall, the sound the only one she could hear, and within it she could feel its hunger, a hunger that she knew would only be quenched when it had her. Tara turned and -

  “You dozed off there for a while,” Scotty said as she snapped awake. “We are almost there.” She swallowed back, her mouth felt cotton dry and she instinctively reached for the bottle of water that was in the drink’s holder, unscrewed the blue plastic cap and took a gulp. “Bad dream?”

  “Kind of,” Tara said, glad to be away from sleep.

  “About The Old Chapel?” he asked switching his attention from the road for a split second and looking at her with concern.

  “I don’t know how,” she replied as she fixed the top back on the bottle and replaced it in the holder. “I’ve only seen pictures.”

  “You’ve been focused on nothing else for the past few days,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s on your mind, quite natural for it to feature in
your dreams, too.”

  “I guess so,” Tara agreed as he swung the T4 round a tight bend and down a hill that dropped them into the village. Many of the buildings were constructed from Cornish stone yet here they were washed in white, their old walls gleamed brightly in the afternoon sun. Scotty took them over a bridge then swung a left onto a road that was only really wide enough for one vehicle. The road followed the path of the river and took them toward its mouth. Beside them, shallow water sparkled and babbled its way over the small rocks and stones of its bed. Over the millennia the small river had carved its way through the land and created the natural valley in which Boscastle now lay. The place would likely flood like a bitch in the winter, but now in the midst of the long hot summer of twenty-eighteen, the water level of the River Valency barely reached the man-made walls that now directed its path to the Atlantic.

  “It’s literally just down here,” Scotty said. “Odd little place, huh?”

  “I like it,” Tara replied as she looked with interest out the window. “I don’t exactly live in the big city, but life down here seems to have a different pace to it.”

  As he nodded in agreement the satnav announced that in fifty yards their destination would be on the right, and sure enough the narrow road opened out to a carpark that lay opposite a timber and metal footbridge that took pedestrians over the river. An A-board stood beside the bridge with MWM in big white letters formed from a bespoke text font that gave the appearance of having been written with sticks. Under it read “Museum of Witchcraft And Magic”

  “This is a pretty long shot,” he said as he brought the VW to a stop and cranked the parking brake.

  “Better than no shot,” Tara answered removing her belt and opening the door. She hopped down into the car park and rounded the van smoothing few non-existent creases from her jean shorts as she went. “If this thing does have anything to do with the occult, I can’t think of a better place to start.”

  It was just gone five PM and there were still a lot of tourists milling about, walking the path of the river to a mouth that was hidden by rolling hills that no doubt ended in ragged cliffs. Opposite the museum was a quaint little tearoom that had the appearance of being straight out of a fairy tale. Business there was booming today, and the outside seating area was rammed with people enjoying some late afternoon sun whilst devouring authentic Cornish cream teas, the scones heaped with clotted cream and topped with jam. As the parents sampled the local baked goods their kids toted various flavours of locally made ice cream; the frozen treats all perched precariously on top of wafer cones. Many ran around and generally did what kids did best, creating havoc and panic for their suffering parents and not being able to sit still.

  “Place closes in forty minutes,” Scotty noted already heading for the door. “We best not waste any time.” The museum name sat above the door on a sign, the name written in gold lettering, a pentagram separating the words Museum and Witchcraft, the word OF written in its centre.

  “Last entry was at five PM I’m afraid my loves,” the lady on the reception desk said as they walked in. She looked up from a book she was reading, the cover was faced down on the wooden counter, so Tara couldn’t see what the title was. “We open again at ten-thirty tomorrow,” she smiled at them and removed her gold-rimmed, wire-frame glasses and gave them a polish on her light and multi-coloured neck scarf before affixing the arms firmly back behind her ears and pushed the front up and onto the narrow bridge of her nose.

  Tara guessed she was in her early sixties; her hair was a greying blonde that although combed and straightened had started to go a little straggly. Save for her colourful neck scarf her clothes were black, likely a requirement of the job, worn to add a little of that Witchy appearance for the benefit of the paying guests.

  “Oh, we,” Tara began.

  “Hold on a second,” the woman said, a smile forming on her thin lips. “Aren’t you?”

  “Tara Gibb,” Tara said with a warm smile realising this was one of those few times where she was actually recognised, “And this is Scott Hampton.”

  “Unexplained UK, right?” The smile was all the way across her face now, it reached her light blue eyes which sparkled with excitement behind her freshly cleaned lenses.

  “That’s us!” Tara exclaimed.

  “I’ve seen every show from your first season,” the woman said. “I like the style of it,” she paused and then said with a wink, “No bullshit - if you'll pardon my French." She gave a cheeky grin like that of a child who'd just gotten away with saying a naughty word.

  “We try,” Scotty interjected, not bothering to mention that was one of the very reasons they’d been shit-canned.

  “Is Mike Cross with you?” she craned her neck around them as if expecting to see him walking in behind.

  “He’s engaged on other business,” Scotty explained as he casually picked up a flyer from the counter. It advertised their future Halloween events. The title encouraged people to, Book Early To Avoid Disappointment.

  “Is this a business visit?” the woman asked, standing up from the small stool on which she’d been sat. “Filming in the area perhaps? If so, I can make an exception to that five PM rule. I don't usually get clear of the place until seven anyway. You know by the time I've locked down, run the tills and done a little paperwork.”

  Tara grimaced a little, “Kinda,” she said. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth either. “Do you run the museum?”

  “Since the day it opened its doors,” she said proudly. “June Rogers,” she introduced herself sticking an eager hand out across the counter. “This is a pleasant surprise I must say. We don’t get celebrities in here every day, that’s for sure.”

  Tara took her hand for the obligatory shake, chuckled and said, “Thanks, but I hardly think we qualify as that.” Scotty obliged the handshake too, smiling politely as he took in a few of the exhibits right by the entrance.

  “We are working a case near here,” he began taking his attention back to June and shooting straight from the hip. “A small village about thirty miles south of here called Trellen. Have you heard of it?”

  A shadow seemed to fall across June’s face, the smile washed away, “You mean apart from that business with those two poor missing kids?” she asked.

  Tara nodded, “We were asked by the owners to investigate the place they went missing from before all this happened, The Old Chapel. We are kinda on hold until this whole thing blows over.”

  "What brought you to me, my dear?" June asked.

  “If I’m honest,” Tara said intrigued by June’s reaction, “nothing more than a hunch. You see I started to look at missing persons cases in the area over the last two centuries, it’s probably nothing but -”

  “You found something to cause you concern?” June asked cutting her off. It was more rhetorical than a straight up question. She slid the glasses off her face and let them hang by a neck cord.

  “You have heard of it, haven’t you?” Scotty asked, his face forming a frown. “I mean from before this missing person case?”

  She nodded gravely, “I’d imagine you know that the original owner of that place, The Old Chapel as its now called, was a man named Deviss.”

  “That’s right,” Tara said with excitement. “Johnathan Deviss.”

  "I believe the name should be spelled D-E-V-I-C-E," she corrected spelling it out. De-vice, but it's pronounced Deviss, I’m not sure when it changed to the latter spelling, or why.”

  “Device,” Tara said, running the word over her tongue. “It’s been bugging me since I first heard it, I know that name, but I don’t know where from.”

  June paused and watched as a family made their way past the counter and out the door, "Thanks for coming, be sure to come see us again," she said in a cheerful voice. The father thanked her and led his two young kids, who seemed to be pretending to ride broomsticks, out into the carpark and toward the packed tearoom. "You should know that name dear if you know your Witchcraft history.
" June raised her eyebrows, obviously hoping Tara would take the hint.

  Tara stood for a few seconds, then it sunk in, “Device - as in the Pendle Witch Trials?” she asked slowly.

  June smiled and clasped her hands together, “You do know your Witch history.” The smile wasn’t as real as the one that she’d worn upon realising who they were, it fell from her lips and she continued. “In sixteen twelve, the execution of the Pendle Witches wiped out almost the entire Device family,” June’s voice seemed to switch into story mode and Tara guessed it was the tone she used on paying visitors when recounting a particularly nasty or juicy piece of Witchcraft history. “The family was survived by one member.”

  “Jennett Device,” Tara said.

  June nodded, impressed with her knowledge. “Nine-year-old Jennett’s testimony literally put the nooses around the necks of her family. Did you know she was one of the first child witnesses to ever give evidence in a court of law, and that trial bore the way for how child witnesses give evidence to this day? Although we now don't try people for practicing the dark arts, thank goodness."

  “I didn’t,” Tara said with genuine interest. “How does this relate to Trellen? I mean we are in Cornwall; Pendle must be hundreds of miles north. It’s also over four-hundred years later?”

  June checked a small bank of CCTV cameras that showed the various rooms of the museum, the walls were lined top to bottom with various curiosities of the occult from throughout the ages. “All in good time my dear,” she said holding her hand up. “I think that family were the last customers,” she added. “Maybe I should lock-up, and we can discuss this in private. It’s not a subject I feel comfortable talking about when someone might wander in." She rounded the counter, closed the door and latched it shut, swinging the sign to Sorry We’re Closed as she went.

  “History can have a certain sense of irony,” June began and she deadbolted the door, looking back at them as she spoke. “Twenty-two years after young Jennett gave the evidence that saw the necks of her family stretch, in sixteen sixty-three, she herself was arrested on suspicion of witchcraft. Yet another piece of irony was that on her incarceration and when she was tried at Lancaster Assizes, the evidence was given by a juvenile, just as she had been. On this occasion, it was a young man by the name of Edmund Robinson, aged ten, just a year older than Jennett herself had been when she was the star witness in that infamous Pendle Hill trial. Young Master Robinson claimed that whilst out picking berries he was approached by two dogs; those dogs are purported to have turned into a boy and a woman. Master Robinson then claimed the boy was turned into a white horse and the Witch, whom he recognised as a woman named Francis Dickson, took him on the horse to a place called Hoarstones. At Hoarstones he claimed that more witches arrived on horseback and some kind of ceremony ensued that produced smoking flesh, butter, and milk. I have no doubt that over the years his true testimony has been somewhat altered. It’s a long and convoluted story, which I expect you will read in your own time.” June said. She rounded the counter again and perched herself on the stool. “The long and short is that Jennett Device, now a young woman in her twenties, was identified as being present and one of the witches whom carried out the ceremony. She ended up being charged with the murder of a lady named Isabel Nutter, wife of one William Nutter. The boy, Robinson, later cracked under interrogation and claimed he’d made the whole thing up. Although I’m not so sure, what he described was an accurate account of a certain conjuring ceremony that was popular back then. The boy would have had no business knowing about it. Charles the first was now king of England and he didn’t hold the same belief in witchcraft that his predecessors had done, his father being one. His father had been a very superstitious man. Anyway, Jennet managed to escape the death penalty that was usually afforded to those suspected of being involved in the dark arts and murder back then. She was actually pardoned for her alleged crimes but as she, as well as few of the other women accused with her, failed to pay for their keep in prison, she was incarcerated for life at Lancaster Gaol anyway." June smiled solemnly at them, "Or that's the official story anyway. Within the confines of those involved in the occult, there is a different story, one that it is rumoured leads right to your chapel, that village and the present day!"