The Chapel

by S. T. Boston

  “The first time you go inside, it take a while to re-adjust. Soon it become easy.”

  “I need a favour, Tommy,” Jason said, cutting straight to the chase. He liked Tommy, but he wasn’t in the mood to shoot the shit with him over this and that.

  “A favour I can do - well sell maybe more the word, no?”

  Jason explained to him what he wanted and when he’d finished there was a brief silence before Tommy said, “No problem. Why you ask me for this? Is no problem of course for a man of my means. Are you missing it that much that you keen to get back to your cell?”

  “Just some shit I need to take care of,” Jason replied, his eyes fixed on The Old Chapel. Despite the fact it was no more than a printed picture he could feel the darkness inside that place, it called to the darkness inside him.

  “I understand,” Tommy replied. “Some things are best not discussed, no? I can get your merchandise by Monday; the price is two thousand pounds.”

  “Monday is no good to me, Tommy. I need it today, by this afternoon at the latest.”

  “You are hard man to please, Pacman,” Tommy said. “I can arrange something, but it will cost more.”

  “No problem, you name the price.”

  “That is a very dangerous thing to say to a criminal my friend,” said Tommy with a rattling laugh. “But you had my back more than once, so I will not, hmm - how do you English say it, take the piss.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I can have for you by five, and the price will be extra five hundred. Do we have deal?”

  “We have a deal,” Jason answered seriously.

  “You must come to me, I text you address in a minute.”

  “No problem, see you at five bud.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” Tommy said happily, then the call was disconnected.

  Jason had become quite apt at functioning whilst drunk, but he knew that he had to kerb it as much as he could if he were to stand any chance of seeing through what needed to be done, so he drank sparingly, just keeping himself topped up enough to stop the shakes.

  At three he showered, shaved and put on fresh clothes. The redness of his eyes was one thing he couldn’t fix, and they belied his freshened-up appearance. Once dressed he went to the safe that was fixed into the wall at the back of his built-in wardrobe, he punched the code, 020716 and looked in at the money stacked there. A few months ago, right after he’d gotten out it had been ten grand square, now it was probably closer to six. He didn’t try to work out how long it would last, it didn’t matter. He took out two pre-counted stacks of twenties, then took another and split it in half. He tucked the two-five into an old envelope and took another two hundred for the road. He likely wouldn’t need that much but it didn’t hurt to be prepared.

  At four he left the flat, the remnants of the bottle of Jack in a hip flask that Tara had given him for Christmas a few years ago. There was a certain irony about it enabling him to stay functioning long enough to reach her and do what needed to be done, and he liked that, he liked it a lot. On the passenger seat was the paper, and when traffic permitted, his eyes wandered to The Old Chapel and he let the voices in.

  The summer evening traffic was pretty shitty heading into Bournemouth, but to be fair trying to get anywhere in Dorset during the summer months sucked balls, the roads were all rammed full of fucking tourists, many of them dragging their shit-box caravans.

  It was a little after five when he finally pulled up outside of Tommy's place. It was an old Victorian townhouse, typical of the kind that had once housed the wealthier families in Boscombe, a town that made up part of the general Bournemouth area. Times had changed somewhat, and the area had become run down, those old, once grand Victorian houses now converted into bedsits and flats.

  Tommy's place was a top floor loft converted apartment just off the main Boscombe High Street. The communal area reeked of damp and cannabis smoke and the red floral carpet looked like it had been laid when the place was new. On the stairs, the pile had worn down until the aged wooden boards below showed through. Jason had thought his place was bad, but it was like a palace still compared to this stinking shithole.

  “Pacman,” Tommy said with joy as he opened the door letting the smell of cigarette smoke join the general stench of the communal landing. Jason could hear the monotone beat of some euro dance baseline and behind it the chatter of voices. Tommy was dressed in three-quarter length white shorts, no top and his slightly paunchy belly hung over the waistband. His body was covered in various tattoos of varying quality. They ran down both his arms and were jotted about his portly frame in no particular order, seemingly fitted in here and there wherever there was enough virgin skin to ink on. “You bring money?”

  “Of course I brought the money,” Jason said and handed the envelope over.

  “You should not carry this in the open, around here they rob you for Big Mac.” Tommy laughed and took the cash, opened the envelope and thumbed through the notes. “I need to count?” he asked with a smile.

  “It won’t offend me if you do, but it’s all there, you can trust me,” Jason replied.

  “I no need to count, you are a dear friend, Pacman. I know you not screw me over.” He grinned again showing his slightly off-colour teeth. One of the incisors was missing, lost - according to Tommy during a bar fight in Warsaw. “You want to come in, have drink?”

  A drink sounded good, but time was ticking, and Jason needed to get going. “I’d love to bud, but time is not on my side.”

  “Another time, maybe?” Tommy said with genuine disappointment.

  “Once I’m done with this,” Jason agreed and Tommy ducked into the flat, coming back a few seconds later with a zipped-up holdall. Tommy unfastened it and reached inside.

  "This is sawed-off Beretta A400 Semi-Automatic Light," he said, weighing the weapon in his hand. "Is lightweight, and deadly as fuck, especially at close range. Gun hold three cartridges. Two in receiver, one in barrel. When you fire it has a gas reloading system, next shot is ready in under a second. This is a good shotgun, understand?" Jason took the shotgun; the barrel had been shortened to just past the length of the receiver. It felt good and tactile in his hand and the matte black stock gave it a purposeful appearance. “Aim at close range, once you use all three shots is not fast to reload, you understand?” Jason nodded. He had a little knowledge of such firearms, his uncle, the more successful one in the family whose business acumen Jason seemed to have been blessed with, (‘cos his old man had been a useless sack of shit), had taken him shooting a few times. “Police catch you with this,” Tommy continued, “even if you not use is big trouble, you know this, you are not idiot are you Pacman?”

  “I know,” Jason said blankly.

  “And if police catch you, where you say you get?”

  “Not from you. Tommy it’s cool. I’m grateful.”

  “Then we are good, no?”

  “We’re good,” Jason confirmed, and Tommy embraced him in a quick back-slapping hug before they parted ways.

  Back in the car, Jason nipped the flask, he wanted to drain the lot but if he did his driving would suffer, and if he got pulled over pissed and packing a semi-automatic sawn-off, he’d be more fucked than a prom queen in a football team locker room.

  Slowly, through the traffic, Jason headed west, around the outskirts of Poole and toward Dorchester. Just before seven, he passed into the county of Devon. He'd never been to Trellen before, he’d never even heard of the fucking place, but he didn’t need a map. So long as he kept looking at the picture the voices would guide him, and soon that bitch, Tara, and the cock sucker, Cross would be treated to a lead supper. The other guy in the picture, the one they called Scotty, would likely need to be taken out, too. He was a big bastard and Jason, although handy enough in a fight thanks to his prison time, didn't fancy his chances without the gun. Yes, he may be an innocent in this, but he'd have to die regardless. Jason now knew that there’d be no prison cell for him after this, it was a one-way tick
et, and after he’d killed all three of them the voices would demand his own life. It should have scared him, it should have mattered that he lived, but it didn’t. Nothing mattered, nothing at all.

  Chapter 45

  Dried, browned and brittle leaves broke under their feet like bone china as they walked through the wood. The day had turned from a dry scorching heat to a humid one and the air now felt thick and heavy to breathe. Mike stopped and placed his hand on the trunk of an ancient Oak, he let out a long-exasperated breath and ran the back of his hand over his brow, it came away sweat and dirt-smeared. He checked his watch, it was a little after eight PM and the light of the day had just started to change, the way it does when night begins to creep across the land from its home in the East.

  The day's activity had been focused on going back over The Old Chapel, room by room, inch by inch, looking for something, anything that would give them a clue as to where Scotty and the Harrison kids had gone. It was an arduous and repetitive task, one that built nothing but frustration as blank after blank was drawn. Mike still found it incredulous to believe that the place could have swallowed them up whole and that there was no rational explanation as to how they'd gone. But then how did he explain the missing time? And the fact that all that was left of Scotty was the GoPro he’d been holding. Anything could have happened to them in the passing of that hour and a half, and when exactly it had passed, he did not know. Mike had come to reason that it had most likely been when the screaming had stopped and the pressure had changed, but he didn’t know for sure. Thinking about it and trying to work the problem made his temples throb. He knew that the time was close where he’d have to consider the fantastic, he’d have to consider that the things you saw on the movie screen and read between the covers of a book were real and that somehow the impossible was possible. But not yet. He still felt as if they were missing something, the final piece of the puzzle that would make it all fall into place.

  “These woods are too big for two of us to search,” Tara sighed. She joined him by the oak and cocked her hip to her right side, taking the weight off her left leg.

  Mike looked at her, her blonde hair had darkened with the perspiration on her brow and her eyes still held the fear that had set in when Scotty had gone, only they were redder now, redder from the crying that she’d done. “I think it’s just a short way up this path,” Mike replied, “then we should come out back at the rear garden of The Old Chapel.” Neither of them were that keen to get back, but the night was setting in, the light within the wood was murkier than out, and there was no way he’d want to be caught out here when it fell completely.

  They’d been in the woods for the last few hours and had since established for the third time that The Old Chapel was nothing but a blank canvas of clues. They’d entered on the easterly side of the garden and followed a small path that wound its way through the trees until it reached the courtyard at the Horners’ cottage. Once there they’d stayed hidden, using the cover of the trees but after half an hour of nothing both had grown impatient and felt the need to get moving, get looking, even if deep down they both knew it was a futile search. It just felt good to be doing something.

  From the Horners’ they’d headed north, sometimes losing the path and having to pick their way through the woodland until they found another. The village of Culden lay in that direction, and Mike had been keen to see if someone lost in the woods could reach it on foot. The going was hard, the further north they pushed, the thicker the woodland grew, thorn bushes making the way hard to pass. In the end, they'd come to a stream, the water was low due to the extended heatwave but near to its banks, the ground had become soft and apt to take your foot, and likely your shoe if you tested it too much. They’d followed the small babbling stream, the brackish waters racing and bubbling over stones and small rocks, back in a westerly direction until they felt they must be level with the grounds of The Old Chapel, and then dropped back south leaving it behind.

  “And then what, Mike?” she asked. “When we get back, then what?”

  He took her hand in his, “You think we should call someone, don’t you?” he replied.

  Tara screwed her face up in confusion and he could see the conflict inside her. “He’s been gone for over seventeen hours, Mike. I mean I don’t really like that Samuels guy, but if you speak to him, tell him what happened and show him the footage then he will have to believe, won't he? I just think this whole thing has gotten too big for us, that's all."

  Mike knew she was right, not only right but they had a duty to report him as missing. But then the circumstances around how he’d gone were far from normal, “You’re right,” he agreed. “But not yet. The Grand Climax is tomorrow, Friday the 27th, that gives us tonight to figure this thing out and if by eight tomorrow morning we don’t find him or the Harrison kids I’ll call Mark Samuels.”

  “It’s not done with us yet, is it?” Tara said, and her words made Mike shiver.

  “No, I don’t think it is,” he agreed. “When we get back if you want to take my Jeep and drive to the nearest hotel, I understand. I’m not asking you to stay.”

  “If we do this, we do it together,” she said and forced a smile. “Let’s get moving.”

  They walked in silence for the rest of the way back. No sound accompanied their walk, save for the sound of their own feet on the dried and fallen foliage of the forest floor. For during the hours they’d spent searching not a single rustle had come from a single bush, nor the call of a bird other than that of the crow from the trees. There were some insects of the flying kind, but they’d not encountered one bigger than a bee. Finally, and a little after eight thirty in the evening they broke clear of the dusky wood at the very bottom of the rear garden. During the last half hour of that walk, Mike had been trying to get right with himself in his own head. He knew Tara would be feeling blame for what had happened, for Scotty had a hold of her, and she felt as if she’d allowed him to become lost. However, Mike had taken the job, had brought them all down here and ultimately if there was blame to apportion then it was his to take. Had he hung up the phone on Sue Reed back there in Manchester, a day that now felt so very long ago, Scotty would still be here. If when he and Tara had visited, he’d politely refused, maybe lied a little and said that despite how intriguing it sounded they were a little busy and thanks but no thanks, then Scotty would still be here. If he’d heeded that warning that had come inexplicably through his FM transmitter after his visit with the Horners, then Scotty would still be here. They hadn’t taken that road though, and no amount of going over it would help, nor would it bring him back.

  Mike reached the back door, slid the key in the lock and paused, “Before we go back in, I need to tell you something,” he said to Tara.

  “You’re scaring me,” she said uneasily. “If it’s possible to be more scared than I already am.”

  "I think I know why those people who stayed here did those terrible things after they left. Why that woman drowned her baby in the bathtub, why that man, seemingly happily married and successful, shut himself in his garage and ran a length of hose from his exhaust and just sat there breathing it all in until he died."

  Tara placed her hand on the stone of The Old Chapel, “You think it made them do it?” she asked.

  “I do believe it’s like a virus now,” Mike said. “I know we mentioned it before, but I couldn’t believe it. Now I do. It doesn’t affect everyone, but some are susceptible to it, some it can speak to. And if you let it in, if you listen, it makes you do terrible things.” He looked into her frightened eyes again. “It spoke to me last night. In the seconds before Scotty vanished, it spoke to me, Tara.”

  She swallowed, and Mike heard the click of her dry throat, “What did it say?” Her voice wavered as she spoke.

  Mike shook his head forcefully and felt tears of anger and pain coming to the corners of his eyes, “I’d never – never,” he said firmly.

  “Mike, what did it say?” And she took hold of him now, by the upper
arms.

  “Strangle the bitch,” Mike replied. “Strangle her, choke her until her eyes bulge and her tongue swells.”

  “But you didn’t listen, did you?”

  “It wanted me to listen, and – and, a part of me wanted to let it in, Tara.” Mike felt her arms around him now and he embraced her back.

  “But you didn’t, Mike. You fought it; you didn’t let it win.”

  Mike reluctantly broke the embrace and handed the keys to his Jeep to her. Tara looked at them with puzzlement. “I thought I said,” she began, but Mike cut her off.

  “I did, I shut it out, but what if next time I can’t? What if when this fucking place comes for us tonight I can’t? If I look odd, different, if you see anything in me you don’t like you take those keys, get in my Jeep and drive until you’re clear of this place, until you’re out of danger. Do you understand?”

  “Mike, you – “

  “Do you understand?” he almost shouted.

  Tara was crying now, tears rolled down her reddened cheeks, and he hated himself for it, “I – understand,” she sobbed.

  He took her in his arms again and hugged her tightly, kissing the top of her head. In the sky above, heavy, pendulous clouds had begun to roll in from the west, encroaching their blackness on the golden amber of the dying day. They covered the falling sun, that now was no more than a half ball on the horizon, and bit by bit began to seal a lid on the coming night. In those clouds furthest west lightning flashed, portending the vehemence of the storm to come.

  Chapter 46

  Jason sped through the darkened lanes of rural Cornwall, he used no navigation other than an internal one, one that told him which way to turn when he approached the appropriate junction. He nipped the last of the Jack out of his hip flask and tossed it into the passenger footwell. He could have done with more; his body was operating on the least amount of booze that it could before the shakes would set in. He knew that if they came on at the key time it could be the end of his plan. He was close now, a few miles at most, and he knew that once he’d shot all three of those fucks, the building, or that sweet darkness that dwelt within it, would require his life too, and that was fine, that was okey-dokey with him.