The Plague Stones

by James Brogden

  ‘I don’t fucking believe this,’ muttered Trevorrow.

  ‘The Trust’s financial director was in full agreement with me all the way,’ said Nash.

  ‘But you called him a misogynistic dungheap,’ Trish pointed out.

  Nash tipped his drink towards Russell in salute. She ignored him.

  ‘I did, and he is. But that doesn’t stop him from being right. If there was a medieval village under there the excavation could have taken years, and most of our budget projections along with it. I can name you half a dozen development companies who have gone to the wall for precisely this reason.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re getting it,’ said Anik. ‘This is not just any other excavation we’re talking about. Those other companies didn’t have to deal with Hester Attlowe, did they? This could have been an opportunity to find out more about Her – how She lived, maybe even where She died. Something we could have used against Her!’

  Nash shrugged and yawned as if the matter were one of supreme indifference to him. ‘Why? What would have been the point? Granted, we might have found out a bit more about how and where the dead bitch lived, but there was no guarantee that anything useful would have come out of it. Certainly not worth risking the Trust’s future over. The Beating of the Bounds keeps us safe like it has done every year. Isn’t that right, Reverend?’

  Joyce Dobson, who had remained silent up until then, sipping her port and lemon, nodded slowly. ‘Although I disagree with almost everything about the chief executive’s methods,’ she said, ‘I have to say yes, we are as safe as we have ever been.’

  ‘Safe?’ Trish shook her head. ‘The level of complacency here is staggering. Has She never attacked you, then? Have you never had any near-fatal accidents yourself?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ said Nash. ‘But only when I’ve been careless, and never inside the boundary stones, obviously.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why someone who knows there is a vengeful medieval ghost after him who may well be connected to these finds would want to sweep this under the carpet.’

  ‘Don’t you? Here, let me demonstrate.’ He took two of the smaller empty glasses from the table and his own nearly full pint of bitter. ‘This is the possibility that a full excavation of the site might have revealed something we could use against Her, assuming that it had anything to do with Her at all.’ He poured a tiny amount of beer into one of the small glasses. ‘Here’s the possibility that a full excavation of the site would have bankrupted the Trust.’ He dumped beer into the second glass so that it overflowed and slopped over the table.

  ‘Hey!’ Anik shoved his chair back as beer spilled into his lap.

  ‘The mistake you are making,’ continued Nash, ‘is in thinking that I am a selfish and manipulative bastard whose primary motivating factor is personal survival and enrichment – and to be fair, I can understand why you’d think that. But my family is one of the oldest in the village; there have been Nashes in Haleswell as far back as records go, even before there was a Trust, and we have always kept it safe from Her. The village is more important than any one person living in it – you, me, anyone. Compared to the hundreds of years behind us and the hundreds to come, the tiny spans of our little lives are completely insignificant. If I die, someone will replace me as chief executive. It’s the way of things.’

  Peter laughed. ‘Well that’s terribly noble and altruistic of you.’

  Nash looked at him squarely, and when he replied, ‘No, it’s the exact opposite,’ there was no bombast in it or self-satisfaction or mockery. It was the clear and implacable expression of a judge delivering a sentence. ‘The welfare of the village comes first. Everything and everyone is expendable to that end. Try living here for more than a couple of months, then you get to judge me.’

  ‘But all of that is by the by,’ the reverend added. ‘All of the he-saids and she-saids don’t matter. Now that we do know, we have to decide what to do about it.’

  ‘What can we do about it?’ asked Esme.

  ‘Exorcise it,’ said Toby.

  * * *

  It was the first time he’d spoken. He’d listened to the squabbling adults, afraid to draw attention to himself while they did what adults did, which was to apportion blame, but this was something he knew. He’d read all about it in old Mrs Drummond’s books on ghosts and the paranormal. Everybody turned to look at him.

  ‘Or at least,’ he added, suddenly intimidated, ‘not exorcise as such. That’s for people who are possessed by demons. Houses are “cleansed”, aren’t they, Reverend?’

  ‘That’s right. You seem to have done your homework. Although in the Anglican church we refer to it as “deliverance”.’

  ‘Find this on Google, did you?’ laughed Nash.

  ‘Richard, for once in your life just shut the fuck up and let the boy speak!’ snapped Russell, and to everyone’s surprise he subsided without another word. ‘Go on, Toby,’ she added. ‘Tell us what you know.’

  ‘I’m not sure about any of it…’

  ‘Then guess,’ said Trevorrow. ‘You’ve as much right to an opinion here as anyone.’

  Toby swallowed. ‘Okay. So. It’s pretty clear that the building site is on top of the old village of Clegeham. Most of the things I’ve read say that an unquiet spirit will return to its grave or a place of significance to it in life, so I would put money on that haunted unfinished house being somewhere special. Maybe where She’s buried.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ frowned his dad. ‘I don’t think the Haleswell villagers would have carried the bodies of their victims all the way back to Clegeham to bury them. Probably wouldn’t even touch them, if they were infected with the plague.’

  Trevorrow nodded. ‘More likely burn them or bury them in a mass grave close by.’

  ‘It could be the site of the village church,’ suggested Rev. Dobson.

  ‘Or Her own home,’ suggested his mum.

  ‘Look!’ Toby interrupted, getting exasperated. ‘It doesn’t matter! It’s important to Her, okay? It’s a place of refuge for Her. If you cleanse it or deliver it or whatever, maybe it will weaken Her. Maybe get rid of Her altogether.’

  ‘That’s a barrel-load of maybes,’ grumbled Nash. ‘I’m inclined to think that, for better or worse, we have achieved a kind of equilibrium in the village which I’d be reluctant to disturb. The plague stones protect us from the worst She can do, and we know the limits of what we can safely get away with. I worry about what might happen if we stir things up. What do you think, Joyce?’

  ‘I think,’ said the reverend slowly, ‘that if we are not tampering with the blessing of the stones themselves then we have nothing to lose by trying.’

  ‘There’s always something to lose.’ Esme Barlow’s voice was low, but its weight of grief carried it into all corners of the room. She stood and waved her empty glass at them. ‘I’m going for another. Anybody?’

  Nobody took her up on the offer, and they watched her head to the bar.

  ‘But it’s not quite as simple as that,’ the reverend continued. ‘A proper deliverance has to be authorised by the bishop, which would entail a full investigation and report, and that could take weeks. It’s a multidisciplinary approach, so they would take into account a history of accidents in the building, maybe health and safety or ground surveys, I don’t know. Plus the final ceremony wouldn’t be conducted by me, but by a member of the Diocesan Deliverance Ministry also appointed by the bishop.’

  Nash frowned. ‘I’m not sure we need to escalate things to that kind of extent. Not until we’re sure.’

  ‘I bet you’re not,’ said Natalie.

  ‘The alternative,’ added the reverend, ‘is that I conduct a simple home blessing. That’s well within my remit and it might tell us something if She reacts. Then I can go to the bishop with something a bit more definite than educated guesswork.’

  Nash clapped his hands once, decisively. ‘Good, then.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Natalie. ‘I thought you said you were wo
rried about disturbing the equilibrium?’

  ‘Regardless of what any of you think of me, if it’s a good idea I will listen to it and I will always defer to the experts. But, to avoid any more accusations that I’m riding roughshod over the democratic wishes of the Trust, shall we put it to a vote? All those in favour of blessing the construction site?’

  Hands rose around the table. Markes, Trevorrow and Barlow abstained but only Nash was actively against it.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he conceded. ‘That’s carried, then. Joyce, how much time do you need to set it up?’

  ‘It’s likely that we’ll meet with some resistance from Her, so those who wish to be involved should take some time to fortify their souls through prayer or meditation or what you choose. I’ll arrange a private service, obviously. But not long. I would suggest this Sunday, as the Lord’s day. We should use every advantage we have.’

  ‘Excellent. Sunday it is.’

  Toby watched as round the table the adults took out their phones and tablets to enter it as an appointment in their calendar apps. He took out his own and texted Maya:

  Hey. Want to see a building get exorcised?

  She hadn’t contacted him since the punch-up or replied to any of his apologies, which meant that she was pissed at him. Not that he could blame her – Rajko was her brother, at the end of the day. He figured he’d try this one last time, and then wait to see what happened when they got back to school. When she texted him back he was so was surprised that he almost dropped his phone in the puddle of beer on the table.

  That’s ur idea of a date is it? Weirdo.

  Toby grinned.

  28

  THE CLEANSING

  TOBY LAY IN BED AND PRETENDED TO BE ASLEEP WHEN his mum opened the door to check on him. He heard her murmur, ‘We’ll be done and back before he’s even awake,’ to his dad, and the door closed again. They had absolutely refused to let him attend the cleansing. Even his dad didn’t want to go, but had decided that he needed to be there to protect his wife, since she was equally adamant about supporting Rev. Dobson. The pair of them no doubt thought that because he was fourteen and it was a Sunday morning, he wouldn’t be awake before midday – although he had to admit that on any other weekend that would probably be true. It was half past five in the morning, but he’d already been awake long enough to watch the dawn.

  He listened to his parents shut the front door behind them and jumped out of bed, shrugging on yesterday’s clothes as he texted

  still up for this?

  up dressed and already waiting 4 u dozer

  she replied.

  He dressed quicker.

  The streets were empty and the early morning was bright and clear but still had the pre-dawn freshness which carried a chill even for the beginning of June. The thinnest fingernail paring of May’s old moon was hanging low in the sky.

  Maya was waiting for him at the Rec, trying to look cool but obviously as buzzed as he was about it all. Her hair was back in a single ponytail, and she was wearing a pair of trainers which looked immaculately clean, her most stylish jeans with the knees out, and a plain yellow sweater over which she’d wrapped one of those big scarves that had lots of tassels over it. It looked suspiciously like she’d dressed for a date. He was suddenly aware of the fact that he hadn’t even stopped to brush his teeth.

  Jesus, man, just focus, would you?

  ‘Your brother isn’t going to come screaming after us, is he?’ he asked, before he could engage his brain.

  She stared at him, stony-faced. ‘Is that meant to be funny, psycho-boy?’

  ‘No,’ he muttered, chastened. ‘Sorry.’

  Then she smiled and bounced on the balls of her feet. ‘So where’s this haunted house, then?’

  * * *

  ‘Visit, Lord, we pray, this place and drive far from it all the snares of the enemy. Let your holy angels dwell here to keep us in peace, and may your blessing be upon it evermore, through Jesus Christ our Lord.’

  Peter stood a little to one side, watching Reverend Dobson leading his wife and the rest of the Trustees in a prayer in front of Lot 9. It didn’t seem to matter that it was the brightest part of an early summer morning – the sun was behind the half-built house, casting a long, tongue-like shadow over the group, as if it had soaked up the night and now clasped it jealously to its grey concrete bones, reluctant to part with it. Its window spaces gaped at him, shreds of plastic stirring restlessly in a breeze that couldn’t be felt in the sunlight, or possibly moved aside like curtains by dead hands curious to see who had come to visit.

  ‘The Lord be with you,’ said the reverend. She was holding a large wooden cross in one hand, and reading from a copy of the Book of Common Prayer with the other. Trish herself was carrying a small bottle of holy water from St Sebastian’s Well to sprinkle in each of the rooms, and Nash was wielding the church’s huge Victorian Bible in both hands like a shield.

  ‘And with your spirit,’ responded the others. Trish had her head bowed and her eyes closed, deep inside that place Peter had never been and couldn’t understand. He’d never felt like he knew her less than at this very moment.

  ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,’ Dobson said, and led them inside. The shadow of the front doorway swallowed them, and Peter hurried to catch up.

  They should have been in the long hallway which ran into the depth of the house; the plan, as he understood it, was to bless each room of the house and then move on, but they weren’t here, and he felt a little flutter of panic. Had he stood so long outside, lost in thought, that they’d already finished in this room and moved on, or had they decided to skip it? The interior seemed unchanged since Lance’s prank: the same pools of stagnant water, the same floating debris, the same looping chalk scrawls on the walls. Even the bucket was still here. Almost as if he’d never left at all.

  He shook his head to clear it. How long had he been standing here, staring at a stupid bucket? He could hear the voices of the others coming from another room, the echoes of their murmurs spreading out like ripples on the water that lapped about his shoes.

  There were no doors, just suggestions of exits and entrances sketched in rust-streaked concrete, opening on darkness.

  He followed the murmurs.

  * * *

  ‘O God,’ Joyce declaimed, ‘give your blessings to all who share this room, that they may be knit together in companionship…’

  Trish looked up to the sky that she could see through the ribs of the roof trusses, but the early-morning sun was still too low for its direct light to penetrate the gloom. Whatever this room was supposed to be on the plans, it was small, and with the water around her feet and the bare block walls rising two storeys around her it was like being at the bottom of a well, or an oubliette – somewhere to be forgotten, left to starve and die and rot.

  ‘…thank you for this place to live. We claim this room as a place of spiritual safety and protection from all attacks of the enemy…’

  All of a sudden the people around her felt too close, hemming her in, taking up her oxygen. She looked at them to see if they seemed to be feeling anything similar – Anik, Pankowicz, Nash, and Donna – but their eyes were closed in prayer, their lips moving silently.

  ‘By our authority as children of God, we command every evil spirit claiming ground in the structures and furnishings of this place to leave and never return…’

  The smell of damp brickwork was thick and overpowering in Trish’s throat, the promise of fresh air too high and unreachable.

  ‘I can’t—!’ she gasped. ‘I can’t—!’ and shoved her way through the people crowding her, fighting to find the door. There was an opening, but less light there than here and no suggestion of what might be on the other side. Voices behind her were calling out in concern but she couldn’t hear them properly through the roaring in her ears. She curled her fingers around the edge of the doorway and pulled herself through.

  And into a pair of outstretched arms.

>   * * *

  Peter knew this doorway shouldn’t be here. He’d been working on the site for almost six weeks and the floorplan variations of these units were as familiar to him as walking around his own home in the dark – and this doorway absolutely should not be here. Unless somehow he’d become turned around. Or the owners had ordered some customisations which would never see the light of day because nobody in their right mind would work on this unit.

  This house is stillborn, he thought. Dead before it ever lived.

  Still, this was the direction in which he’d heard the murmuring voices so this was the direction he had come.

  ‘Trish?’ he called. The concrete soaked up his voice – tasted and swallowed it without echo.

  Whatever this chamber’s intended function, it was large, most likely the living room. Sheets of shredded plastic hung down from the ceiling joists, making it hard to be sure, but it looked like there was a group of people standing in a little cluster at the far end.

  ‘Reverend Dobson?’

  Then Trish’s voice, screaming, ‘Peter!’

  Coming from behind him.

  He spun around as she lunged out from another doorway opposite and fell into his arms, gasping and sobbing. Behind her hurried the reverend and the rest of the group, asking if she was okay, what was the matter, was she all right?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I just, I think I had. Anxiety attack. Just, oh God, can we please just leave?’

  ‘Peter,’ said Reverend Dobson, ‘maybe you should take Trish outside for some fresh air.’

  He nodded. ‘Maybe we should all leave. This place is wrong.’ Who had those other people been? Had they been real? Shadows cast by the plastic sheeting? Was he simply going crazy?

  The reverend shook her head. ‘We knew there would be resistance. This only proves how right we were to come here in the first place. We must be strong in our faith and our trust in each other.’

  ‘Great. You do that. But I’m telling you, this was a mistake.’

  Then Nash started in. ‘Peter—’