The Chaos of Chung-Fu

by Edmund Glasby

“The fireplace—I wonder what he meant by that?” voiced McQueen, turning his gaze to the ancient, half-collapsed hearth. Charred fragments of wood and an overturned coalscuttle rested close to it, but apart from that it looked completely ordinary.

  “And what about this dark spirit?” asked Forsyth nervously.

  James got up from his seat and strode over to the fireplace. “There must be something here,” he said, kneeling down in order to examine the ash-strewn contents of the hearth. A moment or two later, the priest and Forsyth got up to assist him.

  They searched around the wide hearth, removing the iron-cast grate and checking for any loose bricks that might conceal any hidden cavities or such like.

  “Doesn’t seem to be—” Forsyth stopped mid-sentence as there came a loud crash from the main room. It sounded as though someone had dashed the rotting bookcase to the ground.

  All eyes turned in the direction of the doorway.

  “What was that?” asked Eleanor.

  “Damned if I know,” replied McQueen. He found himself being held by thoughts that he had never believed existed in his mind, an almost tangible fear that was making him now believe in things that he had long consigned to the realm of superstition. Savagely, he tried to throw his gaze into the darkness of the doorway, to try and see whatever might be lurking beyond the shadowy opening. He stood rigid, his heart thudding within his chest.

  “We’d better check,” said James, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Hesitantly, he advanced towards the doorway, directing his torch beam in front of him, holding it as though it were a talisman capable of keeping the things of the Dark at bay.

  “I’m with you, lad.” Gripping his crucifix, the priest went first, venturing through the shadow-filled doorway. The rest followed.

  The room beyond was much as they had left it only minutes before, with one noticeable and horrible exception. An exception that shocked and stunned them all, so that for the best part of a minute there was utter silence as they stood gawping, shaking, unable to react as fear paralysed them, gripped them, and froze them to the spot.

  In the torchlight, written on the nearby wall in what looked like dripping blood was:

  I’M GOING TO GET YOU!

  It was McQueen who was the first to break free from the hypnotic hold the grim lettering had on them. “Right. I’ve seen enough. That writing wasn’t there a few moments ago and none of us could have done it. This place is haunted. Let’s get our stuff together and get the hell out of here.”

  “Too right,” agreed Forsyth, staring around him, his eyes wide. “That’s enough for me. We should never have tried that stupid séance.” He moved towards his sleeping bag. “I’m not staying here a moment longer. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “This is blood,” said James, after testing the viscous red liquid with his fingertips.

  “That does it! Get the equipment packed up as quick as you can. Then we’re getting out of this house of horrors.” McQueen turned to Eleanor. “Sorry about all this, but I hope you understand this goes far beyond what I’d bargained for. If you’d all take my advice, you’d leave too.”

  “What makes you think you can leave?” asked the priest.

  “What?”

  “I said, what makes you think you can leave?” The priest fixed the private investigator and his assistant with steely eyes. “Maybe this ‘dark spirit’ that Cameron warned us about won’t let us.”

  “That’s rubbish.” Hastily, Forsyth crammed his camping gear into his rucksack. He hoisted it onto his shoulders and stomped over towards the front door. All eyes watched him as he turned the handle and opened it.

  A strong, cold gust of wind and rain blasted forth, but nothing untoward occurred.

  “See,” said Forsyth. He closed the door and turned to McQueen. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’d much rather traipse across ten miles of wilderness than stay a moment longer in this hellish place.”

  Once McQueen had all of his gear packed, the two of them stood by the door, ready to go and face the elements.

  “Are you sure about his?” asked Eleanor, concernedly. She herself was in two minds about leaving, but whilst there remained the slim chance of discovering something about her missing husband she felt compelled to remain. She was scared, more so than she had ever been, but she felt some level of reassurance knowing that Father Archie and her son were with her.

  “Damn sure,” said McQueen. He gestured to Forsyth. “Come on, let’s go. If we can get back to the road then—” He was interrupted by a door slamming shut somewhere along the small corridor that led to the partially destroyed kitchen.

  “That’s it. I’m out of here.” Forsyth opened the front door and stepped out into the pitch-blackness, his torch illuminating little but dense shadow. No sooner had he done so than the door slammed shut behind him as though blown by a terrible squall.

  “What the hell?” yelled McQueen. He reached for the handle and tried to open it. It was held tight as though some fiendish strength on the outside was keeping it shut.

  Then came the screams, awful, bloodcurdling cries that hinted at some evil beyond mortal comprehension. And still, despite McQueen’s desperate attempts, the door would not yield.

  Now they were one down and trapped.

  * * * * * * *

  For the past ten minutes McQueen had sat on his rucksack, slumped and shivering by the far wall, unable to fully take in the fact that they were now at the mercy of powers beyond his wildest nightmares. Despite repeated attempts to open the front door, it now seemed that escape was impossible—not that any of them had the desire to venture outside after hearing the soul-wrenching screams of Forsyth. The windows could have been broken down, and in some places escape could have been gained via clambering through the wrecked spaces in the roof, but none had even considered them.

  “Perhaps we should search the fireplace again,” suggested Eleanor, her words cutting through the dark melancholy that had now fallen about them.

  Checking his watch, McQueen was surprised to find that it was only twenty-five minutes past midnight. It had seemed as though time had become distorted, detached almost from the bizarre reality in which he now found himself. Shaking his head from side-to-side, he tried in vain to accept that something truly hideous and undoubtedly gruesome had befallen Forsyth. Just what, well, that was something he tried not to think about.

  All around them the dilapidated house creaked and groaned, the sound of the storm outside adding to the sense of overall horror and isolation.

  “Let’s go back into the other room,” said the priest. “It’s clear that there’s no more we can do for our friend who went outside. Perhaps if we can find whatever it is that Cameron told us about, we may find a means of defeating this evil.”

  With no further words, they retreated into the other room whereupon James started a more intense search of the fireplace. After a few minutes during which both he and the priest had dismantled the surrounding structure, it became abundantly clear that nothing was going to be found around the exterior.

  “There’s nothing here,” said the priest. “Nothing at all.”

  “I’ll see if there’s anything inside.” With that, James stooped low and, torch in hand, squeezed into the narrow flue so that he was now invisible to those outside from the knees up.

  McQueen could hear the sounds of scrabbling coming from inside and he watched as a heap of soot and dust fell from within and piled around the young man’s feet. He heard a cough and, after a few seconds, a dislodged brick tumbled into the hearth along with the shattered remains of a small, brown earthenware pot and some other small bits and pieces. “What’s that?” he cried.

  Then, before any of them could react there came a horrendous scream from somewhere close by. And then, suddenly, James was hauled off the floor.

  “Oh my God!” Eleanor screamed.

  The priest made a desperate grab at his nephew’s feet, to try and pull him back. He caught hold of one boot and it ca
me off in his hand. And then, screaming, legs kicking frantically, James was wrenched out of sight, dragged up the narrow chimney! His second boot fell into the hearth, landing alongside the pot shards.

  “No!” Eleanor staggered forward, her eyes staring, disbelievingly. She fell into the priest’s arms even as McQueen stood staring, unable to help, unable to think clearly.

  This was not happening, he tried to tell himself. It was a nightmare, a long and involved nightmare from which he would soon awaken. It was the only explanation his fracturing mind could offer in order to explain all that he had seen since setting foot in this accursed place. He felt as though his scattered wits had been thrown to the dogs, remorselessly shredded and devoured. Something completely outside all of his previous experiences now assaulted him. Whatever this foul thing was that they were now facing, he knew it was an evil thing, spawned out of Hell itself. Fear pulled and tugged at his mind.

  Crouching low, McQueen steeled himself to peer inside the hearth but apart from the soot, crumbled brickwork, one boot, bits of pottery, and a few spiders, there was nothing. No trace of James. “The fragments of that small pottery jug and those other things. It may be what Cameron was on about.” He stooped to snatch them up before hastily pulling back.

  The priest loosed his hold on his sister-in-law, who was now bordering on the inconsolable, tears streaming from her eyes in great wet sobs. James’ boot was still in his hand and he stared at it, stupefied. His nephew was gone and this was all that now remained of him.

  McQueen examined the contents in his hand with mild revulsion. For, amidst the shards of broken pottery was a small wool-like ball of what appeared to be human hair, a few human teeth, and some nail clippings. Then realisation dawned. He held in his hand the shattered remnants of a witch-bottle, a vessel used to imprison evil. No doubt Cameron and his team had found it, and perhaps unwittingly someone had broken it, unknowingly releasing the evil power that now dwelt here. And as long as the pot was broken the evil could not be contained.

  As though that power had now become aware of his understanding, it launched a fresh assault at the house. The doors and the window frames shook with a sudden ferocity. Plaster fell from the ceiling and a mass of bloodied brickwork fell into the hearth.

  “In the name of God, I cast you out, foul spirit!” shouted Father Archie, his crucifix held aloft. “Begone! Leave this place and never return.” His holy declaration resounded around the rubble-filled room. He began to sprinkle holy water around the place. “By the power invested in me as a servant of God, I cast you out!”

  A high-pitched keening scream reverberated around the small room. It was a truly hideous noise, a wild ululation, a banshee’s wail that conjured up horrible images and made the three remaining shrink back towards the dark opening of the doorway. The dreadful howl echoed all around, piercing their ears and stabbing into their minds, instilling within them a terrible, brain-numbing sense of dread and despair.

  Gritting his teeth, Father Archie fought back against the dark power, chanting the opening words of the Lord’s Prayer. Fiercely, he gripped his crucifix, sweat now running in tiny rivulets down his face. Tiny electric pulses were dancing erratically down his arms as he strived to keep the holy symbol aloft, to push back and repulse the demonic entity that now threatened to consume them all.

  It was a titanic struggle, and for one dreadful moment McQueen thought that the Dark was going to prevail. But then, with a savage grunt from the priest, the unearthly, cacodemonical scream stopped and, temporarily at least, some level of normality returned.

  McQueen shook his head in order to clear the insane sound that had assaulted it. For a moment he felt he had been psychically wracked, mentally tortured to the verge of madness. Shaking, he checked his watch, realising that it was now almost ten minutes to one. The witching hour was almost over. Whether that would bring an end to the supernatural malignity directed against them he knew not, but it was a small hope he had to believe in. He doubted whether any of them could survive a night filled with this eldritch insanity.

  A deep hush fell over them all.

  “Do you…do you think it’s over?” asked Eleanor, tremulously.

  “I don’t know,” answered the priest.

  “I think you did it,” said McQueen. “By God, I think you—”

  The evil power resumed its attack on them.

  Accompanied by a mad cackling laugh, a barrage of bricks was launched malevolently at them. McQueen ducked, but Eleanor did not react quickly enough to avoid getting struck by them. One struck her raised left arm whilst another cracked against her left knee, instantly drawing blood as well as a cry of pain.

  A nearby window imploded, showering the priest with flying glass.

  “Oh my God!” McQueen rushed forward and grabbed Eleanor, shoving her out of harm’s way as a further bout of poltergeist activity brought a large roof beam crashing down, smashing into the floor where she had been only a moment before. Had it struck her, she would certainly have been killed.

  The three of them withdrew out of the small room. McQueen slammed the door shut. Hastily, they made their way down the small interconnecting passage towards the rear of the cottage.

  The sound of cruel, insane cackling pursued them. The walls splintered and cracked. Great ragged zigzags appeared in the coarse stonework.

  A hurled brick smacked painfully off McQueen’s left shoulder blade. “Do something,” he screamed hysterically at the priest.

  “Quick! In here.” The priest grabbed him and together they stumbled into the small bedroom in which Eleanor and her unfortunate son had set up camp. Archie slammed the door shut. “I’ll try and secure this room,” he said, sprinkling holy water over the door.

  Eleanor sat, huddled in an almost catatonic state, her arms wrapped around her knees by her son’s rucksack. Her eyes were blank and it was clear, yet not entirely surprising, that something within her mind had finally snapped.

  A loud thump smacked against the door.

  “Can we defeat this thing?” asked McQueen. “I’ve got the pieces from the witch-bottle but I don’t see what good—”

  “That’s it,” said the priest. “If we can contain the personal items belonging to this fiend, this witch, then we may be able to trap its spirit. We’d be able to force it into a physical form. Only then would we be capable of truly destroying it.”

  “Is there anything we can—” McQueen’s searching eyes were drawn to the small thermos flask lying by the rucksack. “That flask! We’ll use that.” He rushed over and snatched it up, emptied out the dregs of tepid coffee and, after a reassuring nod from the priest, delicately dropped the hair, the teeth, and the nail clippings inside.

  “Just to make doubly sure.” Archie decanted a splash of holy water into the flask making the contents within hiss and steam.

  The screams and curses in the corridor grew in intensity. The door shook and rattled like an aggressive lunatic in chains. It was thumped repeatedly. The handle turned repeatedly, but thankfully the door would not open.

  McQueen screwed on the lid and the priest made a small blessing over it.

  The screaming stopped abruptly.

  For a long moment there was an unearthly silence, the only sounds that of their laboured breathing and the incessant thumping of their hearts. It seemed as though even the storm that had raged outside all night had finally abated.

  “Is it over?” McQueen stared at the door as though half-expecting it to crash open in a violent explosion and for some horror born of nightmare to appear. He looked down at the flask in his hand. Was it just his imagination or did he feel something shift inside? For a moment he thought about magic lamps and trapped djinns. Was there a similarity? He checked his watch. The witching hour was over and with it, he hoped, the terror that had plagued them.

  “I think it is.” The priest listened at the door. Nothing. Slowly, he turned the handle. The door opened a few inches, then met with resistance as though something on the floor was block
ing it. He pushed harder and—

  In the light cast from his torch, there, lying on the hard stone at his feet, was the grisly, ragged remains of some withered being. It was partially desiccated, the limbs and much of the skull-like face decayed and worm-eaten. Filthy, tangled greying hair crawling with ticks sprouted from the head. A crude burial gown was draped around it. One skeletal hand was on the door handle.

  It was the corpse of Aggie McSweeney, dead for over a hundred years!

  THE DEVIL’S HORSEMAN

  Clive Underwood didn’t believe in the ghost—but it believed in him.

  “Well, seeing as you’ve decided to stay the night, least I can do is warn you about the ghost.”

  “Ghost?” Clive Underwood’s eyebrows rose.

  “Aye.” The landlord settled himself down in the chair opposite. “This pub’s old, you see. Very old. Some historian bloke a few years ago told me that he’d traced it in some book or other to the mid-fourteenth century. I don’t know if it goes that far back, but it was certainly used as a staging post and a coach-house during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Anyhow, it’s said that old places sometimes retain old memories, and a place like this, well, I bet if the walls could talk, they’d be able to tell a tale or two. You may be wondering where it got the name, ‘The Devil’s Horseman’, now that’s an interesting—”

  “Any chance of getting served?” called out a belligerent voice from the bar.

  “Be with you in a minute, Derrick.” The garrulous landlord got to his feet. “I’ll tell you some more of the story once I’ve served this gentleman.” He went behind the bar and poured a drink. The landlord and his regular were soon gossiping away, moaning about the weather and cursing the price hikes that the new government had introduced.

  Underwood took in his surroundings. He was seated in a comfortable snug, a welcoming fire burning in the wide hearth. The walls were decorated with countless old-fashioned horse-brasses and beer mats. There was a small, glass-fronted cabinet over to his left in which were housed several trophies, no doubt won by the pub’s darts or cribbage teams.