Herald of the Hidden

by Valentine, Mark

  ‘So, the next problem. Why bother at all with the charade unless the locals take some notice? In other words, whoever’s responsible knows that the people in Hubgrove are looking at the cards, and are responding to them. But I’d never seen anyone about, so when?’

  I nodded encouragement. The matter might only be a trivial act of spite, but Ralph was tackling it methodically and with an open mind.

  ‘Well, I went there early this morning, about six o’clock I suppose, and saw that once again the card had been changed. Same as before, black-bordered, elaborate style, William Sorrell requests . . . but a different name. This time, I took the card down, tore it in half, then placed it carefully in my wallet, put that inside my jacket pocket and got back on my bike. Note that I did all this as openly and obviously as I could, almost as if I was in a one-man play. Then I waited. It got the desired effect.’

  Ralph paused, selected a cigarette, lit it, waved away the initial smoke, and continued. I was listening rather eagerly now, as he could very well tell.

  ‘Out they came, quite a crowd of them, and all pretty grim and sullen-looking I can tell you. First, just a few women from the cottages round the green, those who’d been watching I expect, though I could never see them; then some heavy looking farm labourers who’d been fetched I don’t doubt, and before long, others from the “outposts” as it were, as word had spread. Never seen anything like it. I rather wanted to make a bolt for it, supposing that were possible, but . . . curiosity got the better of me, I’m glad to say.

  ‘ “Give us the card” one of them demanded, abruptly. “Why?” says I. “It doesn’t belong to you,” pipes up another one. “So what?” I return, I’m trying to provoke them of course. There’s silence for a full minute, till I can’t stand it much longer myself, and I burst out; “There’s something pretty bloody sick going on here and I’m making it my business to put a stop to it. At least I was at William Sorrell’s funeral, which is more than anybody here can say.” And I was about to go on in much the same vein, but I was interrupted by a woman, rushing forward from the edge of the group, close to tears; “We need to know whose turn is next: For God’s sake tell us: Tell us!”

  ‘As she subsided into silence, sobbing, a general hubbub began and I could see that they were uncertain about what to do or say next. I raised my voice, said I was sorry to intrude, but I meant to help, and if they would only let me know what was going on, it might clear up any misunderstanding. A pale, rather dignified woman then announced that she would explain everything, and asked me to join her and some of the others in her house, to which I naturally agreed. An odd scene it must have been, at that time in the morning, as we tramped rather wretchedly up the long gravel drive of one of the big detached houses, called “The Oaks”, and into a comfortable lounge. Some of them waited outside.

  ‘Introductions were made; she was Mrs Hammond, by the way; and I explained why I had such a persistent interest. That seemed to reassure them a bit; I mentioned the Herefordshire case, which she remembered vaguely on account of the national ’papers.

  ‘Then they gave me the story. First, why none of them had gone to Sorrell’s funeral. He was detested, and the sentiment was mutual. It began years ago it seems, in a dispute about fencing off some land. Then Sorrell had a go at one of the youngsters in the place who’d dared to trespass in the new ground he’d claimed—knocked the kid about a bit, and got as good in return. So a feud developed. Oh, all sorts of things passed between them: snaring the local’s animals, spraying their vegetable plots with noxious stuff and so on. Of course, he came off worse, being on his own against fairly well everybody else, and so he shut himself off, and as we may imagine, nursed his grievances bitterly and unpleasantly for a long time. So they were glad to see the end of him really, and it was a few days before his demise was discovered, on account of his isolation.

  ‘Then the invitation cards began. One a night, every night, since the eve of his funeral. They never see who does it. Always the same kind of card. Gerald Davidson, Arthur Hammond, Pamela Darby . . . and the next day, the named person falls into a . . . well, coma is the best word. She showed me her husband. Since he saw his “invitation” he has succumbed to a state of extreme apathy. Won’t eat, talk, just stares straight ahead, a blank look in his eyes. It is all they can do to force water through his lips. The others are the same, apparently. As they pointed out with great significance, they “might as well be dead”. So you see what a pitch it’s got to. They’re all waiting to see who’s, as they put it, “summoned” next.’

  ‘But hang on a minute,’ I objected. ‘What are they doing about it? Have they called a doctor, or the police, or even the vicar or what?’

  ‘They have not. Consider their position. They don’t like outsiders interfering, and they keep fairly close. Call a doctor, and the victims are whisked away to a far-off hospital, with doubts about their mental health; call the police, the same happens, but in addition the ’papers get to hear, and all sorts of enquiries begin; and they don’t seem to have much faith in a priest. Apart from which, they all seem to be in an obsession of fear and uncertainty, a less intense form of what has afflicted the three called by the cards.

  ‘Because there’s more, Some of them believe they’ve seen or heard movements in and around Sorrell’s old house, and you can imagine what construction they put upon that. Others chipped in to say that the kind of malicious attempts he used to make—creeping around in their gardens—have started up again.

  ‘Nonetheless, I’ve told them that if I could do nothing, then they would have to call in the authorities before long. Things can’t go on as they are. They saw the sense in that, if, somewhat reluctantly.’

  ‘So what happens next?’ I asked, still a little bemused by what I had heard.

  ‘We’ll go there tonight, of course,’ said Ralph. ‘But we’ll have to divide our forces. None of the locals could be of any help to us. You watch the noticeboard. . . .’

  ‘Thanks,’ I responded, with rather heavy irony. The prospect of a solitary vigil, in darkness, simply waiting for a rather unpleasant manifestation, did not directly appeal to me. In any case, I had to go to work in the morning. But nonetheless, I could not opt out now, and the matter possessed a distinct fascination, I will admit.

  ‘Where will you be?’ I enquired.

  ‘At his house.’

  We arrived in Hubgrove late—half past eleven at least, I should say. It had taken Ralph some time to recount all the foregoing details to me. I wheeled my cycle to the noticeboard, glancing at it nervously. No new card had appeared to replace the one Ralph had seized. Peering into the cool, gloomy night air, I could detect no signs of movement. A few lights shone from the cottage windows. In time these were extinguished, and I was left with very little to guide my sight. For the first hour or so, my nerves were on edge, and I sat astride my bike feeling very tense and alert. Then my thoughts began to wander, I may almost have begun to doze. For greater comfort, I lay my bike on the grass verge, and crouched down on the moist ground, leaning against the post which held the noticeboard. Despite the strangeness of my situation, I began to become rather bored. Perhaps nothing would happen after all. Maybe Ralph’s intervention had scared a trickster off. Even this treadmill of tedious surmisings gave way to blankness before long. Concentration became more and more difficult, and I should think my head drooped, my eyelids hovered near closure.

  I was dragged out of that state very sharply when I abruptly sensed the approach of a moving figure. Complete blackness surrounded me. But I could hear very slow, stealthy rustlings. A shape distinctly loomed ahead, swaying a little as it drew nearer. I shrank back closer to the hedgerow, deserting my post. I felt as if all my faculties were suddenly and unpredictably suppressed. My breathing was very shallow, and whilst my thoughts were racing, they were not coherent. I waited, numbly.

  It was a human figure that came into view, gaunt and dishevelled, eyes wide but somehow unseeing, motions oddly wooden. He stopped before th
e board. His arm was raised stiffly, he jerked out a rusting pin, and pushed that through a document he carried, and back onto the board. Then he swayed slightly, turned, and began to move away. I finally recovered my presence of mind, and switched on the glaring flashlight from my bicycle. The culprit reeled, and clutched his eyes as if badly dazzled, though the beam was not that strong. My dry, cracked voice called:

  ‘Alright, that’s the end of it, we’ve got you now.’

  On the edges of the shaft of light I caught sight of Ralph, ambling rather casually to join me. Well, he was too late, this time, I remember thinking; I’d done all the nasty work.

  ‘Got him!’ I bawled hoarsely at Ralph.

  He moved towards the figure, a concerned expression on his face, and muttered to him reassuringly, helping to steady him.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Ralph responded quietly. ‘This is Tom Wallace from up by the Terrace I believe?’

  The man nodded slowly: he was staring around him as if in disbelief.

  ‘Go and look at the board,’ Ralph urged me. I did. I shone my light on the familiar inscribed, black-bordered card and read aloud:

  ‘William Sorrell requests the pleasure of the company of Mr Thomas Wallace.’

  Quite how much of the matter Ralph explained to the people of Hubgrove, when they collected together in the home of the Hammonds in the early hours of that morning, I do not know. I had returned home to get some snatched sleep to enable me to work during the day, leaving my friend to bring the whole affair to a more thorough conclusion. I know that he first spent some time alone with each of the affected individuals, Gerald Davidson, Arthur Hammond, Pamela Darby, Tom Wallace and, though he did not tell me everything, it is clear he was patiently and carefully ‘bringing them back to themselves’ as the popular phrase aptly has it. Then, before all of the little community, he deliberately and solemnly burnt a pile of black-bordered cards, each of which bore a name.

  In the familiar confines of number 14, Bellchamber Tower, Ralph Tyler’s third floor flat, he supplied me that evening with the explanations that had, to say the least, troubled and hindered my rather humdrum day’s work.

  ‘When I left you at the noticeboard last night, I went straight to William Sorrell’s rather ramshackle house, set back beyond the end of the Terrace. I don’t mind admitting I intended to force an entry if need be, but in the event that was unnecessary. The place is nearly falling apart, I’d say it had no attention at all in his later years. One window was without glass, very poorly boarded up, and the back door was off one of its hinges. I had a good look around and, as you can guess, that cousin who had arranged the funeral and so on, had paid very little attention to much else. No doubt he means to return later and sort everything out, but it’ll be a tiresome business, and not a job you’d want to tackle with any great enthusiasm, especially when it’s a distant relative you’ve perhaps not seen for years.

  ‘However that may be, I found things pretty much as they must have been when Sorrell died. And in a drawer of a desk in a back room that must have been his study, beneath many other old papers that had clearly been disturbed, I found the invitation cards, a whole stack of them. Nearby was a wad of envelopes, carefully addressed. I think he knew his end was coming, and had it in mind, as a last bizarre act, to invite every single neighbour to his funeral. It could’ve been a spasm of black humour, a hideous act of spitefulness, or a genuine last hint of sorrow and reconciliation. We’ll never really know. But each card, like those you’ve seen, is painstakingly hand-designed. The solemn, wreathed urn, the black border, the immaculate calligraphy. The plan must have become a fixation with him, a final, perhaps senile purpose in life. He spent hours dwelling over it, thinking of nothing else. And so, when the idea was unfulfilled at his death, because he had not the strength or time left to him to deliver or post the invitations, some impulse lingered on which would not relinquish this final obsession. This is not unknown.

  ‘Again, that may be interpreted two ways. Either the macabre hatred which drove him to make the cards whilst living had somehow remained and worked in the minds of his intended victims to even better effect than he supposed; or, more kindly, this was a mad, tragic plea, a desperate cry—acknowledge me, you who would not go to my funeral, go now to my grave and give me pity, forgiveness.’

  Ralph paused thoughtfully before continuing.

  ‘And then we must not overlook the emotions of the locals themselves. The decision to shun Sorrell even in death, was not taken lightly, you may imagine. It was a cause of unease and distress amongst each one of them since the day he died. Old scores and enmities were brooded over, yet at the same time there would be an intermingling sense of guilt—how long can a vendetta go on? Shouldn’t there be a time when you call a halt and “bury the hatchet”?

  ‘All of these powerful but unreleased impulses meshed together in a very confined and intense environment, and whether it was a case of “possession” by something of Sorrell; or somnambulism inspired by their own anguished doubts; or a kind of collective hysteria, remains an open question—perhaps each contributed. But the fact is that Davidson, Hammond, Darby and Wallace each entered Sorrell’s home, found their own invitation, and, entranced and oblivious, placed it on the board, and returned home.

  ‘I saw Wallace of course—his entry disturbed me in my search, and gave me quite a fright, so I crept behind a bookcase and waited. I didn’t know what I was going to see.

  ‘But I needn’t have bothered—he wasn’t “seeing” as we normally do, he was transfixed by a simple purpose. He went straight to his invitation, then I followed him to the noticeboard, where of course you come in. I am convinced the others all did something similar. It is of interest that it is in their gardens that people had noticed shadows and sounds, and believed them to be Sorrell—but of course it was the occupants themselves, on their strange mission.

  ‘When they awoke in the morning, and went with the others to look at the board, a fragment only of the night’s walk remained in their consciousness. They were haunted by the impression, insubstantial but irrevocable, of that nocturnal impulse. The sight of their name on the invitation card, the hushed fear of the crowd around, had a devastating effect on their already harried reason. When the mind is pushed too far, beyond the limits it can accept, then it just takes refuge in inactivity, and allows no external stimulus to enter. So, the trancelike state of the victims. It takes some remedying, but as an outsider comparatively unaffected by the emotional turmoil around, I had the best chance. Fortunately, now Hubgrove can return to normality, I feel they will make a fair recovery. I advised them to consult a G.P. of course, tell him what they like: overwork, distressing bereavement, sleeplessness.’

  I sighed deeply and shook my head.

  ‘Of your theories,’ I conjectured, ‘I prefer the possibility that something of Sorrell was working upon them. That would explain why they succumbed one at a time: he was desperately trying to “get through”.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ Ralph mused. ‘But on the other hand, it was notable that when I didn’t tell them whose name was on the card that Tuesday morning, nobody succumbed at all. That points to a psychological explanation. But I repeat—we cannot know—and it is just as likely that each suggestion has a part to play.

  ‘And after that,’ he continued, ‘I think an adjournment to the Unicorn Inn is very much in order,’ a suggestion with which I heartily concurred.

  There remains one detail to add to the matter of Hubgrove hamlet, and it concerns the modest grave of William Sorrell, in St Helen’s churchyard, Merrow; for rarely is it without flowers, in any season, and frequently enough the grass path to its side is trodden by those who come to give respects, and mull over certain matters. Now that is a circumstance which baffles and provokes the good people of Merrow.

  The Hermit’s House

  ‘I imagine being an undiscovered sculptor is even less rewarding —financially—than the career of a psychic investigator,’ remarked my friend Ralph Tyler to the angula
r, dark-eyed young man opposite him, who involuntarily glanced around the ramshackle sitting room of number 14, Bellchamber Tower.

  ‘Well, I get by—but sometimes only just. The only reason I could afford the cottage was because it was so cheap. . . .’

  ‘Because it’s haunted,’ I interjected, helpfully as I thought.

  The young man winced and I rather wished I had stifled my comment.

  He laughed nervously.

  ‘Yes, perhaps. But also it was semi-derelict. It’d been empty for years. In any case, it’s not the house as such. It’s the road.’

  ‘The road?’ I repeated.

  ‘Shall we let Mr Palmer tell us the full story, without the benefit of an echo?’ suggested Ralph.

  I lapsed into silence.

  ‘The cottage is called the Hermit’s House, and it certainly is remote,’ he continued, ‘I don’t really know for sure where the nearest neighbour is—some farm, I suppose. It’s in that tangle of single track roads the locals call The Lanes: do you know where I mean? Anyway, my road doesn’t seem to go anywhere else and joins up with about five other equally narrow and aimless by-ways. The only thing to be said for it, is it doesn’t have the blind twists and turns of most of the others.’

  ‘Of course, the cottage is very quiet and that’s just why I wanted it. I need to spend a lot of time simply being with my work, if you follow me, without any distractions.’

  Robin Palmer smiled, but this scarcely brightened the pale flesh and did not touch the sombre gaze.

  ‘I suppose you could say I’ve had nothing but distractions. Oh, I shrugged them off at first, because they didn’t seem to amount to very much. But—they’re getting to be too much now.’

  He paused, looked at each of us in turn, and then down at his worn fingers, tightly interlaced.

  ‘What happened first? I suppose it was just the sudden gusts. I’d be walking along the road, taking a breather, perhaps before breakfast or maybe around dusk, and there would be these strong breezes, rising from the dust and nearly toppling me over. I put those down to some freak effect of the hollow lane, acting like a tunnel somehow. But then—after about a week of this—I started to sense deep, sweet scents in the air, faintly at first, but gradually becoming so powerful and pleasurable that I wanted to fill my breath with them: yet, this made me uneasy, because I knew no wild flower on earth could be anything like so pungent. So where on earth could it be coming from?’