by Amy Cross
Next to him, with the figure's hand still on his shoulder, Joe is frozen with fear.
“I have no further need of you,” the figure continues, turning to him. “You have been privileged to see my true form. If you have lived a good life, we shall not meet again. However, if you have lived a bad life, you shall shortly awaken in my domain. And there, you shall suffer for all eternity.” With that, he takes his hand from Joe's shoulder. “You are released from my company.”
Turning, Joe stumbles away, quickly breaking into a staggering run as he disappears along the road and, after a few paces, scrambles down into the forest.
“Should we continue, Sir?” asks the hunched man sitting at the front of the carriage. “The night is not yet over.”
“Do you know the way to Rippon?”
“I believe I do. The information those wretches gave us seemed clear enough.”
“Then we must travel there in haste. I have waited too long for this moment.”
Turning away from Dan's burning corpse, the dark figure turns and makes his way back over to the carriage, before climbing inside and pulling the door shut.
“He must sense my approach by now,” he says calmly, with just a hint of anticipation in his voice. “Is he scared? Do you think he's even capable of fear?” He pauses, before slowly a smile spreads across his skeletal lips. “Get us to Rippon. I have waited long enough. Now, finally, I shall take the powers of my former master.”
With that, the coach-driver pulls on the horses' reins, causing them to start trotting. After a moment the animals break into a run, pulling the coach along the road ever faster, driving through the cold night air. Within just a few seconds, they pass an ancient stone at the side of the road, with a few simple words carved into its face:
Rippon
9 miles
“Typical,” the hunched figure mutters as he continues to drive the horses with his whip. “We didn't need to ask anyone after all.”
Nearby, shivering with fear in the undergrowth, Joe watches them leave, before turning and seeing that Dan's corpse is now just a smoldering pile of ash in the moonlight. He hesitates for a moment, before starting to clamber back up to the side of the road, where he stops and stares at what remains of his friend.
“Dan?” he calls out.
Silence.
“Dan, mate? Are you alright?”
He waits.
No reply.
Ripples of flames are dying out on Dan's dead body, but other than that the only movement comes from smoke that's rising into the night air.
“Dan, mate,” Joe continues. “You're alright, yeah? What did that guy do to you?”
He waits.
Silence for a moment, and then the rain comes.
Joe steps back and opens his mouth to cry out, but suddenly he feels his right ankle crumble beneath his weight. Looking down, he's horrified to see that the rain is starting to wash away his body, as if he's made of nothing but dust. He turns to run, but the rain intensifies and he manages only half a step before tripping and starting to fall. He cries out, but the cry is lost as his body is pulverized by the pouring rain, and all that's left is black dust drifting down into the mud as more and more rain comes crashing down from the sky.
Finally, what's left of Dan and Joe's bodies gets washed away into the mud.
Chapter One
Rain again.
Sitting up in bed, Sam feels ice-cold drops falling onto the back of her neck. She wipes them away as she gets to her feet, muttering to herself as she hears someone knocking on the front door again.
“Coming!” she calls out, tripping on her shoes and almost falling flat on her face. She glances up at the hole in the ceiling, through which the storm has managed to reach her, and then she makes her way across the dark bedroom until she reaches the hallway.
Someone knocks again.
“Coming!” she sighs, bumping against the wall as she ties her dressing gown around her waist. She already knows, or at least strongly suspects, who'll be waiting for her when she gets to the cottage's front door. Seeing that the clock on the wall shows midnight, she can't help sighing at the thought of yet another night's work ahead of her.
Suddenly, as she makes her way through to the front room, her head bumps against the underside of the doorway. Or rather, she bumps the doorway with the hilt of the dagger that's embedded in her head. For a few years now, she's managed to avoid catching that hilt on anything. Lately, however, she's bumped it several times. Carelessness, she assumes.
“Damn it!” she mutters, as a spark of pain ripples through her head.
She hesitates, waiting for the pain to subside, and then she hears another knock on the door.
“I heard you!” she hisses. “I'm coming!”
Finally she gets to the door, slides the eleven bolts across, and then pulls the door open to see Doctor Burnham standing outside, soaking wet as more rain comes lashing down across the cemetery.
“Again?” Sam asks.
He nods, and in his eyes there's the weight of a soul that has already seen far too much death in far too short a spare of time. “Again.”
***
“Poor Mrs. Allen,” Sam mutters, staring at the dead body on the slab in her cottage's workroom. “She was here just a few weeks ago, visiting her husband's grave. She was pretty chatty, she didn't seem ill at all. What did she die of?”
She waits for an answer, before turning and seeing the look of dread in Doctor Burnham's eyes.
“Again?” she asks with a resigned sigh.
“It's almost not a surprise anymore,” Doctor Burnham tells her, with rainwater still dribbling down his face and the sound of more rainwater lashing the cottage's roof and windows. “I mean... I don't want to overreact, but this is eight nights in a row now.”
He stares for a moment at the hilt of the knife that's sticking out of Sam's head.
“My eyes are down here,” she tells him.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn't mean to...”
His voice trails off.
“You need to look more closely,” Sam says, moving the hair away from the old lady's neck so she can search for any tell-tale signs of damage. “Eight people can't die on consecutive nights from natural causes.”
“What does that phrase even mean these days? Natural causes? There's nothing natural about Rippon, not anymore.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Sam replies, glancing briefly at him.
“But -”
“So there's no need to talk about it,” she adds.
Glancing at him, she sees a flicker of concern in his eyes. Most of the Rippon residents go about their business as if everything is normal, as if the town doesn't regularly play host to strange and inexplicable events. A few, though, sometimes show signs that they're aware of certain irregularities, although none of them – not even the most curious, such as Doctor Burnham – ever dare ask any actual questions.
Not until tonight, at least.
“We all know the real reason they're dying,” Doctor Burnham mutters.
“Not now,” Sam replies, clearly irritated.
“But it's -”
“I said not now. I don't want another load of superstitious nonsense.”
“Some people believe the stories.”
“Some people will believe anything.”
“Do you think we're all idiots?”
She glances at him again.
“Most of us just want a quiet life, Ms. Marker,” he continues, sounding a little apprehensive. “We just want to be assured that, if there is anything going on in Rippon, we don't need to worry about it. That it's above our pay grade.”
“I have to get to work,” she says firmly, heading over to the counter and opening her toolbox, just as there's a flash of lightning outside. A rumble of thunder follows just a moment later, and the cottage's lights briefly flicker off before mustering the strength to keep burning.
“I need more candles,” Sam mutters under he
r breath. “And matches.”
“Can't you just go and see him?” Doctor Burnham asks, almost begging in his intensity.
Holding up one of her saws, Sam uses a finger to test its metal teeth. She's stalling, hoping that her unwelcome visitor will stop talking and leave.
“He just sits there, you know,” the old man continues. “Day after day, night after night, he just sits in that cafe, looking out at the town square, watching people.” He pauses for a moment. “It gives me the willies, and I'm not the only one. When Jonathan Hale ran that cafe, it was the hub of the whole town. Now it's just... People are talking, you know. The square's almost deserted these days, people prefer to walk the long way around rather than risking going past that place. It's like a bad luck thing, there's no -”
Before he can finish, a metal pan suddenly flies from a nearby counter, hitting the wall before clattering to the floor.
“What in the name of all that's holy was that?” Doctor Burnham asks, taking a step back as the color drains from his face.
“A ghost, maybe?” Sam mutters, turning to him. “Never mind. You don't need to stay for this. I'll get her ready for burial.”
“If you'd just go and speak to him -”
“No.”
“But -”
“No.”
“He's a -”
“No!”
“It's all he wants!”
“I don't care what he wants,” she replies. “I'm busy, in case you hadn't noticed. Maybe if I wasn't dealing with a new body every night, I'd have time to wander into town and take a drink at that stupid little cafe, but right now I'm working flat-out. It's only me here, remember?”
As if to protest that final point, a plastic beaker tips onto its side and rolls across the counter, although Sam manages to grab it before it falls to the floor.
“Cut it out, Anna,” she whispers under her breath.
Behind her, there's the faintest of giggles.
Doctor Burnham looks around, as if he half heard the laughter but isn't quite sure that it was real. He hesitates, with fear in his eyes, and then he turns back to Sam.
“I mean it,” she tells him. “I'll deal with Mrs. Allen,” she continues, “but as for what's going on at the cafe, that's really none of my business. If he really wants to speak to me, he can always...” She pauses for a moment. “I mean, he knows where to find me.”
“Aye, but... The cemetery is sacred ground.”
“He was buried here once,” she reminds him, “so he should be able to find a way. Besides, he's the -” She stops herself just in time, just before she has to say that word – that name – that still feels weird even after everything she's been through in Rippon. “I don't have time for this. I need to prepare the body. I assume the Undertaker is still missing.”
“He hasn't opened his front door in more than a week,” Doctor Burnham replies. “People are starting to talk, but personally I think there must be a reasonable explanation. He's always been a nice old chap, there's no way he'd just wander off without making sure he had a successor in place. He'll be back soon.”
“I hope so,” Sam mutters. “I wouldn't mind picking his brain about a few things.” She pauses for a moment, before stepping back over to Mrs. Allen's corpse. “In the meantime, I've learned how to prepare the bodies for burial pretty well. I don't mind if you stick around and watch, but you should probably stand back. There's usually a lot of blood.”
With that, she places the teeth of the saw against the side of the old woman's head.
“Would you like to watch?” she asks, glancing once more at Doctor Burnham. “You can, if you like. You might even find it interesting.”
“That's quite alright,” he stammers quickly, stepping back toward the door. “I don't want to interfere, I just... Well, I suppose I'll see you tomorrow night, most likely.”
“Most likely,” Sam replies, adjusting her grip on the saw's handle. “Now if you don't mind, I really should get started.”
“By the way,” Doctor Burnham says, “what happened to that stone angel you had outside for a while? I can't help noticing that it seems to have vanished.”
“Long story.” She turns to him, with the saw still in her hands. “I think Sparky had somewhere else to be.”
“Sparky?”
She nods.
“Right,” he says, before forcing a very weak smile. “Well, as long as you've got it under control. Maybe this'll be the last for a while, eh? Maybe we're just seeing patterns that aren't really there.”
With that, Doctor Burnham mumbles a vague farewell as he turns and bumps into the door. Once he's out of the room, however, Sam sets the saw aside and steps back, staring at the body on her slab. She knows she has to get to work, but at the same time she can't help thinking that eight nights in a row is too much, and that it's finally time to make a stand. Someone has been trying to get her attention, and she can't deny that it's worked. Maybe, she figures, it's time to bite the bullet and get this over with. At least then, she might get a night's sleep.
“Fine,” she mutters, turning and heading through to the hallway to fetch her jacket. “You want to see me? This had better be important.”
Chapter Two
Doctor Burnham had been right. Rippon's main square is like a ghost town, with most of the stores boarded up and with no sign of the bustling life that used to fill this space in the evenings. Then again, Sam figures that a certain drop-off in foot traffic is a natural consequence of the Devil moving in and running a cafe.
Of course, his are the only lights that are on.
Stopping for a moment, Sam watches the cafe as she remembers the day she arrived in Rippon. She was scared and alone, but she was determined to make her new life work. That day was only a few years ago, but it feels like a whole other lifetime. Back then, she'd never given the Devil any real thought; now he's a constant irritant, someone she struggles to avoid on a daily basis, and she wishes he'd just go away.
She hesitates, wondering whether she really needs to do this, and then finally she takes a deep breath.
As she walks toward the cafe, she can't help feeling like a sell-out, or a failure. She swore she wouldn't come back to the cafe, that she'd let him sit and rot rather than playing his game. For a few weeks, that approach had seemed to work. Sure, he'd sent word that he wanted her to drop by, but for the most part she'd able to just get on with her own thing and spend all her time in the cemetery. And then, one week ago, the first death had struck the town, followed by another the following night, then another and another and another, all leading up to tonight. No matter how desperately she wanted to stay un-involved, Sam knows she can't let more people drop dead just because she refuses to listen to the devil's message, so now she's finally given in, approaching the door to his place with a sense of apprehension in her gut.
“Just get this over with,” she tells herself. “How bad can it be? It's not like he's...”
Oh, right.
He's literally the Devil.
She stops as soon as she sees him.
He's sitting at a table next to the counter, sipping a cup of tea while flicking through the pages of a book. He's pretending not to have seen her, but she knows he's just playing the fool. She could still turn back, of course, but she figures she'd just end up coming back another night so, despite her reservations, she pulls the door open. Above her, the cafe's bell rings to announce her arrival, and the devil turns to her, feigning surprise but not saying anything. She's not in the mood for any of his stupidity, so she simply lets the door swing shut behind her and then leans against the wall, crossing her arms while she waits for him to say something.
He closes his book and places it on the counter.
He takes another sip of tea.
He leans back in his chair, unable to wipe a faint smirk from his face.
I will not speak first, Sam tells herself. I refuse.
She waits.
He stares.
She waits a little longer.
Finally, realizing that she can't just stand around like an idiot, she wanders over to the counter and takes a look at the book's cover. It's some tatty old paperback, a cheap-looking potboiler titled The Horror of St. Bryony's Abbey, by someone she's never heard of. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see that she's being watched closely, but she refuses to turn and meet the Devil's stare so – instead – she picks up the book and starts flicking through.
The pages are yellowed and old, with creases where corners were once folded over in lieu of a bookmark. There are even a few notes scribbled here and there in the margins.
The silence of the room is deafening, and Sam's throat feels dry.
Deciding to try another tactic, she picks up a cardboard coaster from the counter and examines the picture, and then she starts gently tearing the corners away. When the Devil still doesn't say anything, she starts tearing the coaster into smaller pieces, which she sets carefully on the counter before starting to tear each of them in half again. She's fairly sure that he's watching her, but she won't give him the satisfaction of looking over so instead she tears the pieces again, then again, until she can tear them no more.
Instead, she starts piling the pieces together, forming a little pyramid.
And then, suddenly, it occurs to her that maybe this is exactly what he wants. He wants her to feel uncomfortable, he wants her to remain stubbornly silent. In an instant, she decides that actually – if she wants to surprise him – she should speak first.
“Nice book,” she mutters, still flicking through the pages. “Looks a little tacky.”
Wait.
Was that a mistake?
Too late to go back now.
She pauses and reads a few lines.
