Shrine

by Herbert, James

  Her eyes found him. But there were no eyes, just deep, black holes. Her flesh was burnt, charred, her body misshapen. Her head was at a strange angle, almost resting against one shoulder, and her neck was scarred, a tight restricting band of indented flesh cutting across her windpipe. Thick oozing blood still poured from the wounds in her body and the child’s dress was no longer white: it was a red, blood-smeared rag. And then the hideous doll-like figure was smouldering, curls of smoke rising from the cloth and flesh. Her face began to blister, the skin began to tear. Her skin turned black.

  And she was Alice once again.

  Confused, lost, a small child who had experienced death’s advent and could not understand why she did not lie dying.

  ‘Alice, Alice!’

  The girl turned, her eyes wide, afraid, to face her mother. ‘Oh God,’ Fenn moaned softly as he saw her features change once more.

  Her voice was low, rasping. ‘Rosemund.’

  Molly Pagett, who had found strength to move towards her daughter, stopped and her mouth opened in a scream that tried to deny the sudden perception. ‘No, no!’ Molly fell, yet her eyes would not leave the little figure standing before her. ‘No!’ she screamed, ‘I’m not Rosemund! Not her!’

  The steps on which Fenn lay seemed to reverberate with the thunderclap, but the trembling did not stop. He clung to the wooden stairs as they shook, the agitation becoming more jarring, more violent.

  An explosion to his left as a floodlight popped, sparks leaping outwards like dragon’s breath. A fluctuation of light as other lamps dimmed, became bright, exploded. Cries of panic from the crowd as an earth tremor ran beneath their feet. The ruffling of his hair and clothes as a wind swept across the platform, bending the candle flames before extinguishing them. A crash as the crucifix on the altar fell to the carpeted boards.

  Sue and Ben huddled together as panic-stricken people rushed by. The nuns, with whom they had shared the bench, were filing into the centre aisle, the vibrations from the ground causing them to lurch from side to side. They held onto each other as though they were a blind group being led to safety.

  Others of the crowd were clambering across the benches, shoving their way through fellow worshippers who were too shocked to move, or who could not flee fast enough. Those who had brought along invalid relatives or friends struggled with them through the thronging mass, desperately trying to keep up with the human tide, falling with their charges when the merciless crush became too much, pleading for help, protecting their sick with their own bodies, disappearing under a welter of thrashing arms and legs.

  The bench on which Sue and Ben clung to each other was toppled over and they found themselves on the shuddering ground, the narrow crevasse between fallen bench and the one behind affording them some protection against the frenzied mob. Sue pulled the boy close, a hand against his cheek, an arm around his shoulders, while he closed his eyes against the terror and tried to shut out the noise, the screams, the cries, the low rumbling that came from underground.

  Television and film cameramen were leaping from their perches into the throng, their machines and the very platforms they were mounted on live with dangerous power, the current running through the technicians’ bodies in swift waves, not strong enough to kill or maim, but enough to shock their systems rigid. Photographers, many who had steadfastly continued to shoot the bizarre scene on the central platform despite the panic around them, were forced to drop their instruments as the metal casing scorched their fingers.

  The congregation which had come to worship, to idolize, to witness, fled towards the field’s three exits, converging on these points to form their own human blockade. Many were squashed against the tall locked gates that had been erected at one side of the field, a wide entrance meant for lorries bringing in construction materials and film equipment, before the heavy lock gave way under the strain. As they burst open, those people pressed against them fell and others fell on top, and still more fell onto the scrambling heap.

  Police at the central entrance gate tried to control the fleeing mobs, but were swept away with them. Children were held high by their parents and many suddenly felt themselves adrift on moving waves of heads and shoulders. The less fortunate slipped into the smallest openings to be drowned in the pulverizing human current. Those who managed to escape the field, bruised, battered and almost demented, fled into the road, many running towards the lights of the village, others just fleeing in all directions, into the darkness of opposite fields, along the road heading towards open country, dragging helpless companions with them, thanking God that they were safely away from the dreadful place, that ground they had thought to be hallowed, sacred. And they thanked God that the earth no longer shook beneath them.

  The Press entrance was too narrow to take the deluge; it was totally blocked. The pile of crushed bodies grew higher as more and more people tried to scramble over and became entangled themselves in the mass of writhing bodies. Others were lacerated as they attempted to force themselves through the tough bramble hedges surrounding the field, the natural barrier acting as hundreds of barbed-wire coils.

  Those who had been outside the shrine throughout the service – the stallholders, the police, the pilgrims and sightseers who had arrived too late to be allowed entry into the already overcrowded compound – could only stare aghast. They had heard the rumbling thunder overhead and had glanced anxiously at the troubled clouds, somehow aware that the atmosphere had changed, that there was danger close by. They could not explain the feeling and had looked at one another with uncertainty; something had seemed to pass through them, a frigid coldness, a nerve-tingling iciness, and their apprehension became an overt fear. Many of the stallholders had begun to pack away their goods, all good-natured bantering between them gone. Disappointed worshippers and tourists suddenly felt relieved that they had not gained access; they began to hurry back to their vehicles, not sure of their feelings, but wanting to be away from this place. Their anxiety increased when the engines of their cars, vans and mini-buses whined and refused to start. The police officials outside the grounds were alarmed and a uniformed sergeant tried to radio through to his chief inspector who was inside the field keeping an eye on proceedings. The sergeant received only static on the handset.

  Despite their concern, nothing untoward had occurred until the third hymn was drawing to a close. There had been a long silence, then four unmistakable gunshots had rung out, followed by pandemonium. Even though they had heard the clamour from within, they did not realize the extent of the panic until the congregation had come pouring out, sweeping over the uniformed men who stood in their way.

  But not everyone inside had tried to escape. Certain individuals fell to their knees and clasped their hands together in prayer, their eyes raised upwards to the turbulent skies; some were collected in groups, quavery voices raised in hymn, afraid but stalwart; others cowered on the shaking ground, clutching grass and mud as though afraid they would slide off the face of the earth. And yet others lay there never to move again, life pressed from them by the trampling feet.

  Paula was pulling her gibbering mother to her feet, for they had both fallen in the initial rush. Bewildered, she looked around; everything was in gloom, confused, chaotic. She could hear singing above the cries for help, but it was faraway, remote. Brittle, claw-like fingers scratched at her throat and her mother’s fear-struck, tremulous pleading filtered through to her. She pulled the feeble hands away and tried to see more clearly.

  The only light came from the altar, the bright beacon still shining high into the sky, lighting the misshapen tree whose branches quivered and oscillated as though it were a living creature. There were silhouettes in front of the light, a black drama acted out on the stage. She understood, even in her confused state, that the fear stemmed from that centrepiece: the people were not just running because the ground shook beneath them, but because they were repelled by the abhorrent thing that stood before the altar and which had looked at each one of them personally
and mockingly invaded the intimacy of their very souls. It had scorned and reviled each man, woman and child, and had known each one’s cruelness, every sin and iniquitous desire they held. It knew them and made them recognize themselves.

  Paula put her arms around the frail shoulders of her mother and led her unsteadily along the row towards the centre aisle. They staggered and nearly went down several times as the ground lurched; it was exhausting, dragging her mother along, pushing her way through those who had become paralysed with terror, fighting off others who were desperate to get by. They made it to the end of the bench and paused, gathering strength to join the mainstream of struggling people.

  Somebody collapsed against them and they fell, rolling over the bench behind to crash into the soft earth. Paula scrabbled onto hands and knees, feeling for her mother, a moving jungle of legs passing with inches of her face. She touched her mother’s body and tugged at it, but it did not move. Her fluttering hands moved along the shape towards her mother’s face: they found it and the mouth was gaping open, the eyes closed.

  ‘Mother!’ she screamed and the tremoring earth became still. The surrounding cries of terror quietened with the stillness of the earth. People stopped and looked around. Whimpers came from everywhere, but they were soft, the moans of animals after a harsh beating. Even the hymn singing had stopped. Even the praying.

  On the altar, something burned.

  Paula knew instinctively that her mother was dead, even though she pushed a hand beneath the old woman’s coat to feel her chest. The heart was as still as the air around them. She felt no grief, only a numbness. And in a way, a release.

  But the numbness dissipated when she saw Rodney Tucker collapsed against a bench nearby. Hatred seethed within her, a fury that quickly devoured the numbness and sent emotion soaring through her.

  And then, just as an uneasy calmness began to settle over everyone, the earth opened.

  George Southworth had fled towards the church wall, all dignity shed, naked terror revealed.

  Everything had gone so well, his dreams easily within his grasp. The shrine – his project – had become a huge success, a fantastic money-spinner. He, and others in the area, those with the foresight to invest, to deal themselves in at the very beginning, were about to see their shrewd business acumen rewarded. Indeed, the rewards had already been made apparent; now they could only increase. The village of Banfield was no longer dying; it flourished and would continue to do so, just as had the French village of Lourdes, now a bustling town, a thriving community that was known worldwide.

  But she, that thing, that bloodied monster who had impossibly risen from the dead, had looked at him, just him, and seen the greed in his heart. And she had laughed at it, and had welcomed it, for it was part of the evil that gave her existence.

  He was running even before the earth began to tremble. Those around him were too blind to see, too horrorstruck to realize the meaning of this unholy resurrection. He knew, but did not understand how he knew, that this creature was the manifestation of their own evil, that she existed on the power she drew from their own blackened souls. That instigation was this creature’s torment: the realization of one’s own infinite vileness. The guilt that the Church taught all men to suffer was founded on actuality: the culpability was real because the wickedness had always been there in each and every person. Even in the innocent, the children. Children like Alice.

  He brushed by those who could only gaze up at the altar and he fought the weakness and dizziness that assailed him, knowing that catastrophe was to follow this new, obscene miracle.

  Vaguely, somewhere in the far distance, he heard the hunched thing speak, one word, perhaps a name, and the echo in his mind was drowned by thunder, a sound so loud, so shattering, so near, it seemed to rip into his heart. But he was still moving, staggering among the invalids stretched out on the ground.

  Then there were others fleeing with him, screams breaking loose from terrified souls, entreaties from those too crippled to move. A hand grabbed at his leg and he looked down to see a wasted, skeletal man wrapped in a heavy red blanket, begging him with wide, frightened eyes to carry him away from the disorder. He knocked the yellow, withered hand away and staggered onwards, the ground vibrating beneath him, the low rumble seeming to rise up through the soles of his feet to shake him like a rag doll.

  It was an eternity before he reached the low wall surrounding the church grounds, and the oscillation had grown more violent. There were others with him, those who realized the exits would be blocked, and they, too, climbed the wall, leaping into the graveyard beyond.

  He fell heavily and lay panting in the rough grass, hands clenched into the earth. He was kicked as others scrambled over and a blow caught him on the temple, sending him reeling. Southworth pushed himself back, rolling close to the wall and lying there gasping for breath, cautiously waiting like a dislodged jockey under a jump.

  High-heeled boots scraped off his shoulder and he vaguely recognized the American journalist who had been at the convent when Alice’s stomach had refused the Communion wafer. He called after her fleeing figure, needing help, too dazed to move; but she was gone, disappearing between the gravestones.

  He had no record of time, no knowledge of how long he lay there, for his senses were jumbled, both fear and the knock he had received combining to confuse. He became aware that the ground was no longer trembling and that a quietness had descended. He wiped a palm across his face and found it came away wet; he hadn’t realized he had been weeping.

  Southworth groaned as the pandemonium broke loose again. The tearing, wrenching sound felt as if the very earth was erupting. Everything shook: the trees, the ground, the gravestones. Lush, fresh soil trickled in rivulets down the tiny pyramid molehills. As he watched, a grey slab no more than eight feet away tilted, then fell. The stone lids on the tombs reverberated; one was jolted in quick shuddering movements so that it slid from its perch, breaking into fragments when it landed, leaving the tomb gaping open.

  He had to reach the church. There he would find sanctuary from this bedlam. He tried to rise, but the quaking of the earth would not allow it; he staggered forward, bent, sometimes on all fours like an animal, sometimes flat on the ground, propelling himself with arms and legs.

  Figures around him stumbled through the graveyard, falling against the headstones, leaning on trembling tombs for support.

  Occasionally, the rolling clouds allowed a glimpse of moonlight, its brightness sparing and soon gone.

  A mound of earth near Southworth moved and he stared spellbound, telling himself it was the earth tremors causing the disturbance to the grave. But the soil was being pushed upwards, from within, as though something beneath it wanted to breathe the air of the living once more.

  More shifting of soil nearby. An urn containing fresh flowers tipped over. Earth beneath it began to bulge, began to break.

  A trickle of soil touched his outstretched fingers and he pulled his hand away, tucking it beneath his chest. He saw the small grave nearby, a child’s grave – or perhaps a dwarf’s. A tiny hillock was forming, rising from the flatness around it and, before the moonlight was swallowed by the heavy, thunderous clouds again, little white things pushed through the soil. Little white things that could have been worms. Worms that were stiffened, upright. Five of them. Joined by five more.

  Southworth screamed and staggered to his feet. He ran, stumbled, crawled, to the door of St Joseph’s, aware of the moving shapes in the ground around him.

  He slammed into the old wood, whimpering, his legs drenched and stained with his own excrement, his eyes blurred by tears. He scratched at the wood as if to claw his way through, scrabbled for the metal ring at waist level, twisted it, once, twice, pushed the door open and stumbled inside. He slammed it shut and stood there in the dark church, his back against the door, his chest heaving, gasping for breath.

  Until he froze, his lungs half-filled.

  And listened to the scratching against the wood out
side.

  40

  Where have the dead gone?

  Where do they live now?

  Not in the grave, they say,

  Then where now?

  Stevie Smith,

  ‘Grave by a Holm-oak’

  Fenn raised his head from the platform’s surface and tried to take in a deep breath. The air was fetid, though, full of corruption and the stink of burning; he choked, his stomach heaving in short gut-wrenching spasms.

  He was vaguely aware of the turmoil below, the panic-stricken people staggering towards the exits, earth tremors causing many to fall to the ground where they lay and were trampled. But it was dark out there and virtually impossible to make out more than a confused mêlée of struggling bodies; it was the screams and piteous wails that revealed the true horror.

  Somewhere in the channels of his fuddled mind, reason told him he had to get away, that he had to go back and find Sue and Ben and lead them away from the danger, for this abhorrence meant to destroy, to devastate. He had no strength; his muscles felt sluggish even though his nerves were tautly stretched. He wanted to look away from the smouldering bloody monstrosity, but the vision held his gaze, held his debilitated body, held him there as if chains restrained any action.

  He heard her speak and there were other voices inside his head that told him he must resist her power. Her strength was his strength, was the strength of all those present, was accumulative potency drawn from the evil of others, the negative force torn from the positive, creating an imbalance over them all. But resist. Resist! The voices repeated the word and they were the same voices and the same words as in his dreams. Elnor could only exist through the kinetic energy of those living. Resist her! She could not govern those who opposed.