Nothing unusual about that either, because Grant had been alone, as he was on this occasion. He went down the ancient stone steps with beating heart and tried the great oak door, which had weathered extremely well considering it had been in situ for over 220 years. There was something carved into the woodwork, which time and weather had blurred, so that he could not make it out. It was probably in Latin anyway, and his memory in that department was rather rusty. There was an enormous circular iron handle. He tried it gingerly but to his relief it was securely locked. His relief was mingled with embarrassment because he was not normally of a superstitious or nervous nature. He wiped his face with his handkerchief, put the notebook in his pocket, and went back up towards the churchyard entrance. It was time for lunch and the reality of everyday things.
*
Grant had much to do in the next few days, and as time passed the events of recent weeks began to seem fanciful. But one night there was a sudden and quite unexpected thunderstorm of enormous power and ferocity, with torrential rain which continued all night. The storm had eased by early morning, and when Grant left his breakfast table at The Bull the rain had ceased and a cheerful sun was drying off the earth, though there were visible traces of the night’s havoc with torn branches strewn across the roads and a few ancient trees down in the countryside beyond.
When he hurried downstairs with his briefcase and equipment he was met by the hotel manager who said there was an urgent telephone call for him. He was worried that it might be bad news about Sally as he crossed to the reception desk, but it was Brough, who informed him that the churchyard had sustained considerable storm damage. A few minutes later he was able to see for himself. Two oaks had been uprooted, smashing some of the tombs and standing monuments, while lightning had apparently struck the Briggs mausoleum. The top of the heavy stonework had been cracked and there was a gaping hole in the sidewall near the bottom of the steps.
Brough had a worried face.
“The workmen are due to start on some of the church underpinning in a week or two. Do you think this will make any difference?”
Grant shook his head.
“Not unless there is similar damage to the church foundations. But I’ll make a thorough inspection and let you have a verbal report before lunch.”
Brough had relief on his face.
“That’s good.”
As Grant went back up the path to the church porch the small knot of curious spectators, which included the sexton and one of the churchwardens, was slowly dispersing. In the afternoon Grant spent more than two hours in the little muniments room, working on his notes and rough sketches. He felt there might be some difficulty in moving a number of the monuments in the south aisle of St. Ulric’s, and he was concerned in case their considerable weight might cause a collapse when the builders started excavating the church foundations on that side in order to commence the underpinning.
He wrestled with ideas for more than another hour, but eventually felt there was nothing for it but to program the removal of the massive tombs before work on the underpinning began. Things would not be entirely satisfactory; they never were in his experience of church renovation, but the itinerary he had planned was the best he could think of for the moment. When he finally left the church, the afternoon was waning and an early dusk was setting in, due to the low cloud mass which hovered over the village. There was no one about in the churchyard or in the street beyond, and the sexton, Martin, had left an hour before. As he neared the section where the tomb of Jedediah Briggs lay, some impulse again made him turn aside to survey the damage the storm had caused.
As he came closer, he could now see that the great oak door, which had seemed so secure, now hung awry on its hinges, no doubt due to the damage to the gaping hole in the wall beyond. There were dark shadows on the stone treads and he was horrified to see that the jostling shapes were composed of dozens of rats, which were emerging from the broken doorway. Grant shrank back, but the seething mass darted aside and at the same moment someone came up behind him. Grant turned, expecting to see the rector but it was the black-clad figure of the old man he had several times glimpsed hovering about the churchyard.
The architect was nauseated by the malodorous charnel stench that emanated from the creature’s clothing. He thrust a withered face into Grant’s own, and at the same time a claw-like hand seized his arm in a crushing grip, incredible in one so old. He had a welcoming smile on his face as he said in a high, sweet voice, “Come with me, my son. Welcome to Paradise!”
As though in a dream, Grant was led inexorably towards the steps leading to the shattered doorway of the tomb. They were halfway down and Grant could not shake off the paralysis which had overcome him, when a huge brass altar cross was suddenly thrust into the old man’s face. He gave a hideous cry of fear and fell downward through the door, which Grant had remembered as being solid, but nevertheless disintegrated in a cloud of dust, as the architect fell fainting into the rector’s arms.
*
Brandy was being forced down Grant’s throat. He coughed and the swimming vision finally settled into the reassuring faces of Brough and one of his churchwardens. The architect was back in the church, lying on one of the pew benches with a cushion beneath his head.
“What was it?” he gasped, when the fit of shuddering had passed. “What was it?”
The rector shook his head.
“We will leave that for the moment,” he said gently. “You have been unconscious for nearly an hour but the police doctor told us there was nothing to worry about. All is being taken care of.”
Grant struggled up.
“I owe you so much, rector.”
The other gave him a wry smile.
“Let us say we were fortunate. I had occasion to come back to the church to collect some notes for a lecture. I saw you being dragged across the churchyard by a strange old man in black clothes and I assumed it was the person of whom you had previously spoken. Then I also noticed that you were walking like a drunken man with a desperate expression on your face. There was something so sinister in the sight that I was momentarily paralyzed and you were almost at the vault steps before I recovered myself.”
Grant took another sip of the brandy, feeling strength returning.
“That thing…”
The rector bit his lip.
“There was something inexpressibly unholy in that horrifying tableau. So I rushed into the church and seized the altar crucifix and struck it blindly into the creature’s face. I say ‘creature’ advisedly because there was something loathsome and evil about it. The thing let go your arm and fell downward into the vault.”
“I cannot thank you enough, sir.”
Brough inclined his head. He was about to speak when they were interrupted by the wailing of police sirens outside. Grant started to his feet, but the rector laid a hand on his arm.
“I should not go out if I were you. The police, the press, doctors, and the ambulance men are there.”
There was a tremor in his voice now.
“They have discovered terrible things in that vault. Opened coffins. Many bodies, some of them in advanced stages of putrefaction. Police computer systems have already identified a number as being those of persons missing in the county over the past few years.”
He shuddered.
“Utterly evil. Unspeakable things.”
“And the old man?” Grant said in a trembling voice.
The rector turned away.
“Nothing but bones and dust. It is beyond belief.”
*
Grant left the village a week afterward, his work completed. In the interim the vault contents had been removed, the tomb dismantled, and the area turfed over, and the bishop then reconsecrated it as sacred ground. The architect took a month’s convalescence and he and Sally were married in the late summer. Understandably he was reluctant to undertake church restoration work after his experiences and now sends one of his junior colleagues instead. A strange aftermath of the aff
air at St. Ulric’s is the appearance of a small streak of white in his otherwise black hair. His wife has often asked him to snip it off but he prefers it to remain as a salutary warning and reminder of the evils that walk abroad at noonday. The quotation was garbled, owing to his faint recollection of the piece, but his wife got the message.
<
*
The Place
JOHN GORDON
JOHN GORDON was born in Jarrow-on-Tyne, England, and now lives in Norwich with his wife, Sylvia. As a child he moved with his family to Wisbech in the Fens of Cambridgeshire, where he went to school. After serving in the Royal Navy on minesweepers and destroyers during World War II, he became a journalist for various local newspapers.
His first book for young adults, The Giant Under the Snow, was published by Hutchinson in 1968 and gained praise from Alan Garner, among others. It was reissued in 2006 By Orion, along with editions in Italy and Lithuania, and as an audio book.
Since then, Gordon has published a number of fantasy and horror novels, including The House on the Brink, The Ghost on the Hill, The Quelling Eye, The Grasshopper, Ride the Wind, Blood Brothers, Gilray’s Ghost, The Flesh Eater, The Midwinter Watch, Skinners, The Ghosts of Blacklode, and Fen Runners.
The author’s short stories are collected in The Spitfire Grave and Other Stories, Catch Your Death and Other Stories, The Burning Baby and Other Stories, and Left in the Dark: The Supernatural Tales of John Gordon. He was one of five writers who contributed to the Oxrun Station “mosaic novel” Horror at Halloween, edited by Jo Fletcher. His autobiography, Ordinary Seaman, was published by Walker Books in 1992.
“There was a derelict house in the fen countryside near where I lived when I was a boy,” reveals Gordon. “It stood well back from the road, and there was a long driveway from it leading to a ruined gateway flanked by stone eagles that were reputed to fly down to drink in the river nearby, and the house itselfwas haunted.
“I ventured in my mind beyond that gateway to find this story…”
“YOU MUST HAVE BEEN very afraid,” she said.
“Well, I didn’t like it much.”
“I should have died.”
“Yes.” He fell silent, and when he resumed he spoke slowly. “I was too afraid to open the curtains. At least while the light was on in the room. Whatever it was out there could have looked in and seen me and I couldn’t have seen it, whatever it was.”
“You could have put the light out.”
“Then I would have had to cross the room in the dark, go right up to the curtains, and …”
“Stop. You make me shiver.” She paused. “Why didn’t you go to the phone?”
In spite of the darkness, she could see his smile.
“Don’t tell me you had forgotten the phone,” she said.
“No, I hadn’t forgotten.”
“You are going to tell me the lines had been cut.”
“No, the phone was working.”
“Thank goodness.”
“I heard it ring.”
“Well then.” She let out her breath, relieved.
“The phone is in the hall,” he said.
“Oh, I see. In the dark.”
“No. I told you I’d put on every light in the house. The hall was very bright.” He thought for a moment. “It must have been bright.”
“Must have been?” she asked. “Didn’t you go out there?”
He spoke as though he had not heard her. “I’m sure it was bright, because the lights in the room hadn’t failed. They didn’t ever flicker.” He lifted his head and spoke to her again. “You know what it’s like on a windless night in summer with the lights burning. It was all quite calm.”
“Except you.”
“Except me.”
“Who was ringing?” she said.
“I don’t know. I didn’t leave the room. Somebody else answered the phone.”
“What a relief!” She was laughing. “So there was somebody else in the house, after all.”
He remained silent and her laughter died.
“There was somebody else in the house, wasn’t there?” she insisted.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said. ‘‘Not now, just before we are married.”
“Maybe it’s a test.” She came closer. “To see if I love you in spite of all.”
“Even if my house is Bluebeard’s castle, and all my previous wives are lying there murdered?”
“Our castle. I fell in love with it before I even knew you.”
He glanced away down the avenue of trees. “Yes,” he said, “this place does have that effect. On most people. I was the same. That’s why I have to tell you everything about it.” He drew in his breath and let it out like a sigh. “Everything that I told you earlier is true. The house was empty except for me.”
“But somebody answered the phone.”
“There was a sound like footsteps. Then the phone stopped ringing.”
“Don’t go on,” she said. “Not while we’re out here in the dark.”
“All right.”
“All right? You mean you’re not going to tell me what happened next?”
“Well you said…”
“You’ve got to!”
He allowed himself to smile again. “There’s not much more to tell. I sat there. There were no more phone calls, no more footsteps. And towards dawn the scratching and tapping at the window stopped altogether. Then I went to bed.”
“To bed?”
He nodded.
“I don’t know how you could. I should have fainted. They would have found me white-haired in the morning. Dead or gibbering or something.”
“It’s my own place,” he said. “One learns not to be too afraid.”
“And nothing since?”
“Nothing.”
She fell silent, and after a while he said, “I don’t care what happened. It’s a beautiful house. I can’t wait to live in it… with you.”
They were at the end of a long avenue of trees. He put his arm around her waist, and they looked back towards the house.
“Its windows are so small from here,” she said. “It looks tiny, yet it’s a big house. A very big house. And the grounds are huge.”
“I sometimes don’t know myself where they end and then I find myself on other people’s property. I rather like that.”
“You are odd,” she said. “When I live here I won’t ever want to go outside the boundary.”
“I felt like that, and so did…” He broke off. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to be sorry.” She spoke gently. “I know it was her house. You’ve told me all that.”
“I was like you,” he said. “It was the place that attracted me. She may have been living here still if it wasn’t for me.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It was she who ran away. She just left all this—and you. I know it wasn’t your fault.”
He said, “She changed so suddenly. Nothing had happened until that day, and then it was just the smallest of arguments. I can’t even remember what it was about. I’ve tried. I’ve tried many times to bring it back but it eludes me.”
“I know.” She had heard him speak of it before, but made no effort to stop him. The more he spoke of it the quicker the memory would be, if not obliterated, at least softened.
“She let me go into the house first. She held back because she was angry. And the door closed behind me. I remember how I felt as it shut—it slammed. I hadn’t touched it, but it slammed—and I remember suddenly feeling delighted, wanting her to feel that I had slammed it. But more than that. I suddenly felt in possession of the house—her house. But now she was outside, on the other side of the shut door, and the house was mine. It was as though the house wanted me and not her.”
They walked on a few paces nearer the house before he resumed.
“I was, I suppose, slow in opening the door. Just too slow. Just a fragment of a second too slow. And when I did so she had turned a
nd was running away along the avenue.”
“This avenue?”
“I don’t know. It may have been.”
“And you never saw her again?”
“No. I waited. Then one day they wrote and told me she had died. They wrote. They did not give me time to reach her. They had had the funeral before I could get there. They had not wanted me. I don’t know what she had told them.”
They walked on in silence.
“So you came back here,” she said.
“I had to. I love the place.”
“I can’t blame you,” she said. “I would feel the same”
He stopped and turned towards her. “So we have no secrets. I have told you everything.”
“I know,” she said.
“And you?” he asked. “You have no secrets?”
She shook her head. “And it was afterwards you thought the house was haunted?”
“Just that one night.”
“You were under a great strain.”
“It was after it happened that the place began to feel emptier and emptier. And then you came along.”
“It was the house.” She teased him. “The house came first.” She looked away. “These avenues,” she said, “they all lead straight to the house. How many are there?”
“I’ve never counted them. And you are mistaken. They are not all straight. Sometimes you lose sight of the house altogether.”
“But not tonight. And the moon is directly over it, so we couldn’t lose it even if we tried. It really is lovely.”
“But haunted.”
“That was your last secret. But now you’ve told me, so it doesn’t matter any more. It’s all gone; vanished.” She kissed him. “Let’s get back to the others. We’re so far away you can’t even hear them.”
“Perhaps everybody’s gone. It’s late.”
“All the better. I’d like to have it all to myself, and I hate a party that goes on too long.”
Haunts Page 21
