She was squeezing her copy of G. M. Trevelyan’s History of England next to van Thal’s two-volume work on Britain’s prime ministers when there was a noise from behind her, over in the far corner.
Behind the lamp.
She squinted, but it was difficult to see because of the brightness. Was there something?
“Hello?”
She had no idea why she called out. It wasn’t as if anyone could have been able to sneak past her and get behind the lamp while she had been working, was it?
And yet, it looked as if there was a figure standing there, or at least the outline of one. A figure wearing a cloak and a cowl. That had to be what it was, because no living thing could have a head that shape.
“Father? Is that you?”
Rosalie got to her feet, but the angle of the lamp’s glare just made the figure all the more indistinct.
Until it moved.
Its head swayed a little, from side to side. Rosalie frowned. Was it saying no? Or was the priest perhaps in some kind of trouble?
“Father Traynor? Are you all right?”
She took a step forward. The figure stayed where it was. She could see its outline a little more clearly now, or at least she thought she could. The shimmering had to be caused by the light, as was the way in which the surface of the figure’s garment seemed to undulate softly, as if there were things beneath it that writhed and squirmed in the darkness of the cloak’s embrace.
“You’re going to burn yourself if you’re not careful.” Rosalie reached out and grasped the thin black cable that ran to the lamp, keeping her eyes on the figure as she felt her way down to the switch.
Click.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, to the insipid gray dimness caused by the feeble light entering the tiny slit window.
It took her a moment.
Then, as the figure rose to its full height, she wished she couldn’t see anything at all, and most certainly not the worm-ridden, rotten face of the thing that had entered her room, that perhaps had always been there.
Rosalie backed toward the door, but she was only just getting used to the room and she miscalculated, finding herself pressed against solid stone.
The corpse-thing took a shambling step forward, its lower limbs obviously in an even worse state than its face.
Its face . . .
It was the last thing Rosalie wanted to look at, and yet she didn’t dare take her eyes off it. It was the narrow, thin, wasted visage of something terribly old, something that should be dead but somehow wasn’t, that could offer little resistance to the creatures that feasted on what was left of its flesh and yet still possessed enough life to part those maggot-chewed lips to reveal the swollen tongue within. As it leaned forward to speak, Rosalie noticed other things about the figure, noticed the simple black habit, stained with the dirt of the grave; noticed the wimple that could be seen now that the cowl had fallen back a little.
The nun leaned farther forward, tottering a little, and took in a breath. The air rattling through the rotted larynx and inflating what was left of her lungs sounded like dry leaves being shaken in a paper bag. Her face was very close now, just inches from Rosalie’s own. She could see tiny lice crawling in the creases of the thing’s parchment-thin skin, worms wriggling in one nostril, and as for the eyes . . .
There were no eyes.
When the thing finally spoke, the words came out as a crackling whisper, the ravages of time and the grave having taken their toll on vocal cords that were almost too dry and too scarred to form intelligible sounds.
“Nine . . . circles.”
The thing’s breath stank of the charnel house. Rosalie held her own for as long as she could, until the pounding in her ears and the pain in her chest became almost unendurable. She exhaled with a gasp and took another breath. The stink nearly made her gag as the thing spoke again.
“The . . . Gates . . . of . . . Hell.”
Rosalie felt something clutch at her. Her arms were raised in front of her, hands balled into fists. She looked down to see her right forearm in the grip of weathered claws, bare and brittle bone stained brown from cemetery earth. The cracked fingertips were digging into her sleeve. She could feel chill tendrils probing her mind, her thoughts being lifted and overturned as if by the limbs of a curious spider seeking its prey.
“Don’t . . . dig . . . down . . . below . . .” the thing said. But this time its mouth had stayed closed.
And then it was gone.
It took a moment for Dr. Rosalie Cruttenden to realize what had happened, another to switch the light on, and then a third to scream.
THIRTEEN
Thursday, December 22, 1994. 12:25 P.M.
BY THE TIME BOB Chambers got there, with Karen close behind, Peter Chesney was already on the scene.
“Are you all right?” Chambers asked.
Dr. Cruttenden nodded as Chesney, who had sat next to her, patted her hand. Her cot was creaking under their combined weight.
Chambers took her pulse. Bouncing along at a regular ninety beats per minute, which was to be expected in someone who had received a mild shock.
“I’m fine, really,” Dr. Cruttenden insisted, “I’m just a silly old woman who gets spooked too easily sometimes.”
“What spooked you?” Karen, ever the journalist, had her Dictaphone on and was holding it up to record the lecturer’s words.
Chesney answered for her, his eyes glinting with fanatical zeal. “Dr. Cruttenden has witnessed an apparition, our first genuine sign that something is actually here!”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Rosalie replied. “It could well have been my imagination.”
“What did you see, Dr. Cruttenden?” Chambers released her right wrist while her left continued to receive the unwanted attentions of the parapsychologist.
“Well, I thought I saw . . . I thought I . . .”
“A nun.” It was the first time Chambers had seen Chesney smile. “She saw a nun. In this room! And it spoke to her.”
“What did it say?” Karen still had the Dictaphone switched on.
“I’m not really sure.” Dr. Cruttenden was obviously shaken but trying to keep calm. “To be honest it didn’t make much sense.”
“The dead seldom do,” said Chesney, unhelpfully, “until we understand the context in which they are trying to communicate with us.”
Chambers flashed him a glare but it was going to take more than that to shut him up. “It might be helpful if you told us anyway, Dr. Cruttenden,” he said.
Rosalie briefly repeated what the nun had said to her. “It doesn’t make much sense, does it? I mean, it’s not as if we’re intending to do any digging while we’re here.”
“Not physically.” Ronnie was peering in through the narrow doorway, and Chambers could see Paul Hale’s youthful face behind her as she continued, “But what about spiritually? Or even historically? There are more ways in which to disturb the past than by simple physical means.”
“What did she look like?”
Rosalie turned to face Karen, licking her lips before answering the question. “She was very old. So old that quite a lot of her wasn’t there, if you see what I mean.”
“Like the things in our dreams?” asked Chambers.
Rosalie nodded.
Chesney frowned. “What dreams?”
“We’ll tell you later.” Chambers spoke calmly. “Rosalie, you don’t have to tell us any of this if you don’t want to, but did she look like the things that guard this place in the dreams?”
“I couldn’t see much of her, of course,” Dr. Cruttenden continued, “just her face, or rather what was left of it, and her hand. Her left hand.” She rubbed the forearm where she claimed the thing’s fingers had gripped her. “It was so cold, her touch, so cold. Perhaps that was what made me cry out.” She frowned. “No, no that’s not right. I cried out after she had gone, I think.”
Chambers did his best to reassure her. “You’ve had quite a shock,” he
said. “It’s completely understandable that you might get your facts muddled for a while. It sounds clichéd, but the best thing for you to do is get some rest.”
Rosalie looked around her tiny, book-lined cubicle. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” she said. “I mean, what if it should come back?”
“Take my room,” said Karen. “There’s precious little of my stuff in it yet anyway. And I’ll stay in here so if anything does appear I’ll be able to verify your story.”
“I really think I should be the one to stay here,” Chesney sniffed. “It’s a shame that my equipment won’t fit in this room, but I have had to rely on my own eyes and my innate sensitivity before. In fact, I have prior experience of a similar event.”
“Really?” Chambers raised an eyebrow. “Where was that, then?”
“Brecon Cathedral. It is a very well documented case. The remains of a number of nuns were found bricked-up in the walls of the Cathedral. Their ghosts roam the building, cursed to remain there because of the violent nature of their deaths.”
“And you saw them?”
Chesney seemed reluctant to discuss the matter, with Chambers at least. “I felt them, Professor Chambers, as did other members of my party.”
“It’s certainly possible to feel such unhappy spirits,” said Ronnie, “especially if their death was unexpected.”
Chambers turned to her. “And did you feel anything?”
“When?”
“Just now, when Dr. Cruttenden saw what she thought she saw.”
Ronnie shook her head. “No.”
“She was too far away,” said Chesney.
“And did your equipment pick anything up?”
Chesney looked uneasy. “It isn’t calibrated properly yet.”
“So I’ll take that as a no.” Chambers could see Karen’s chastising gaze out of the corner of his eye. “I’m just trying to establish the facts here, that’s all. I wouldn’t want you recording a distorted version of what actually happened.”
“I believe what I saw, Professor Chambers.” Dr. Cruttenden got to her feet. “And I believe it strongly enough that I am convinced we are going to discover the meaning behind those dreams the three of us have been having.”
That made Dr. Chesney even more cross. “Three of you?”
Karen raised a hand. “Me as well, I’m afraid. We’ll tell you all about them later.”
“Anyone else?” Chesney was looking at Ronnie and Paul now. “Anyone else had weird dreams about this place that they have neglected to inform me of?”
They both shook their heads. Paul looked relieved. Ronnie did not.
“I would appreciate it if you would all keep me informed of any paranormal activity in the future,” Chesney snapped. “There is precious little point in my being here if I cannot rely upon all of you to report your observations. Now, I shall stay here while Dr. Cruttenden sleeps in Miss Shepworth’s room. Hopefully our ghostly nun will elect to make a further appearance for me this time.”
As Chambers stood back to let Dr. Cruttenden out, he could not help but think that the last person any ghostly spirit would want to appear in front of would be this self-important little man. He and Karen made sure Rosalie was all right before joining Ronnie and Paul back in the nave.
“Where was Father Traynor during all of that?” Karen asked.
“Probably still sorting out his vestry,” Chambers replied, pointing to the little door as they passed it. “The walls are pretty thick and the wood of that door most likely is too. He probably didn’t hear a thing.”
“Lucky him,” she said. “Besides, there were quite enough of us in there. Any more and Rosalie would probably have fainted from lack of air rather than from seeing a ghost.”
Chambers agreed. “Once she’s gotten over the shock we’ll have to ask her more about it, hopefully without Chesney there.”
“You really don’t like him, do you?”
Chambers knew it was obvious. He had never been able to hide his true feelings about things from anyone. “I don’t know how to describe it,” he said, “but he has that aura of insincerity about him that you get with stage magicians, dodgy faith healers, and other charlatans.”
“You’d better not let Ronnie hear you say that.” Karen was leading the way now. “I think she’s quite big on all that psychic stuff back in Glastonbury.”
Chambers shook his head. “She strikes me as sincere. Whatever she feels, or thinks she feels, she completely believes it. She isn’t trying to fool anyone.”
“And what about you?”
Chambers stopped, his eyebrows raised. “What about me?”
Karen gave him a cool look. “Here you are judging everyone on their absence of psychic ability, of sensitivity, and yet you’re basing the conclusions you’ve drawn on your own feelings, your own intuition. Surely that’s the same as what they do?”
“Ronnie perhaps, but not Chesney. I get the feeling . . .” Chambers paused and flashed a guilty smile “. . . that he doesn’t have a sensitive bone in his body.”
“You may be right, but we still have nearly four days to spend in here, so don’t start being rude to him just yet.”
Chambers looked at the red button rigged up near the west entrance. “We can always push the panic button if it gets too much.”
“And then the nightmares might never stop. Do you really want to risk that?”
Of course he didn’t. “I was only joking. And I promise I’ll do my best to behave in front of ‘Dr.’ Chesney.”
“Good.” Karen smiled. “And if you address him take those quote marks off—I can tell it pissed him off a lot when you called him that in the van.”
There was another surprise awaiting them on the wall of the north aisle, one that brought Dr. Chesney running at the possibility he might be missing out on yet another potential paranormal phenomenon.
“I knew there was something there,” Ronnie breathed. “I knew it.”
“I saw you staring at it earlier.” Chesney took a step back to get a better look. “Could you see it then?”
“No,” came the reply. “But I could feel it.”
High up on the wall, very faded but definitely there, was an artist’s rendition of a skeleton. It wasn’t exactly anatomically accurate, Chambers thought. The skull was too small, the neck too long, and the radius and ulna of both forearms seemed abnormally thickened. With muscles to match around those bones he imagined the figure would be incredibly strong. The misshapen skull meant it probably wouldn’t look very pretty either.
The left elbow was bent, the forearm at right angles to the body. As Chambers stared he realized the figure was leaning on something.
“What is that?” he whispered to himself.
“It looks like a spade,” said Karen. “Or at least the handle of one. The blade is buried in the ground.”
“And no one saw this before? No one saw this when they came in here?’” Chesney had brought his camera over now and was taking picture after picture, the flash blinding the rest of them.
No one gave him an answer.
“You,” he pointed at Ronnie. “You said you could feel it? How could you ‘feel’ a painting of a skeleton?”
“I didn’t ‘feel a painting of a skeleton.’” Ronnie looked hurt but stood her ground. “I just knew something was there, underneath the plaster, almost as if it were trying to get out.”
“It definitely wasn’t there before,” said Paul. “I would have seen it. Hey, we all would. Who’s going to miss a huge skeleton like that?”
“You’d be surprised what people can miss if they’re not looking, Mr. Hale.” Chesney took his umpteenth photograph and finally seemed satisfied. “I’ll be interested to see if anything different shows up on the film.”
“You’ll have to wait until we get out for that though, won’t you?” said Hale.
Chesney shook his head. “In addition to my other equipment, I asked for all the appropriate developing materials and chemicals to be supplied. All I need i
s somewhere dark enough to process them.”
“Well, that won’t be difficult.” Hale raised his hand. “In here I can barely see this in front of my face most of the time.”
“The undercroft will do nicely,” said Chesney. “Have you all eaten?”
The rest looked at him blankly before Karen volunteered a slightly confused “No?”
“In that case I would ask that you all please hurry and have your lunch. After that I would ask that no one enters the undercroft while I am down there. I want to get these pictures developed as soon as possible.”
Before any of them could reply, Chesney dashed back to Dr. Cruttenden’s apsidal, keeping the camera with him.
“Can we lock him in?” Hale asked.
“Well, we get two choices,” said Chambers with a grin. “The apsidal or the undercroft. Which do you think he deserves?”
“Stop it, both of you,” said Karen. “He might still be able to hear you.”
“Who made him boss anyway?” Hale didn’t look impressed.
“No one’s the boss,” said Karen. “We’re all here for different reasons, and we all have to give each other the appropriate respect.”
“The only respect that bloke has is for himself,” said Hale. “He could do with being a lot less of an arse.”
“It’s not finished,” said Ronnie quietly from behind the three of them.
They turned to see her still gazing at the picture. Karen laid a hand on her shoulder.
The Lovecraft Squad Page 14
