“How do you mean?”
Ronnie shook her head. “I’m not sure, but it’s not finished yet. It has more to say, more to show us.” She gave Karen a helpless smile. “I can’t say more than that I’m afraid.”
“It looks old,” said Hale. “Maybe Dr. Cruttenden might know something about it.”
“I think Dr. Cruttenden has seen enough for now.” Chambers was looking at the painting. “But I agree we should ask her to take a look at it once she’s over the shock.”
“It’s amazing, though, isn’t it?” Ronnie took a step closer and stared at it, as if she was willing the painting to show her its secrets. “First Dr. Cruttenden’s apparition and now this.” She turned to look at the others. “The church obviously wants us here.”
“I’m not sure I find that thought entirely comforting,” said Chambers.
An uneasy silence followed. It was finally broken by Karen nodding in the direction of the undercroft.
“Right, well,” she said. “Shall we get ourselves some lunch before the kitchen gets turned into a darkroom for the afternoon?”
The others readily agreed, relieved to have something else to occupy their thoughts. Karen volunteered to take some food to Dr. Cruttenden.
“While you’re at it you can drop some off with our parapsychology colleague,” said Chambers, not unkindly.
“All right,” she said. “But only if you agree to get Father Traynor.”
Chambers shrugged. “I’ll do my best.”
“That leaves you and me to start looking through the cupboards.” Ronnie already had Paul Hale by the sleeve. “Come on, let’s see how good you are at peeling potatoes.”
“Serves me right for not volunteering for one of the easier jobs,” said Hale with a grin as he started to follow her. “Lead the way.”
Karen followed, leaving Chambers on his own. He stayed there for a moment, enjoying the calm. It wasn’t long, however, before the silence and the solitude began to feel unfriendly. The others hadn’t gone far, and yet the few sounds they were making suddenly seemed miles away. He resisted the urge to look at the painting again but it was no good. A skeleton in the process of burying something.
Or digging something up.
He tried not to dwell on that thought, instead turning his mind to how it had gotten there, or rather, how no one had noticed it before now. A change in humidity causing damp to bring out the pattern? Or perhaps the angle of one of the floodlights had been altered, casting light in a slightly different direction and simply making it more apparent?
Neither explanation fit, and the thought of that chilled him to the marrow as he made his way to the vestry door. He knocked hard, twice, but received no answer. The third time he called Traynor’s name and rattled the handle of the locked door.
Nothing.
For some reason, it made what he was thinking seem all the more terrifying.
All Hallows Church knew they were here.
And it was pleased.
FOURTEEN
Thursday, December 22, 1994. 12:46 P.M.
BEHIND THE VESTRY DOOR that Chambers was at that moment knocking on cowered a terrified man.
At least he was a man at that moment, Father Traynor thought. A terrified, impotent, waste of a man but a man nevertheless. One who was increasingly unable to account for his words or his deeds, and one who, it seemed, could no longer rely on the protection of the Lord inside this damned place.
That was the worst of all.
He had barricaded himself in this room, the voices in his head getting louder all the time. Especially that One Voice, the one that belonged to that . . . thing he had seen or hallucinated in the graveyard before coming in here. Telling him what to do and what to say, where to tell the others to sleep, to cook, to eat.
To die.
No, no, no! He refused to be a part of that. He would not play a part to murder. He was a man of God and no power on Earth could change that.
Oh, but my power stretches beyond Earth, the voice said, still privy to his thoughts. Far beyond and deep beneath. So deep it reaches all the way down, all the way through. It suddenly seemed amused. Do you wish to know what lies beyond this place, on the Other Side?
Father Traynor shook his head.
It is known as the “Sea of Darkness.” It lasts forever, in all directions, and the harder you try to escape it the stronger its hold on you becomes. Does the prospect of immortality in such an unending limbo terrify you?
The priest nodded.
It is much as I thought. Spineless fools such as you who will be your religion’s undoing, and mine own salvation. I think I shall keep you alive so that you may see it in all its hellish glory.
And then the inside of his head was silent once more, once again granted temporary respite while the demon within him faded, rested, went about business elsewhere for all he knew. Still too afraid to move, he stayed where he was, crouched against the vestry door, his fingers clawing at the intricate carvings in the wood.
He looked at them more closely. They resembled no religious iconography he was aware of, no biblical story or tale of martyrdom. Instead, each row of carvings depicted the same thing—an unending plain on which wandered tiny figures, all far from one another and going in no specific direction. Some were walking, others were crawling. Every now and then one must have fallen into a swamp or something because they appeared to be buried up to the waist. Or they possessed nothing below it.
Perhaps it was something from Dante’s Divina Commedia, or adapted from one of the hellish landscapes of Hieronymus Bosch? But even if it was, what priest would have chosen to have that to decorate the inside of his vestry door? A never-ending reminder of the tortures of the pit that awaited sinners? In his life he had known priests who were very fire and brimstone in their sermons, and others who had led private lives that certainly deserved such constant chastisement, but few were those who would entertain such images in the house of God.
Perhaps it was the Sea of Darkness.
He wiped the sweat from his face and looked around the room he had made his prison once more. It was small, no bigger than twice the size of the apsidal chapels he had been instructed to show the women to sleep in. Stone walls with a tiny slit window to the north overlooking the cemetery.
And a trapdoor in the far left-hand corner.
The voice had urged him to lift that up, to go down there and explore. But the tones had been mocking and his fearful response had merely made it laugh all the more. Presumably it, too, led to the undercroft, just like the flight of stone steps on the other side of the church. If that were true, though, it meant that the undercroft had to be huge, spanning the width of the church at least, and extending who knew how far north and south?
There was nowhere for him to sleep.
He deserved that, the priest thought. He deserved it for being weak. Everyone knew All Hallows was a cursed place, and yet he had simply followed his Archbishop’s orders, had not questioned them once, had not said that if he was coming into such a place, surely he needed help? That there needed to be more than just one of him? If there had been another priest with him perhaps they would have been able to save each other from the horror in the graveyard. Now he was trapped in here and something had damned his soul.
What was it the Archbishop had wanted him to find? Incriminating documents? There had been no sign of any such thing so far, and he would have assumed the vestry to be the repository of any records that had been kept.
Unless they were . . . underground.
Something drew his attention back to the carvings on the door. The Sea of Darkness itself appeared to be the work of an artist, as did some of the figures. However, now that he looked closely, some of them weren’t. Some of the tiny men and women crawling across that hellish landscape looked as if they had been added later, and often by hurried hands, so much so that one or two of them were little more than scratches in the wood.
A terrifying thought struck him. Was this the “docum
ent” Cardinal Thomas might have been referring to? Was the fate of those who had entered this place and never come out recorded on this door?
It lasts forever. Does the prospect of immortality in such an unending limbo terrify you?
Was that where they had ended up? In the Sea of Darkness, which could be accessed through this building? His eyes turned to the far left-hand corner again.
Perhaps through that trapdoor?
But what was he supposed to do? Wrench the door from its hinges? Chop the thing into firewood and burn it? There was no axe here for him to do that.
There might be one down below, a voice whispered in his head. Everything you need might be down below. An axe . . . fire . . . salvation . . .
He shook his head and tried to stop the tears welling in his eyes. More like damnation, he thought.
You will not be able to resist me forever, said the voice. Why endure such pain and torment now, when you could make it so much easier upon yourself? The task for which I have brought you here remains unfinished. Go below, fetch forth the instruments of their sacrifice and earn yourself a place at the right hand of darkness.
So that was why the voice came and went! Father Traynor felt a flicker of hope. He had not been aware that his efforts had met with any success, but the voice had betrayed itself. It could be resisted, it could be fought. He took a deep breath and levered himself to his feet. He had been ill-prepared the first time, when that worm-ridden thing had appeared to him in the graveyard, and he had allowed it to overwhelm him, to take control and use him to arrange the hapless individuals outside into positions in the church that were to its liking. Perhaps it intended them to have their fates recorded in the wood as well, sacrifices to its dark domain.
He gripped the doorframe and stared at the carvings. He would not let those who had been placed under his protection by the Holy Mother Church fall to the evil within his head. He would not surrender them to the Sea of Darkness, and he would not destroy this door either. Perhaps there was still a chance that the souls engraved on the wood could be saved as well, that they could be liberated from the eternal Hell they had found themselves consigned to, and delivered safely into the hands of the Savior.
He gasped three Hail Marys, and then followed those with the Lord’s Prayer for good measure. He was just uttering the line about not being led into temptation when the voice returned, a roaring tumult inside his head.
Do not presume to test me! I have been patient with you. I have shown you part of my domain, for indeed it is only a part, and yet I can see you need a more considerable demonstration in order to curb these petty rebellions of yours. Very well. Look upon my works, oh ye petty creature, and despair . . .
At first Father Traynor thought he was shrinking. His clutching fingertips were torn from the doorframe as it moved away from him, as the door before him seemed to grow. Then he realized that the carvings were staying the same size—it was the canvas on which they had been inscribed that was expanding, gaining height and depth and stretching to the right and left as far as his eyes could see.
He hung in limbo in front of the Sea of Darkness. Not the real thing, just an artist’s impression of it, wandering souls immortalized in wood, bodies carved into oak, millions of them, all in pain, all suffering.
No matter how high he looked, or how far from side to side, the monstrous depiction of Hell went on forever, and as he gazed upon it, he was struck by a horrific realization. Hell was not like he had been taught at all. There were no devils, no fiery pits, no mutilating tortures. Just an unending ocean of wandering, of searching, of lost ambition and disillusioned fulfillment, going on forever and ever, until all sanity was lost and all hope dashed. And still it went on.
The real place is, of course, much worse, said the voice.
That was when he started to scream.
FIFTEEN
Thursday, December 22, 1994. 1:15 P.M.
“DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?”
Chambers shook his head and Karen knocked on the vestry door again, calling out this time as well.
“Father?”
“Father Traynor?” Chambers added his voice. “Are you all right?”
After his first attempts to rouse the priest, Chambers had joined the others in the undercroft kitchen, where he and Karen had volunteered to do the first round of food deliveries to those who were too unwell (Dr. Cruttenden), too “busy” (Chesney), or too locked in their own vestry to be able to come and eat with everyone else.
Karen looked at the tray of food Chambers had just placed on the floor so he could knock. “Should we just leave it there?”
Chambers shrugged. “I can’t think of what else to do with it.”
“Perhaps he’s hurt.”
Chambers rattled the handle again and gave the solid oak a shove. All it did was hurt his shoulder.
“Whether or not it’s been bolted from the other side I can’t tell,” he said. “I suppose he could have locked it and gone wandering. He might be around somewhere and we just haven’t bumped into him yet.”
“But if he’s not?” Karen was insistent. “What if he’s had a heart attack? Or something’s fallen on top of him and he can’t move?”
“There’s no way anyone is getting through that door without the aid of a battering ram.” Chambers was rubbing his shoulder. “So if you want to go in there I suggest we either hit the panic button now, or start looking around for something suitably heavy.”
Karen pinched her lip. He knew it would be disastrous to abort the project only a few hours in, and it would probably be highly embarrassing for her as well. Now she had labored the point, he was starting to wonder if the priest was all right himself.
“Okay,” he said after he’d allowed her to procrastinate for a moment, “now you’ve got me worried. It could be any of the things you’ve said, and I agree we haven’t seen him since he gave us his guided tour.” He looked toward the west entrance. “I say we abort and get some equipment in here to get that door open.”
“Wait!” Karen called him back.
“We need to get him out, Karen.” Chambers was already halfway to the door, and the red button that had been attached to the right of it.
“I can hear something!”
Chambers stopped. “You can?”
Karen nodded, her ear pressed against the wood. “It’s very faint but there’s definitely someone in there.”
By the time Chambers was back and listening as well the sounds were a little clearer. They were very faint, but were definitely words.
“I . . . am fine . . . thank you. Just . . . busy.”
Karen looked up at her colleague. “He sounds a million miles away.”
Chambers nodded. “Or buried under about twenty mattresses.” Once she was out of the way he cupped his hands to shout. “Father Traynor? Are you sure you’re all right?”
There was a delay before the reply, as if Chambers’s words had needed to be relayed down a telegraph line to somewhere distant. The words seemed to come from somewhere just as far away.
“I am . . . fine. Please . . . do not . . . worry. Much . . . to do.”
Karen didn’t look happy. “He sounds weird.”
Chambers thought it all seemed strange, but he couldn’t offer anything other than, “He didn’t come across as exactly normal when we met him.”
“We’re leaving a tray of food for you here, Father!” Karen shouted. “Dr. Chesney wants to use the undercroft as a darkroom for the next couple of hours so we’re having lunch a bit early.”
Silence.
Chambers crouched down and rattled the tray, as if that would make any difference. “We’ll leave it here for you then,” he said. “Don’t let it get cold.”
“There’s nothing hot on there,” Karen hissed, pointing at the chunk of cheddar cheese, the slices of ham, and the dollop of coleslaw. The two pickled onions stared back at Chambers accusingly.
“He doesn’t know that,” he replied. “And in view of what’s already h
appened to two of us I’d be happier seeing him in the flesh, and sooner rather than later.”
Karen nodded agreement, and gave the priest some encouragement of her own. “We’ll be back to pick it up later, Father, all right?”
They waited, but this time there was no answer at all.
“Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.” Chambers didn’t know what else to do. Besides, there was another patient he was eager to check up on. “Come on, let’s get back to the kitchen and get the tray for Dr. Cruttenden. I’d like to see how she is.”
“Bet you won’t be so eager to take Dr. Chesney his tray.” Karen was already grinning.
“You can take that one yourself.”
“Oh, no.” She was shaking her head theatrically in a way that was actually quite becoming. “You agreed to do this with me and that means all of it. No chickening out. Or are you a man who doesn’t follow through with his promises?”
“Never.” Despite his general dislike for anyone associated with the media, Chambers was starting to warm to her. “At least not if there’s no way I can get away with it.”
“Very honest of you, professor. Would you care to put that on tape?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” he said with an even more theatrical grimace. “Come on, let’s get our university lecturer her salad.”
Dr. Cruttenden seemed to welcome the intrusion, and was already levering herself off Karen’s cot as they drew back the curtain to bring in the tray.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” said Chambers with a twinkle in his eye.
“Have you ever tried to rest after seeing a ghost, Professor Chambers?”
Chambers could see her point, and at least she seemed to be recovering her good spirits. “All I really want to do is get back to my books and see if there’s any mention of such a person in the historical record.”
“You might not be able to get in there for a while,” said Karen, shifting the tray to make sure none of them tripped over it. “Dr. Chesney has set himself up in your room.”
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