Sker House

by C. M. Saunders

  “How about a crucifix?” Izzy offered, suddenly looking as though she were getting a feel for the investigation.

  “I don't think that would work either, Iz. Whatever powers or forces we're dealing with were probably around long before Jesus. We may as well wave coloured ribbons in its face. If it has a face. Tonight, I think darkness itself is the enemy, or whatever resides inside it, so we need as much light-making equipment as we can get. Torches are useless with this power drain going on, so grab anything else you can. Candles, lighters, matches. Does that brass oil lamp above the bar still work?”

  “Think so,” replied the landlord. “Has a wick and everything. We can probably use oil from the kitchen. We always have plenty'a candles, and there's a box of Sker House cigarette lighters. Pound each, normally. But I s'pose, under the circumstances, I can see my way clear to giving a couple out, like. One good thing about running a pub.”

  “Good enough,” Rolly said.

  “I'll go get the lamp and lighters,” Izzy volunteered, and headed off into the crawling shadows with only a candle for comfort. Her transformation from helpless want-away victim to strong independent woman was complete, and Lucy couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. Maybe something good would come from this whole shared experience, after all.

  “Good girl,” Rolly said. “Now, apart from light, I have a feeling this might be our most effective weapon. Or more precisely, what's in it.” Rolly waved something in the air. It took a few seconds for Lucy to work out that the mystery object was one of Dale's notebooks. Did the old man know something? Lucy had a strong suspicion all would be revealed soon.

  When Izzy came back with the brass oil lamp Machen lit it and took the lead, Champ jogging alongside him as he directed the group through a door leading off the bar.

  “This thing about darkness versus light,” Lucy said, “Isn't it from the Bible, though?”

  Dale shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. The Bible uses darkness and light as metaphors for good and evil, but maybe the connection between the two is much older than Christianity. That just came along and put a new spin on old ideas. It's natural to be afraid of the dark, bad shit happens when you can't see anything. Imagine what life must have been like in the days before electricity.”

  “Yea we're getting quite an insight tonight.”

  “Well maybe that's why people naturally connect fear and danger with darkness and night. We are hard-wired that way.”

  “Maybe,” Lucy agreed, then fell in line and concentrated on preparing herself for the next challenge this weekend from hell threw at her. She was sure she wouldn't have to wait long.

  As they slowly continued on to their destination, Machen started telling them about the cellar. Dale, along with everyone else within earshot, listened intently. “There's a sub-cellar, see. In the room we keep the kegs. Them builders, if that's what they call themselves, didn't know what to do with it. Couldn't decide whether to fill it in, seal it off, or incorporate it into the new plans. They asked me what I thought they should do and I didn't know either, so I just told them to go for the cheapest option. That happened to be to leave it alone.”

  “Is it sound?” Dale asked. “Structurally, I mean?”

  “Far as I know,” Machen answered without much conviction. “The guy they sent down there never came back out. Not long after that, his mates all up n' pissed off.”

  “What do you mean never came back out?”

  “What I mean is, I assume he came back out. He must've done. He can't still be down there, can he? I just never saw him.”

  “Did any of his friends see him again?” Lucy asked.

  “How should I know?” Machen was sounding defensive again. “His mates weren't here much longer themselves. I bet he turned up somewhere else later on, like.”

  Dale looked shocked. “Didn't you think to tell anyone about this?”

  “What for? It's hardly my fault if the man walks off the job. Who am I going to tell? The building police?”

  “But he went missing?” Lucy said, even as she accepted it was useless arguing.

  “Look, just open the door, will you?” Dale said.

  Machen stepped forward, used a key on his chain to open a door, and they all filed inside a narrow room which stank of stale beer. It was chilly, draughty, and bare except for stacks of barrels. By the yellowish gleam of the oil lamp and half-a-dozen candles, a large trapdoor was visible in the middle of the floor. It had a bulky padlock held in place by reams of thick rusty chains. Dale plucked the oil lamp out of Machen's hands and walked over for a closer look. Picking up the heavy metal chains he shook them to rattle the lock. It was secure.

  Dale's gaze wandered from the padlock to the door they had just entered through. Someone had gone to great lengths to keep this part of Sker House off-limits. Maybe it really was dangerous down there. Declared safe perhaps, but in need of urgent work. Or maybe there was another reason altogether. “Where's the key for the lock?”

  “I don't know, do I?” Machen answered. “S'pose them bloody builders took it with them.”

  “Wait...” Lucy said. “Dale, look at the shape of the lock. Isn't it like the key you found in our room today?”

  Dale studied the lock more closely. “You know, you might be right! Machen, show me that key, Sir.”

  “Oh, I'm sir now, am I. Now you bloody want something, like,” Machen said as he reluctantly reached into his pocket, pulled out the old rusted key, and handed it over.

  The group watched as Dale inserted the key into the lock and turned it. An expectant hush fell over the room, then there was a collective gasp as the lock fell open. “It fits!” he said excitedly as he unravelled the rusty iron chains holding the trapdoor closed. Then, gripping the handle with both hands, he took a deep breath and pulled. The trapdoor came up with a stubborn croak of the hinges and fell open with a loud thump. Everyone instinctively took a couple of steps back and waited for something to emerge. Nothing did.

  “Everyone okay?” Dale asked.

  There was a round of muffled grunts and mumbled affirmations. The group edged forward and peered down through the trapdoor into the inky darkness below. It was almost like looking over the edge of a precipice. A wooden ladder reached down into the black void beneath the floor, its treads withered and yellowed with age. Something that looked like a white fungus or moss crept over the top step.

  “Hang on,” Lucy said. “We don't know what's down there, or how tight a squeeze it might be, so maybe it isn't such a good idea for everyone to go piling down there at once.”

  “She's right,” agreed Old Rolly.

  “Yeah, it might be like a mummy's curse, or something,” protested Izzy, evidently having an emotional relapse. “We should send one person down as a guinea pig.”

  “So who's the lucky lab rat?” Machen asked, thereby making it publicly known that he had no intention whatsoever of doing the honours.

  “I'll go,” said Dale. “I can probably move faster than any of you, anyway.” He let out a nervous laugh, but the laugh died in his throat before it gathered much pace. “Wait a minute. Look at all these locks and chains. What if the idea was to keep something inside the cellar, rather than keep something out. And by opening the door, we've just let it loose?”

  “If that's the case,” Lucy said. “It's too late now,”

  Chapter 32:

  Tunnels

  Dale tentatively descended down the rickety wooden ladder into the bowels of the house. The cold, damp air closed in around his limbs and torso like icy fingers. He used only one hand to grip the rungs, holding the precious oil lantern in the other. The going was slow, but the last thing he wanted to do was fall and break his neck. When he reached the ground, Dale stepped off the ladder onto the floor.

  Thank God!

  Immediately, the lamp's encased flame flickered as if being attacked by a gust of wind. He held his breath until the flame righted itself.

  “Dale?” Lucy called from above. “Everything okay?”


  “Yeah, think so,” he replied, surveying his surroundings. Even with the lamp, picking out detail was difficult. At first he thought the cellar had a carpeted floor, it felt so soft underfoot. Then he stooped to examine it more closely and found the stone floor was simply thick with dust. It must be a quarter-inch deep. As he inspected the floor near his feet he noticed something, and held the lamp over the spot. It was an impression in the dust. A clear outline of a footprint. A large work boot, by the looks. It looked so fresh it could have been made just minutes earlier.

  The missing builder.

  Dale peered into the gloom as far as the light would reach, and confirmed he was alone. The flickering light revealed another impression in the dust, just in front of the first. And then another. Now his eyes were becoming accustomed to the semi-darkness, he could see what looked like a line of footprints leading toward the far wall and disappearing into a cluster of shadows too stubborn to be dissipated by the lamp.

  Part of him felt compelled to follow the tracks, but another part was hesitant. Something was wrong. He studied the scene, turning full circle a couple of times. He looked up to see silhouettes of Lucy, Machen, Rolly, Ruth and Izzy all bathed in candlelight and framed in the rectangle cut into the ceiling. Then it came to him. There was only one set of footprints. As far as he could tell, the rest of the floor was untouched, the dust unmolested.

  But that was impossible. There should at be at least one more set of prints returning to the door, otherwise how did the builder get out of the room? Assuming the prints were his, of course. He could have back-tracked, placing his feet carefully where previous footprints lay, but why would he bother?

  Unless he didn't get out.

  An icy shiver ran through Dale's body. It was cold in the cellar. Colder than upstairs. But it was more than that. The exposed skin on his face and neck crawled as if covered in cobwebs.

  “Dale? What are you doing?” Lucy called.

  “There's a trail of footprints down here.”

  “Where do they go?”

  “I can't tell. But I think there's only one set.”

  There was a brief murmur of conversation, then Lucy said, “Wait for us, we're coming down.”

  Moments later she was standing on one side of Dale and Rolly was on the other, the three of them standing in a semi circle around the first footprint. After a quick discussion, they all drew the same conclusion. There was only one set of tracks.

  “So what's over there?” asked Lucy, pointing in the direction the prints led.

  “Let's go see,” Dale replied, trying to sound calmer than he felt.

  The tracks terminated against the far wall. Here there were multiple prints and the dust severely disturbed, as if somebody had stopped here and shuffled back and forth a few times. Dale took a step back and scratched his head.

  What the hell? Where did they go?

  He placed a hand on the wall to verify its existence, finding only a damp, solid stone surface. He moved his hand along, cringing as his skin slid through a slimy film covering the wall. Despite his probing, there didn't seem to be any tell-tale knobs anywhere.

  “What now?” said Lucy.

  “I don't know. Any advice or suggestions would be more than welcome.”

  “Well, whoever made these footprints couldn't have walked through a concrete wall.”

  “Maybe the fairies spirited them away, eh, Rolly?” Dale meant it as a joke to alleviate the growing tension, but the moment the words left his mouth he regretted it. Then he became aware of a draught around his lower legs. Bending over, he lowered the oil lamp to illuminate the area immediately in front of them and saw what looked like a small opening just above ground level. Fresh air tainted with the acrid smell of the sea and a cold breeze drifted through it.

  “Is that a tunnel?” Old Rolly asked.

  “Seems that way,” Dale replied. “How far underground are we?”

  “Let's see,” said the old man. “Right now we are in the cellar, probably eight or ten feet below ground level. From here it depends which trajectory that tunnel takes. It could stay on the same course or it could plummet straight down.”

  “Well lets find out, shall we?” Lucy stooped to look through the gap.

  “Not so fast,” Rolly said, we don't know what's in there.”

  “You think this could be the vortex thingy?” Dale asked.

  “Possibly. Or this could merely be the path leading to the vortex.”

  “What's a vortex?” asked Lucy puzzled.

  “We think there may be some kind of doorway between worlds around here somewhere. That could be the cause of all the paranormal phenomena. Isn't that right, Rolly?”

  “Something like that. If you open up a portal between dimensions that enables the spirit world to interact with ours, wouldn't you want to keep it from prying eyes? Especially the way things were around the time it was built. Anybody who didn't toe the line was only ever one step away from being executed. We think the renegade monks who first built this place excavated a network of tunnels as a means of avoiding detection by the authorities. And maybe it was down in those tunnels a few of them began dabbling in things they shouldn't have.”

  “That's probably why Sker House has a dark cloud hanging over it,” elaborated Dale. “All the tragedy and everything else that happens here is linked to that vortex, or portal.”

  “So, we can close it and restore harmony to the universe?” Lucy seemed to be taking it all very well, almost as if she battled supernatural forces on a daily basis.

  “That's the theory,” said Rolly. “If we can find the thing, then figure out how to close it.”

  “What a fabulous way to spend a weekend. You certainly know how to show a girl a good time, Dale Morgan. Just wait until I tell the girls about this. This will definitely put the time Dannii Braithwaite is supposed to have sucked off the entire five-aside football team at a house party into perspective.”

  Rolly and Dale looked at each other. Any other time that statement would be enough to spark a dozen debates, but tonight there were more important things on the agenda. With a shrug the old man knelt on the floor and examined the area around the opening, holding the candle between his face and the wall. Apparently satisfied, he stood and stepped back. “It's a tunnel alright. There are probably dozens of them underneath Sker, all criss-crossing and bisecting each other. Most were hiding places or escape routes, but some were dead end's intended to trap intruders. It was built like an underground maze. On top of that, there were store rooms and, word has it, sacrificial chambers. The rogue monks didn't practice human sacrifice. At least, not that I'm aware of. It was just animals.”

  “Oh, that's okay then,” Lucy said in a could-this-really-get-any-worse tone. “So that's what we are looking for now? A sacrificial chamber in an underground maze?”

  “I'm not entirely sure. But now we've gotten this far, I think we'll know what we are looking for when we find it. All tunnels have to lead somewhere.”

  “Very helpful,” said Lucy. Dale noted that even in times of extreme stress she couldn't keep that brutal sarcastic streak under control. To his credit Rolly either didn't pick up on he remark or was so used to the acerbic verbal lashings of the fairer sex that he had built up a tolerance.

  Dale dropped to his knees and held the oil lamp at the opening. By its light they could see the sides of the tunnel had been painstakingly carved out of the earth with what appeared to be consummate skill and craftsmanship. “Maybe Machen should have called in whoever made these tunnels to carry out the refurbishments here.”

  “Sadly, I suspect whoever fashioned these tunnels passed into the Great Beyond long ago,” said Rolly. “Certainly appears to be some high-quality work, though.”

  “I guess now we know what those monks did with their time when they weren't busy praying and stuff,” Lucy said. “Do you think its safe?”

  There was an awkward pause. Then Rolly said, “Considering how long these tunnels have been here, you'd have to be dam
n unlucky if one collapsed on you in the comparatively short time we'd be in there. Keep in mind though that we don't have any phones or electricity to call for help, so if anything does happen, whoever happens to be in there will be on their own.”

  Dale suspected that some small overlooked part of his brain was aware of the possibility that something may go wrong, but the rest of him chose not to acknowledge it. There really wasn't much option. Somebody had to go exploring and once again, he was the most eligible candidate. The tunnel didn't exactly look inviting. It would be cold, dark, damp and probably crawling with vermin and insects, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse. Unless the width diminished, it looked easily big enough to crawl through. Quickly, if he needed to. And the oil-lamp would provide more than enough light. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I'd better get going.”

  But Lucy threw an arm across his chest. “Wait,” she said. “What if this whole tunnel system is one big booby trap? And that's why the builder never came out?”

  Dale hadn't thought of that. And he was glad. “Why would someone go to all that trouble?”

  “Because they were pissed off monks with a lot to hide.”

  “You know, it wouldn't surprise me if they utilized the close proximity of the sea in their defences,” Old Rolly said. “Resourceful chaps, those monks. Maybe the reason the smell of salt water is so strong around here is because some of these tunnels flood with the tide. You'd have to know which tunnels would be safe at any given time.” He whistled through his teeth in what sounded like deep admiration. “They were in hiding, remember. Hunted. Persecuted by the state. They weren't just fighting for their lives, but for their faith, their history, everything.”

  “This is beginning to turn into an Indiana Jones movie,” said Lucy, who seemed increasingly unimpressed with all the problem-solving.

  “In that case, I hope it doesn't turn into the Last Crusade,” said Dale.

  “Why? Does the hero die in that one? I haven't seen it,” said Lucy, feigning interest.