Tales of Terror from the Tunnel's Mouth

by Chris Priestley

Some girls from the school had gone on to be governesses in some of the finest houses in England and the Colonies. Sister Ruth had told her only the other day of receiving a letter from a girl she had taught who was now a governess in a house in the Bahamas.

  Sister Veronica had been tempted by a pang of jealousy when Sister Ruth, who was far too excitable for Sister Veronica’s liking, had told her about the letter. She had never received a letter from a girl who had been in her care. Such was the ingratitude of girls like these. Besides, Sister Ruth had recounted a tale from the letter that was most inappropriate in its reference to ‘handsome young men’ and Sister Veronica had been forced to say that she had something urgent to attend to in order to bring the conversation to a close.

  ‘Now, girls,’ said Sister Veronica, loudly enough to make tiny Susan Tiller jump. ‘We are to do some drawing. I can think of no better way for you to spend the time you would otherwise have wasted on the Godless nonsense at the village fete or ogling the village boys – yes, I mean you, Margaret.’

  Margaret made no response. Just the mention of boys usually elicited giggles, but not today. Sister Veronica frowned.

  ‘I thought that we might return to the still life that we –’

  ‘Sister Veronica.’

  Sister Veronica spun like a snake in the direction of the interruption – how she hated to be interrupted – but saw that it was Barbara who had her hand raised, and was that a smile on her face?

  ‘Yes, Barbara,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Beg your pardon, Sister Veronica,’ she said, stepping forward, ‘but we’ve been talking, haven’t we, girls?’

  The girls all nodded excitedly and said yes.

  ‘We were wondering, Sister Veronica, if we might do a drawing of you.’

  Sister Veronica willed herself, a little unsuccessfully, not to blush, and she dug her fingernails into her palms, angry at how flustered and girlish she felt.

  ‘Me, child?’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘Why, I don’t know . . .’

  ‘You’re worried about the sin of vanity, aren’t you, Sister Veronica?’ said Barbara.

  Sister Veronica’s smile disappeared. She did worry about the sin of vanity. She had worried about this often. She knew she was pretty, but she tried very hard not to take pride in it.

  ‘We knew you would be,’ said Barbara. ‘I said to Margaret, “Sister Veronica will not let us do a drawing of her. She would never want to put herself forward in that way. She would think it blasphemous.”’

  ‘I’m not sure it would be blasphemous exactly,’ said Sister Veronica. The light suddenly faded in the room as a cloud passed in front of the sun and the gloom made her smile seem all the brighter. ‘But vanity is a terrible sin. Do you know why?’

  ‘Because it distracts us from our love of the Lord, Sister,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Well done, Barbara,’ she said, beaming. ‘And so we must always be on our guard. So shall we return to the still life?’

  ‘We knew you would not want us to draw a picture of you as yourself,’ said Barbara.

  ‘I’m not following you, child,’ said Sister Veronica, moving towards the still-life table.

  ‘That’s why we came up with the idea,’ said Barbara. ‘Oh please, please say you will, Sister Veronica. Please.’

  Sister Veronica turned to her patiently.

  ‘But I do not know what you mean, Barbara,’ she said.

  ‘Oh – sorry, Sister,’ said Barbara with a giggle. ‘We thought that you might pose as a saint for us.’

  Sister Veronica felt slightly light-headed. Not only was Barbara talking to her again, but the girls wanted her to pose as one of the blessed saints. It was like a dream. Not that she would ever have allowed herself to dream such a thing.

  ‘And what saint would that be now?’

  ‘We thought we would ask you to pose and then we would see if you could guess.’

  Sister Veronica looked at the gaggle of excited, expectant faces in front of her. Were they making fun of her? She found it hard to let her guard down, but she did not want to break the spell of that moment.

  Mother Superior had once chided her for not having a sense of humour. ‘Sometimes it pays to show you are a good sport,’ she had said. Could she be a ‘good sport’ now? She wasn’t sure. For Barbara’s sake, maybe she could.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Sister Veronica, smiling patiently. ‘How shall I stand?’

  ‘We would like you to stand against a column,’ said Barbara. ‘You know – as if you were tied to it.’

  Sister Veronica walked over to one of the columns that stood in the classroom. The builders of the convent had placed a row of them at one side of the room, making the place impractical in so many ways, but giving it the aura of a chapel – something Sister Veronica had always loved. A sudden flash of sunlight splashed coloured light from the stained-glass windows across the stonework: gold, green and blood red.

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  Sister Veronica leaned against the column, but Barbara instructed her to stretch her arms back as if she had her hands tied behind it. She did as Barbara asked, wondering to herself for how long she would be able to hold such an uncomfortable position, however much of a good sport she intended to be.

  ‘Can you guess which saint it is yet, Sister Veronica?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘Am I perhaps to be St Sebastian?’ she asked, a slight tremor in her voice at the thought. There was an engraving of St Sebastian in the book of saints that was a particular favourite of hers, though she often worried that her enjoyment of it was not seemly.

  ‘No, Sister Veronica,’ said Barbara. ‘Not St Sebastian.’

  Sister Veronica frowned, going through the book of saints in her mind, trying to recall if any of the other saints were tied to a column, but she could only think of Jesus himself, tied to a column to be flogged before his crucifixion, and she could not allow herself to dwell on such a blasphemous idea.

  She realised, as she listed the saints in her mind, that she saw them only in terms of their martyrdoms and not their works. This was how they were so often depicted in the paintings and prints that Sister Veronica loved to look at.

  She always pictured St Bartholomew holding his own skin over one shoulder like a cloak, as a reminder of his blessed martyrdom: he was flayed alive. So it was with St James the Less and the club that was used to beat him to death, St Paul with the sword that beheaded him, St Blaise and the iron combs used to tear his flesh and St Laurence with the griddle on which he was roasted. Lost among these thoughts, Sister Veronica suddenly became aware of hands grabbing hers and something being wrapped around her wrists.

  ‘Girls,’ she said, trying to wriggle free from the rope. No – not rope, she realised: wire. ‘That is rather painful, I’m afraid.’

  Margaret stepped out from behind the column, grinning.

  ‘Do you hear me, Margaret?’ she snarled. ‘Release me this instant.’

  ‘Can you still not guess, Sister?’ said Margaret in response.

  ‘Now you’re making me cross, girls,’ said Sister Veronica.

  ‘Come along now, Sister,’ said one of the other girls. ‘Guess.’

  ‘I do not want to guess!’ roared Sister Veronica. ‘I want you to release me this instant!’

  The girls giggled.

  ‘Maybe these will give you a clue,’ said Barbara, producing a large pair of pliers she had found in the stables. Sister Veronica had seen the groundsman use them to tug a huge rusting nail from a fence post.

  She pulled once again at the wire that held her wrists but the movement only seemed to tighten the binds, and they cut into her flesh and made her wince.

  ‘Come now, Sister Veronica,’ said Barbara, turning to the other girls with a grin. ‘Surely you can guess.’

  But Sister Veronica had already guessed.

  ‘This has gone far enough!’ said Sister Veronica in a voice she had intended to sound authoritative but which instead came out thin and pleading.


  ‘You can scream as much as you like, silly child,’ said Barbara in a voice Sister Veronica realised must be an imitation of her own. ‘But no one will hear you.’

  Barbara nodded at the girls and Sister Veronica felt hands grabbing at her face, one holding her jaw and another attaching something to her nose. It was a clothes peg. Barbara stepped forward with a look of grim intent.

  ‘Oh dear Lord!’ gasped Sister Veronica. ‘Oh God!’

  St Apollonia. There was a rather unpleasant engraving of her in The Lives of the Saints: a podgy-faced woman holding a pair of pincers a bit like those Barbara was opening and closing in front of her. St Apollonia: whose martyrdom had involved having all her teeth pulled out while bound to a column. St Apollonia: patron saint of dentists.

  The clothes peg pinched her nostrils painfully and the blurred shape of it all but blocked out Barbara and the approaching pliers.

  *

  The image of those pliers lingered unpleasantly and there was, I felt, something about the Woman in White that made it easy to imagine her holding them. But despite this unsettling thought I yawned deeply and struggled to stay alert. The cumulative effect of these tales, however alarming they were, was that of a series of bedtime stories, for I was becoming drowsier and drowsier.

  I should say, though, that it was a test of my memory to recall being told a bedtime story – my parents had never set much store by such things – and the effort unexpectedly brought forward an image of the very governess I had mentioned earlier and whom I had so cruelly used.

  Remembering the image of her smiling face as she wished me goodnight and the soft clump of the closing book pricked me with guilt and shame. The Woman in White seemed to detect this emotion in my face and gave me a curious look.

  In truth I was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain eye contact with her. I had an awful feeling that it was only a matter of time before I would be joining the other members of the carriage in deep slumber.

  In an attempt to disguise this soporific state to the Woman in White, who seemed as bright and alert as ever, I adopted a rather contrived, chirpy tone and slapped my hands together loudly.

  ‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘Are we still not moving, then? Perhaps I should get out and wander up to see the driver.’

  I made to stand, but without even putting weight on my legs I knew it would be futile. I simply did not have the strength to get up. I felt sure that had I tried to stand, I should have made the most frightful fool of myself by falling to the floor. I was relieved when the Woman in White put out a restraining hand.

  ‘No, no,’ she said, holding my arm. ‘That would never do. You must not leave the train when it is at the tunnel’s mouth.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘But –’

  ‘Really,’ she said, as if the matter were now closed for discussion. ‘It is quite out of the question.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, settling back into my chair and trying to focus; the Woman in White had become strangely blurred. ‘I had no idea there was such a rule.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is an absolute rule, I assure you.’

  Even in my foggy-minded state, I found it hard to believe that this woman had any special insight into the workings of the railway company, but until I felt more able to act on my statements, I had little choice but to quietly accept it as true.

  I cast a weary glance at the other passengers, whose sleep carried on unabated and whose oblivion now seemed attractive, where once it had been irritating. But the thought of sleeping while the Woman in White remained awake somehow filled me with a deep unease, though I could never have said why.

  ‘What time is it, please?’ I asked her, having looked out of the window and seen that the light was fading fast. The sky had a sickly pallor to it and the bank was almost all beshadowed.

  ‘You sound so tired,’ she said soothingly. ‘Please don’t feel the need to stay awake for politeness’ sake. I am quite at home in my own company. Please. Close your eyes if you wish.’

  Oh, how I longed to do just that, but her requesting it of me merely increased my certainty that I should do nothing of the sort.

  She seemed to sense this resistance and smiled at me, rather as a mother might smile at a wilful child who is avoiding doing something that is really for his own benefit. Still I fought to keep my heavy lids from closing and my mind from giving up to the fog that sought to obfuscate my every thought.

  ‘So,’ said the Woman in White after a few moments. ‘You are to return to school. Are you the kind of boy who looks forward to the holidays with bated breath?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘If I had my way I would remain at school while my father is away. As I’ve already said, my stepmother and I do not see eye to eye.’

  ‘And yet she loves you,’ she said.

  I thought this a very curious supposition and snorted loudly.

  ‘Do you not think it possible for a person to love someone who does not love them?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, the pain in my temples from earlier returning for a moment. ‘I hadn’t thought about it. It has certainly never occurred to me that my stepmother has any special feelings for me.’

  The Woman in White smiled.

  ‘Because you do not have any special feeling for her?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘No – I don’t know. I don’t think I want to talk about my stepmother any more.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course. We only got on to that subject by my asking you about the school holidays. If you don’t enjoy your stepmother’s company, they must be an awful bore for you.’

  ‘I spend most of the holidays in the house or in the garden, reading,’ I explained.

  ‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘Stories can be a great comfort.’

  ‘I’m not sure I seek comfort in books,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I need any comfort. I read to amuse myself, that’s all.’

  ‘Well then, perhaps you will allow me to amuse you with another of my stories.’

  My headache was now excruciating and so I happily agreed. Trying to hold a conversation was far too taxing.

  ‘As chance would have it,’ she said, as I tried to concentrate on her voice and stay awake, ‘this story concerns a boy, much like yourself, who found the holidays a bore. But he found a rather different way to pass the time . . .’

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  The Whispering Boy

  Roland sucked the air between his teeth with a whistle, winced and shook his head. It was Cutter all right and he was dead for sure. Roland had seen dead bodies before: he had kissed his grandmother’s cold grey forehead only a year ago.

  But then he had scarcely known his grandmother and her body had lain peacefully at rest in a darkened bedroom, not like this – sprawled in the street like a dog. And he had known Cutter well, liked him even. But he had to appear calm. Leaders were expected to take everything in their stride.

  ‘It’s the Whispering Boy!’ hissed one of the boys, pointing with a trembling finger towards the body. ‘It’s him again, ain’t it?’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Roland, taking strength from the other boy’s fear. It was a game, a kind of race. He did not have to be fearless. He simply had to show less fear than they did. He simply had to be better than they were, and Roland felt more than able to fulfil that requirement.

  Since he had returned home for the school holidays, Roland had heard nothing but talk of the Whispering Boy. These idiots seemed to have gathered together to nurture a complete obsession about some nonsensical apparition. That was why they needed Roland. These fools were like witless animals.

  ‘Rabbit’s right,’ said Jack, his voice small and brittle. ‘It’s the Whispering Boy for sure.’

  Roland sighed and shook his head. He looked at Jack the way a schoolteacher might look at a child who had once again failed to grasp the basic rudiments of Latin grammar.

  ‘You don’t know everything, Roland,’ said Jack. ‘Just because you go to that fancy school of yours.’

>   ‘I know I don’t believe in any Whispering Boy.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Jack, pointing to Cutter’s body. ‘Have you seen his face?’

  Roland had indeed seen that face, and however much he blustered for effect – to show he was in control of their little gang – Roland had to admit that Cutter’s face was strange. His eyes were wide and so wild that they looked fit to burst from their sockets, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. Roland’s forced bravado faltered every time he looked down at that face.

  However, though Cutter’s eyes were those of someone who had died in terror, screaming their lungs out, his mouth was not. Instead of being stretched open, Cutter’s mouth was almost closed, his lips tight and pinched. The contrast between the crazed eyes and the tight mouth would have been comical in a living face. But Roland had already given this some thought.

  ‘I think he was suffocated,’ he said, raising his hand to his face in emphasis. ‘I think someone clamped their hand over his mouth until he was dead.’

  The group murmured and Roland had to resist the temptation to smile. Clearly none of them had considered this.

  Roland’s father was appalled that his son spent time with these children, but Roland revelled in the chance to lead them. Their ignorance and lack of wit was just what he found so appealing. At school he was never given the opportunity to lord it over anyone. Despite a deep conviction that he was the equal, if not the better, of his peers, they had chosen to ignore his gifts.

  But here among the shiftless urchins of his home town, he had found his niche. He was intelligent enough to appear like a sage to these local oafs, and tough and ruthless enough to reinforce his leadership physically if necessary. He thought of himself as a general in charge of a rabble.

  ‘He must have been strong, whoever he was,’ said Figg. ‘Cutter was strong himself and he wasn’t one to give up without a fight. But see – he ain’t got a mark on him.’

  Figg was right and Roland knew it. Cutter behaved like an animal when riled and whoever did this was someone to be feared, no doubt about that. But it wasn’t any boy, whispering or otherwise. This was the work of a man: a big, strong, evil man.