Shadows at Midnight.: The Maynard Sims Library. Vol 1

by Maynard Sims

  I looked at Frank and noticed that he too was listening.

  "Queer old place, isn't it?" The note of levity in his voice somehow didn't ring true.

  We stared in unison across the water at the island. There was not a lot to be seen from where we stood. It was heavily wooded, but the trees were not of the healthy kind we had encountered on our walk. They seemed twisted, distorted almost, bending inwards, away from the lake, into the centre of the island.

  "Hideous," I said quietly to myself.

  "Pardon?" Frank said.

  "It's grotesque," I said. "I can quite see why the locals avoid this place."

  "It's hardly the most picturesque spot in a county renowned for its beauty. Still, we didn't come to study the view."

  "I thought you had arranged for a boat to take us across to the island?" I said.

  Frank stroked his chin for a moment, lines of consternation etched onto his brow. "When the old fellow offered me the use of the boat he said nothing about delivering it in person," he said by way of explanation.

  "What exactly did he say?"

  "Simply that there was a boat here, and that I might use it if I should so desire."

  "He didn't happen to say whereabouts it was?"

  Frank had gone. He was rummaging about in the dense fern that encircled us. Suddenly he shouted: "Over here!"

  We wasted little time in getting the boat into the water and ourselves aboard. The alacrity shown in this manoeuvre was a mixture of Frank's excitement and thirst for exploration, and my own less adventurous but, I thought, more sensible, desire to get our visit over as soon as possible. While the place did not exactly unnerve me, I found the thought of crossing those slime-covered waters, and stepping out onto strange, and for all I knew hostile, territory less than comforting.

  Frank took the oars and rowed towards the opposite bank. However, at the midway point between the two banks the boat developed a mind of its own, and instead of heading in a forward direction, it began a steady drift to one side, causing Frank to grapple with the oars in an attempt to get us back on course. Finding this to be of no avail he threw them down in a fit of anger and cursed loudly. His voice resounded in the silence like a thunderclap, but then it was gone and silence once again reigned.

  "It must be a cross-current or something like," he said, as he sat back in the dinghy, helpless to stop its wayward course.

  I said nothing but instead watched our wake as we carved a line through the stagnant weed. I realised from this that the current, or whatever it was, was taking us around to the back of the island.

  Eventually we were deposited on a small mud and gravel shore on the far side. I looked askance at Frank. He shrugged and got out of the boat. "The dinghy seems to know the way better than we do," he said.

  We unloaded the gear and set off to find a suitable place on the bank from which to fish. This found, I unpacked my rod and erected my canvas stool and prepared myself for a quiet day's fishing. Frank evidently had other plans, for he dropped his gear in a heap next to mine and made no effort to get set up. I began as I usually did in unfamiliar waters by laying some ground bait and after a short pause, in which I hoped the fish - if there were any in this miserable lake - would become interested in this bounty, I cast my line.

  I was quite unprepared for the bite I had, almost as soon as my hook hit the water. The float was taken under, followed by countless yards of line. The reel spun wildly, and when I recovered enough from the initial shock, I put on the brake. The rod bent alarmingly and I found myself pitched into battle with the most powerful fish I had ever hooked. I turned to Frank open-mouthed in amazement. He was grinning broadly.

  "It seems you are going to be occupied for a while, in which case I shall go and look over the island. Leave some of the sandwiches," he added as he disappeared into the trees.

  The struggle with the fish lasted precisely five minutes before coming to an abrupt and violent end as my line snapped. This time it was my turn to curse, but I stopped in mid-syllable as a huge pike arched out of the water. It seemed to hang in the air for an age before giving a defiant flick of the tail and diving back into the lake. Wait until Frank hears about this one that got away, I thought.

  When Frank did return the last thing he wanted to talk about was fish. "I've made rather an interesting discovery. If you can bear to leave your rod for a while I'll show you."

  I wheeled on him, annoyed by his sarcasm. "I thought you had come here to fish."

  He was unmoved by my anger. "Very well," he said airily. "But I think you'd find what it is I have to show you a damned sight more interesting than your broken line."

  I recognised the tone in his voice and knew he wasn't going to let the matter rest there. Experience had forewarned me that once Frank had an idea in his head he was reluctant to relinquish it. To save him from goading me further I said: "Very well. Lead on, then perhaps we can get back to the fish."

  "Follow me," he said with a smile, realising that he had scored an easy victory.

  The path on which he led me was not the easiest to follow. The undergrowth was dense which made walking difficult. My trousers, which were made of a light cotton material, were no match for the foliage, and a large patch of gorse made short work of them, tearing a gaping hole at the knee, big enough to put my fist through. I bent down to survey the damage and at the same time brushed my hand against some stinging nettles. My yelp of pain brought Frank to a halt. "You all right, old man?" he said gleefully, delighting in my discomfort.

  "Yes," I snapped. "No thanks to you." Then seeing the absurdity of the situation, laughed at my own misfortune. This pleased Frank still further, and soon we were laughing helplessly together, friendship restored.

  "I hope all this has been worthwhile," I said as we walked on.

  "See for yourself. We're here."

  We had reached a part of the island free from undergrowth, in fact free from anything living. Before us was a circle of completely barren land some twenty yards across. In the centre of this stood a square, grey, stone built structure, featureless apart from a small wooden door with wrought iron hinges, and a similarly made handle and lock.

  "Is it a tomb, a sepulchre of some kind?" I queried.

  Frank shook his head. "No, that's what I thought when I found it, but when you get inside..."

  "You've been inside?"

  "Of course. The door was open," he added, as if this was perfect logic. "Come on, see what you make of it."

  We ducked low to get through the door, but once inside we were able to stand without having to stoop. It was as dark as a tomb. I took out a box of matches from my jacket and struck one. It was at times like this that I was glad I had resisted the urge to give up pipe smoking; I could think of nothing more unpleasant than to be in a place such as this without some form of light.

  "There's an old hurricane lamp hanging from a bracket on the wall over there," Frank said, pointing to my left.

  To my surprise, when I took it down and shook it, I found that it still contained oil. Wasting no time, I raised the funnel and put another match to the wick. The cold blue flame flickered for a moment then blossomed into life. In the light we saw the place fully for the first time.

  It comprised of a single chamber measuring about twelve feet by ten. The floor was covered by a floral carpet, incongruous in such a place. Evidently this was of some age because here and there it had been worn through, and patches of pin-mould were growing. These gave the air a rather musty smell, and added to the aura of decay that seemed prevalent.

  Against the far wall stood a large block of stone, forming what I took to be an altar. I walked over and placed the lamp on the top of it.

  "It looks to be a shrine, or at least some place of worship," I said. "You never know what pagan practices these country folk get up to."

  "I agree," said Frank, "if you think sane people would worship these." He was on the opposite side of the place to me, and was studying something drawn on the wall.


  "What on earth are they?" I said, joining him in his inspection.

  "Nothing `on earth', I'd hazard. They look to me to be of deities of some description, but I can't recall hearing of any religions that worship such bizarre creatures as these."

  "Maybe they're not gods at all," I said.

  "Then what? Anyway, what kind of imagination could summon up these great hairy beasts. They look like something you'd expect to meet in a nightmare." We stared at the drawings for some while in silence.

  There was something terrifying, and yet oddly compelling about them. I couldn't help but feel that if we studied them for long enough we would find that they told some kind of story, an explanation perhaps for their being. There were five of them in all, four of them of similar size, arranged around the largest. They had a rough parody of human shape, with head arms and legs, but the arms were elongated, dragging on the ground, the legs were stunted, yet powerful. The head was misshapen, eyes red, and, like the bodies, covered in coarse black hair that was, in places, stained dark red. The largest one, the fiercest, had horns extending from the head, and its mouth open to reveal yellowed, jagged teeth.

  "Can you smell smoke?" Frank said suddenly, interrupting my thoughts.

  I sniffed the sir. At first I could only smell the dampness of the place, that and the mouldering carpet, but then a harsher, more acrid smell began to fill the air.

  "Now you come to mention it, yes I can. Where is it coming from?"

  "Over there, I think," said Frank pointing towards the altar.

  We walked across to it. For the first time I noticed the wall. It was badly charred and blackened with soot.

  "Down here," Frank said, crouching down to one side of the stone. "It looks as though someone has had a bonfire here...that's odd."

  I peered over his shoulder at the remains of the fire. "What's odd about that?" I said. "I should think that if you worshipped here during the winter you would light a fire. It can't be the warmest place to be on a frosty day."

  "Don't be facetious, I wasn't referring to that."

  "Then what?" I said impatiently.

  "You can smell smoke, I can smell smoke; in fact," he took a deep breath, "I'd say it's getting stronger. Now you feel the ashes, they are stone cold."

  "I'll take your word for it." I had no desire to get myself filthier than the trek across the island had already made me.

  This obviously did not bother Frank for he was already arm deep in the stuff.

  "It's not a lucky dip, you know," I said.

  "Don't be so sure," he replied enigmatically. Then with great suddenness the flame in the hurricane guttered and died. I used this as my cue to leave. "Well, that has put paid to that little excavation," I said, a little too loudly, on my way out into the fresh air. I heard Frank mutter an oath, and a few moments later he emerged. Quite honestly I was relieved to be rid of the place. Throughout our short visit I had been plagued by the feeling that we were being watched, but of course I made no mention to Frank of this; I had suffered quite enough of his derision and sarcasm for one day, without giving him fuel for more. But I admitted to myself that it was the queerest feeling, and not one I would wish to experience again. It was almost as if the wall paintings were watching us.

  "It looks like the weather forecast is wrong again," Frank said, looking up at the sky.

  I felt, rather than saw what he meant, for no sooner had the words left his lips than large spots of rain began to fall.

  "We'd better make tracks for the boat," I suggested.

  The return crossing of the lake was wet but uneventful, and by the time we reached the mainland we were drenched to the skin.

  When we got back to the pub the rain had stopped, but this was of little cheer to the two wet and bedraggled travellers who entered the bar. The greeting we received upon our arrival was less cordial than we were expecting. Although it was in the middle of the usually hectic lunchtime period, the pub was empty save for Frank and myself and three exceedingly large men dressed in farm working attire.

  "Isn't the landlord about?" Frank asked cheerfully as he mopped the rain from his face with a handkerchief. The men stared coldly and said nothing. Frank repeated his question, waited for the reply that was not forthcoming, then made towards the stairs that led up to our room. I smelled trouble. Frank had taken only three steps when the largest of the surly trio left his confederates and positioned himself between Frank and the stairs.

  "Would you mind clearing the way?" Frank said, his voice firm.

  I could sense Frank's temper rising. I had no wish to become involved in an ugly scene and so went over to him and stood at his elbow.

  "Come away," I hissed. "You'll solve nothing this way, and besides he looks as if he could crush us both and take on the 14th Light Infantry without breaking into a sweat."

  "Landlord!" Frank shouted at the top of his lungs. "Landlord!"

  The landlord emerged a few moments later from a room behind the bar. He looked at us sheepishly, and then, drawing resolve and courage from his three companions, spoke. "I have your bags here."

  Frank looked nonplussed, not fully understanding the portent of his words. "Would you mind telling this oaf to get out the way so that we may get up to our room? We're soaked through and would like to change into some dry clothes."

  The man obstructing the stairs spoke, his voice poisonous. "You don't have a room, not any more."

  "Good grief! The oaf speaks," Frank said, taking a foolhardy step forwards. I took his arm firmly and pulled him back.

  In an attempt to pour some oil onto these troubled waters I adopted a reasonable tone and said: "Surely, landlord, there must be some misunderstanding here." I saw from the look in his eyes that my assumption was incorrect. "Then perhaps you could explain to us what it is we have done to make us so unwelcome, and why you feel you have to employ types like these to intimidate us into leaving. Both my colleague and I are reasonable men, if we have done anything to offend yourself of your wife we will recompense you both in any way that we can."

  The landlord, as I had guessed, was a reasonable man and seemed to consider this for a moment. But the glimmer of hope I had seen there was soon extinguished as one of the two men at the bar took it upon himself to enter into the conversation. "We all agreed, Will. There's not only Maggie and yerself to consider. The rest of us count for something."

  The landlord gave a long sigh of resignation, and nodded an agreement.

  "Oh, this has gone far enough," Frank broke in. "Will one of you explain what this nonsense is all about?"

  "You've been to the island," the man at the bar said, as if to him this was explanation enough.

  "So that suddenly makes us social outcasts?" Frank shook his head incredulously.

  "If you like," sneered the man by the stairs, obviously now trying to goad Frank into a fight.

  "That will be enough of that, Albert," the landlord said, with a firmness that seemed to surprise everyone. "We just want the gentlemen to leave. We don't want their blood on our hands. The trouble is of Old Bob's making, not of theirs, let them go peaceful..."

  Like a scolded child the large man thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stared down at his feet. Encouraged by this show of reason I once again asked the landlord to explain why we were being forced to leave.

  "Aye, that much I owe you," he said, and to our surprise poured out two large Scotches and pushed them in our direction. "To ward off any chills," he said, pointing to the glasses, and then pouring drinks for the others and himself, he began. "First let me say that it's nothing personal; you've been the victim of the loose tongue of an old devil who should know better than to go blathering to strangers. Second, these boys here," he made a sweep with his arm encompassing the three men, "they aren't hired, as I think you implied. They're representing the rest of the village."

  "And they just happen to be the brawniest representatives you could find," Frank interrupted. I shushed him and the landlord continued.

  "We i
n Cawle never go to the lake, nor the island. I won't tell you why as it's village business and not for the ears of townies like yerselves, but as we don't go there we don't like others to either. Do you follow my drift?"

  "You've been," said the other man at the bar. "That'll mean you're tainted."

  The landlord frowned at this interruption. "What Joss means is..."

  "I don't think you have to spell out what Joss means." It was my turn to speak. "Just correct me if I'm wrong. For some reason or other that island is a hotbed of superstition around here. Possibly it's something to do with that shrine or whatever it is, possibly it's something else that we are nor aware of. Now, because we have been to the island we are as much of a taboo as the place itself, and therefore are to be avoided at all costs, and as for our actually remaining in your village a moment longer than necessary...Well you can see their problems, can't you?" I said turning to Frank.

  "Preposterous," Frank said under his breath. "Superstitious claptrap."

  "Before we take our leave, for I am under no illusions now as to the possibility of our remaining here, could you answer me on more question?"

  The landlord nodded. He seemed relieved that this ordeal would soon be over.