Curse of Weyrmouth (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  “Hey guys, I'm not late, am I?” asked Abdul.

  “Not at all, Abdul,” replied Tim. “It's not you we're waiting on. It's God.”

  “Martin, you mean?” asked Abdul. “He not turned up?”

  Tim gestured at a solar mask made of golden foil. It was lying by the font.

  “He was here five minutes ago,” said Eve. “But when we wanted to do the forbidden fruit scene he'd buggered off!”

  “Probably gone for a smoke,” said the Devil, a grumpy greengrocer in shining red Lycra. “You can smell it on him.”

  “Well, has anybody looked for him?” asked Abdul. “I've got to get home by ten to put my girls to bed!”

  “It's a big building,” said Tim, gesturing at the huge columns that held up the tower and vaulted ceiling. “The guy could be anywhere.”

  “Well, we won't find him if we don't look, will we?” said Abdul, smiling. “Come on, we'll split up and search. It'll be quicker.”

  After some more grumbling, the company split up. Abdul and Tim took the tower area, gingerly climbing the awkward staircase.

  “He wouldn't have gone up to the roof for a cigarette on a night like this, surely?” asked the director, hanging back.

  “Process of elimination,” replied Abdul, leading the way. “If we didn't look, you can guarantee he'd be up there.”

  Even inside the windowless stone tower, they could hear the rain beating against the walls. Another great crash of lightning came, so loud that Abdul was sure he could feel the shock wave through the stairs under his feet.

  “Look, Tim,” he said, “if you'd rather not go up–”

  “It's my asthma,” said Tim, too quickly to be entirely believable.

  “Fine!” smiled Abdul, “I'll just jog up, have a quick look for God, and be down in two ticks.”

  It took considerably longer than two ticks to reach the summit of the tower, though. By the time he got to the top, Abdul had vowed to join a gym if he could afford it. Wheezing heavily he lifted the heavy wooden hatch and climbed onto the broad stone platform. The storm was fierce, now, and at this height, he was exposed to its full force.

  Ridiculous, he thought, as his clothes were saturated. Only a lunatic would come up here for smoke or anything else.

  Another lightning flash came, followed by a deafening thunderclap a heartbeat later. Abdul, giving thanks that the storm was moving away, was about to descend and close the hatch when he noticed something odd. For a second the lightning had illuminated an odd, copper-colored patch on the stonework. Another flash came, and this time Abdul could see what it was.

  Lightning conductor melted, he said. Wow. Direct hit.

  Curiosity overwhelmed his commonsense and he dashed over to take a closer look. Not only had the thunderbolt struck and destroyed the copper spike, it had also blasted a path down the crenelated wall at the top of the tower and wounded the ancient stonework itself. A stump of stone stuck out from the wall, sheared right off by the blast. Abdul, who had explored the cathedral during an open day in summer, realized that this was a gargoyle.

  Or what's left of it. Totally ruined! Fixing that will cost a tidy sum.

  His clothes were saturated now, and he ran back to the hatchway, hoping he could find somewhere to dry off.

  Well, he thought, at least I know where God isn't.

  ***

  After talking to Detective Constable Deighton, Erin finished her list of pros and cons about taking the museum job. On the plus side, she had listed all the usual things – money, firstly, then security, experience, higher professional profile, new opportunities. The minus column was just as substantial as its neighbor was. She looked at it, head on one side, chewing the end of her pen.

  WEYRMOUTH – WEIRD (WYRD?) TOWN

  'FLASHES' – WTAF???

  STALKED?

  PARK – CREEP (SEE ABOVE)

  HOMICIDAL GHOSTS!!!

  After a moment's thought, she added:

  MIKE SMITH – MAJOR LEAGUE ASSHOLE?

  She giggled to herself at that one. But it was an important consideration.

  She drew a line under the two columns, then wrote:

  NO OTHER JOB OFFERS...

  And that was the clincher.

  In horror movies, you can shout at the screen. You can tell the idiot blundering into an obviously dangerous situation that they should just 'get outta there'.

  But what if there's nowhere to go?

  Erin threw the pen down, leaned back in the uncomfortable hotel chair, and sighed.

  Maybe getting rid of the Maspero paper will do the trick? Maybe I can cope with the flashes? Hell, maybe they'll even be useful. What if they're genuine insights into the past?

  That thought prompted her to go back online and start searching for similar cases to hers. It took her a few minutes, but her research skills came through. It seemed that experiencing weird sensations from inanimate objects was called 'psychometry'. It was controversial, and most scientists rejected it. But some psychic researchers claimed that objects picked up a kind of energy from their owners and this could be conveyed to the minds of others by contact.

  Like a static charge earthing itself, Erin thought.

  Her phone chimed. It was Louise Tarrant, though at first Erin did not recognize her. Louise's normally cool tone was gone. She was shaken, worried, and wanted to meet first thing the following morning.

  “Sure,” said Erin. “Is this about – about weird stuff?”

  “About what happened with the hair jewelry,” confirmed Louise. “And everything that happened afterwards.”

  ***

  As the Devil had surmised, God had sneaked off for a surreptitious smoke.

  Martin Todd, an administrator with the National Health Service, was trying to give up smoking, but it was proving difficult. Things had had not been made easier by his volunteering to be in the Mystery Play. It was routine, for him. Every year he came forward, and every year he was given a minor role, such as Second Roman Soldier, or Slain Philistine. But this year Tim, a new director with London pretensions, had selected him to be the man in the solar mask.

  “You have such a wonderful, resonant voice, Martin!” Tim had declared, laying on the praise in front of the other volunteers until Martin could hardly refuse.

  Trouble is, God has to be on stage a lot, he thought, almost tripping over his long sky-blue robe. I suppose that's only reasonable in theological terms, but being omnipresent is no fun for a bloke.

  Tim had found a way to sneak out using a door that was on the side of the tower. It looked a little used, and had been bolted from the inside but not locked. He opened it carefully, trying to minimize the creak of the old hinges. The storm that had been about to break when he parked his car on Cathedral Close was now going full blast. He had thought to shelter in the small porch, but the wind was blowing a torrent of freezing rain into his face.

  “No way,” he muttered, retreating out of the tempest. He lit up a cigarette and hoped that the roaring wind would simply carry away the smell of tobacco before anyone else could smell it.

  Lightning flashed, simultaneous with a deafening crash of thunder. Martin jumped, then laughed at the thought of God being startled.

  Scared by a thunderbolt, of all things. The Big Fella's standard MO.

  He took another drag on his cigarette, relishing the flavor of the smoke, filling his lungs. Then he coughed for half a minute, trying to suppress the noise. Thunder and lightning came again in the middle of his coughing fit. He straightened up, wheezing, and threw down the half-smoked cigarette. Before he could crush it underfoot, someone appeared at the door, framed in the distant glow of streetlamps on the Close.

  “Bloody hell, son, you're soaked!” exclaimed Martin.

  The boy was dressed in a hooded robe that might have been brown in daylight, but looked black in the uncertain light. His face was in shadow, but Martin drew the obvious conclusion.

  “You're here for the rehearsal?” he asked, taking a step forward. “I t
hink they've started. You supposed to be a disciple or something?”

  The boy shook his head, then stepped back, away from Martin and out into the rain. The torrent ran over slicked hair, and Martin could now see that the boy was wearing flimsy-looking sandals.

  “God, you'll catch your death!” he admonished. “Come on in, boy!”

  The boy suddenly rushed past Martin and then turned, looking back at the man. Again, the child's face was shadowed, but Martin could make out a smile.

  “Hide and seek!” said the boy. He held something up in a thin, pale hand. Martin looked at the ledge where he had left his cigarette packet. It was gone.

  Bloody hell! How did he do that? Crafty little sod!

  “Give me those back!” demanded Martin. “Didn't your mummy tell you stealing is wrong?”

  “Catch me if you can!” taunted the boy, and ran into the cathedral.

  Martin stamped out his smoldering cigarette and ran after the boy. The small figure ducked and dived through the shadows. He was clearly playing a game rather than trying to escape. Whenever Martin lost sight of him and was about to give up, the cheeky face appeared around a pillar, giggling. The cigarette pack was brandished like a talisman.

  The chase led them into a part of the cathedral Martin had not seen before. It was a kind of cloister, with hidden nooks and crannies – all ideal hiding places for a smaller person. After a couple of minutes playing hide and seek, Martin was confused, red-faced, out of breath. He stopped, gasping and cursing. Again the face appeared, the giggle echoed off the ancient walls.

  “Sod it! You can keep them, you little bugger!” Martin wheezed. “This is a sign – I should give 'em up right now!”

  “Too late!” hissed a small voice.

  Martin, startled, looked round to see a semi-circle of hooded figures. All were diminutive, slight, with painfully thin legs and bony, sandal-shod feet.

  “Hey, shouldn't you be at rehearsals down the other end?” he demanded.

  “This is not a rehearsal,” said the tallest child, removing his hood.

  Martin gawped, baffled and appalled by what he was seeing.

  If that's make-up, it's very good, in a horrible sort of way, he thought. But how can a mask give the effect of sockets without eyes? And what part is this kid playing? Death?

  “So, are you the Grim Reaper?” he asked. “I'd have expected someone taller, to be honest.”

  The other five children removed their hoods to reveal almost flesh-less faces, skulls with bits of scalp and a few strands of hair still attached. They all took a step forward, and Martin moved back.

  “Very good,” he said, uncertainly. “But I can't help thinking Tim has overdone it this time.”

  “Tim is not our master.”

  The sibilant voice came from behind him. Small hands ran up Martin's back, tickled cruelly with what felt like sharp talons. Twisting round, the man looked down into a long dead face that was not a mask. It grinned at him, stuck out a brown, leathery flap of tongue. A skeletal hand held up the stolen cigarette packet.

  Martin yelled in panic and he tried to shove the creature away. His hand impacted the being's sodden robe, and he felt something give underneath the cloth with a sickening crack. Then, over a dozen small hands were clutching at him as he flailed and screamed.

  “Your life is needed,” said the voice of the leader. “The stones are wounded. The stones are hungry.”

  Other small voices took up the chant.

  “The stones are hungry!”

  Tim's back struck the cathedral wall, and a shock ran through him. He stood, paralyzed, as a vision of the tower as a living thing possessed his mind. It was alive with pulsing vessels that carried something like blood. There were dark nodes of power, like seven beating hearts. And behind the entire, monstrous presence was a mind that knew him, judged him, found him satisfactory.

  Terrible pain grew, spreading from the area where his body touched the stones. He felt himself grow icy cold, tried to scream for help, heard no sound but the dwindling beat of his own dying heart. His flesh seemed soft and heavy like dough, his bones gave way, his vision blurred. What remained of Martin Todd sank down, his last memory draining away into the gloom beneath the tower.

  ***

  Rain lashed the Mason Hall as Park let himself in, slammed the door behind him, deactivated the alarm, and turned on a small flashlight. He did not think there was much chance of a passer-by seeing a light, but did not want to take the risk. Park made his way carefully upstairs to the conference room, flicking the torch-beam back and forth. There was no sign of anything unusual. He had expected nothing out of the ordinary, but these were not normal circumstances. The normally sanguine Park was nervous.

  Every fiber of his being had been telling him to come here, and come alone. It was not the first time that he had been summoned but this time the call was so intense it almost hurt. The sensation was like an incipient headache, combined with nausea.

  One would think that a heavenly being would find a better way, he thought, but immediately suppressed the thought. His summoner might not have been able to read all of Park's thoughts, but it was safer to assume that he could.

  Park produced his personal set of keys again and unlocked the conference chamber. As he did so a gentle glow appeared, grew brighter, rendered his flashlight superfluous. Turning off the flashlight and pocketing it, Park entered. The mirror was casting a golden radiance over the empty room, and within the shimmering light, the merest hint of a face could be seen.

  “You summoned me, and I have come, O Bright Ithuriel!” said Park.

  “That is most evident.”

  Park suppressed the notion that the being was mocking him. In recent months, he had become less certain about the Shadow Council's angelic guide and mentor. Once Ithuriel had given advice, wise counsel, and sometimes made prophecies. It had, according to records dating back to the Renaissance, a tendency to be enigmatic, allusive. But lately Ithuriel had been direct, forceful, and commanding. It had rattled the council members, though none had done more than comment indirectly on the change.

  Like a leader preparing his troops for an impending battle, thought Park.

  “The battle is not always to the strong, nor the race to the swift.”

  Park gulped, throat suddenly dry. Ithuriel was skimming his thoughts, at the very least.

  “It is not thoughts but deeds that concern us, Park.”

  “Quite so,” Park replied, after a few seconds' pause.

  The image in the mirror grew brighter, flickered, becoming more clearly defined. Park gasped, tried not to stare into the light, which was now almost painfully intense. He could not tear his gaze away. He had never seen Ithuriel properly, as one might see the face of a mere mortal. Yet here was a definite face – androgynous, beautiful, and framed in golden hair. The eyes were hypnotic, somehow gazing intensely yet devoid of iris or pupil. They were mere white ovals, yet Park felt sure they looked into his very soul.

  “You are afraid?”

  Park nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “You are the first mortal to see my countenance unobscured, Park. The first since eternity began. The first since the creation of all things, mortal and immortal.”

  Park felt his legs give way, and he knelt, still starting, in front of the shining mirror.

  “I grant you this privilege so that you may know a higher truth, one I will not vouchsafe to the rest of the council. The woman of the New World – she is safe?”

  Park gave an affirmative grunt, a brief nod, unable to form words.

  “The children are wayward, a danger to all. The woman is the key. Watch her, safeguard her, do not let her leave.”

  “You brought her here, then?” Park blurted out. He was instantly horrified at having not merely spoken, but put a question to a higher order of being.

  The shining face shimmered, then grew blurry. The radiance from the mirror took on a reddish tinge.

  “As I told you before, her
coming was foretold.”

  There was a hint of irritation in the reply. Park felt himself quivering in fright, tore his gaze away from the mirror, and placed his forehead on the cold wooden floor.

  “Forgive me, Immortal One! I spoke out of concern, without thinking.”

  The unearthly glow reverted to golden light again.

  “You are forgiven, mortal. But beware. The children's deeds must be obscured or excused. Do not allow too much to become known. They are already attracting the attention of the profane.”

  Ithuriel went on for several minutes, issuing instructions, giving warnings, stressing the need for Park to act with courage or caution as the situation demanded.

  “I understand, Master!” said Park, when the angel had finished. “I will not fail–”

  He stopped, startled by sudden darkness. Light no longer streamed from the mirror. He fumbled for his flashlight, shone the beam on the glass. It reflected his kneeling self, face pale with fright.

  You have your orders, he thought. Orders from on high. We cannot know the ultimate purpose, only do as we are told.

  As he made his way out of the storm-lashed building, Park tried to suppress some very human pleasure at being chosen to keep a secret.

  ***

  Abdul reached the bottom of the tower to find the rest of the Mystery Players in a state of confusion.

  “What's up?” he asked.

  In reply, Tim, the director, held up a sky-blue robe. Abdul recognized it as the one worn by Martin. But where it had been pristine last time Abdul had seen it, now it was oddly stained.

  “Is that blood?” he asked.

  Tim shook his head.

  “I touched it,” he said with faint disgust, “and it's much denser, darker. Some sort of smelly gunk. And there's more of it where he disappeared – a pool, in fact.”

  “Martin's normal clothes are still in the dressing room,” said Eve, running up. “And so is his phone. So there's no way he could have gone.”