by WR Armstrong
Leaving her husband to rest she wandered downstairs, the voices crowding her brain with their ceaseless rhetoric. Half way down, a dizzy spell overcame her, forcing her to grip the balustrade for support. Recovered, she entered the front room where she sat regarding the small wooden crucifix standing on the mantle, imagining how the Saviour must have felt the day he was crucified on the hill, dying so he might rise again to save Mankind. In her head the legion of voices spoke of the glory of crucifixion, proclaiming that it was the right of all humanity to rise again: reborn.
Elsa glanced up at the ceiling, bemoaning her ailing husband, bedridden upstairs, no longer able to lead an active life, health deteriorating so quickly. The doctor’s prophesised he’d be dead by Christmas. Poor, poor Winston, she thought, once so big and lively, now a withered, shrunken shell. How she longed to have him back as he once was. Desperation made her sorely tempted to obey the disembodied voices, yet she hesitated at the thought of possible repercussions. Standing atop the television set was a photo of Winston as a well man, strong and vital. She ached for the Winston in the picture. Tears brimmed in her big brown eyes. She longed for him spiritually as well as physically. Before the painkillers had confused his mind he’d been her Rock. What was the use of him in his present state? Better he be dead, she thought with sudden bitterness. And if he were dead, then surely she had a duty to bring him back, given the opportunity?
She knelt by the sofa, hands clasped in silent prayer, seeking guidance from the Lord. He spoke back to her, persuasively, reassuringly. By the time she had finished her atonement, she knew which path she must tread and returned upstairs where her husband waited to die, his awareness stifled by the drugs that numbed the constant pain. Elsa stared down at him teary eyed, yet smiling. Taking his cold clammy hand in hers she explained what she was about to do, and the reason she was doing it. Something of what she said got through. His eyes widened with sudden horror. Elsa reassured him, as the voices had reassured her.
He groaned in protest, terrified at the thought of dying, even more so by the prospect of returning, undead, his befuddled mind unable to rationalise the apparent absurdity of such an event. His pale lips trembled. A thin line of saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth, imitated by a tear trailing from one eye.
He tried to speak his wife’s name, but the word was cut short as strong determined hands closed around his scrawny throat and intensified their hold. Winston’s defence was feeble and fleeting. His windpipe crushed, everything dulled. He slowly drifted away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
David Webster made love to his wife in the same way he had for the past twenty-five years, clumsily, hurriedly and with the lights off. When it was over Loren Webster relaxed beneath his weight, relieved he’d finished. They fell asleep like strangers. In the early hours of the morning Loren was woken by the sound of his voice. He was muttering in his sleep again, a disturbing habit he’d formed since the tube accident in which he was involved. She tried to shake him gently awake. When he failed to respond she shook him harder. He opened his eyes, turning his face towards hers, taking a moment to collect himself.
“You were talking in your sleep,” she told him. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course...”
He was lying. She could read him like a book. She wished she could see into his mind, discover what was going on in there, what had changed inside of him. It wasn’t just the fact he’d begun talking to himself. He was preoccupied as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, acting as if he had some momentous decision to make. What was going on inside his head, she wondered helplessly? Why the one sided conversations?
“What’s the matter, David?”
He ignored the question, rolling onto his side so he faced away from her.
Loran spoke again, concerned rather than complaining. “Please don’t shut me out. We haven’t had a real conversation since the accident. I feel as if you are hiding something from me.”
He pretended to be asleep. The voices, which he’d first heard as he was brought out of the underground tunnel, rattled around in his head endlessly. He thought back to that day, the horror of the crash, the blackness that followed, and the moment he was rescued, escorted from the wreckage accompanied by one of the shaven headed louts responsible for tormenting the black woman. The kid was repugnant: someone Webster would have disassociated himself with under normal circumstances. Yet there was a connection between he and the skinhead in the wake of the crash for they both heard the voices, having confided the fact to each other with one simple look.
And tonight Webster finally acted on their instruction, waiting until his beloved wife was asleep before placing a pillow deftly over her face, pressing down remorselessly until her agonised struggles subsided and she lay unmoving. The voices were pleased, more so, when he gathered her limp body up into his arms, removing it to the cellar. He had never wanted Loren to be dead and gone forever. This way, death would be cheated, for him too, when she reawakened. The voices promised.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When, days later, further discoveries were made in the tunnel roof, a member of the Metropolitan Police forensic team was called in, and a makeshift forensic department was created in one of the underground rest areas.
Safety precautions hampered progress and digging was restricted, as thick blue clay had to be removed from the aperture, which proved immensely difficult. The clay had to be placed in heavy-duty sacks that when full were lowered to ground level to be stored on the tracks near to the Northwalk platform before being transported away. Powerful arc lamps supplied by a local museum were attached to the top rails of the scaffolding to illuminate the area, thereby aiding the diggers.
The finds were impressive. A large number of skulls were unearthed. It appeared that the occupants of the burial site had all perished in the same way, having suffered violent blows to the head as if the executioner wanted to be absolutely certain his victim was dead. Crosses of varying shapes and sizes were unearthed, predominantly of Celtic influence, the most intriguing of which were the dagger like crosses, thought to have been used to impale individuals to torture racks of some kind. The finds were stored at The Dempster Foundation.
Tests carried out using various techniques, including infrared surveying equipment, led the archaeologists to believe that the burial pit was located between St Anthony’s church and its accompanying graveyard. A small lawn separated the two. The only obstacle standing in the way of above ground excavation would be a hedge and path that might have to be dug up for the duration. The Archaeological Society had given assurances to the Catholic Church no lasting damage would be caused to St Anthony’s, adding that the cost of re-landscaping would be met by the London Museum. A decision by the Cardinal was now required in order for the dig to commence.
As far as McGrath was concerned the sooner the excavators got permission to start work above ground the happier the Transport Executive would be. The diggers were an unhealthy distraction. The atmosphere within the tunnel continued to deteriorate. It wasn’t to do solely with the fact that friction existed between the two parties. The atmosphere was depressive. As work continued, absenteeism within both camps became a major problem. Wilkinson expressed fears to McGrath that all was not as it should be, that ridiculous though it seemed, some kind of corrupt force was at work.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
He gazed through the uncurtained window into the darkness beyond imagining the terrible thing he knew lurked out there. The previous night he was convinced he’d heard it skulking around. On one occasion he could’ve sworn it had actually stared up at him from the shadows, a small demonic shape whose existence proved there was something beyond the mortal world. The experiment had worked. The skinhead had listened to the voices and it had paid off—big time.
He thought he heard a noise—like squealing—and went quietly to the bedroom door and pulled it open, heart pounding, listening for further noises. The house was silent. Paranoia, that’s a
ll it was. Nothing was in the house.
Not yet anyway.
The thought made him shudder with foreboding. Returning to the window he peeked outside like a frightened child. A full moon shone down from the night sky, bathing the back yard in soft grey light. He stared dumbly at the shed standing in the corner, unable to fully comprehend the enormity of what he’d managed to achieve in there.
He had brought the rat back from the dead!
But if that was true, where the fuck had it gone; had it crawled away to die a second time? Or was it really out there somewhere? The creature haunted him. He wished he could talk to his friend, Neil, ask his advice. Unfortunately Neil was dead.
The skinhead lay down on the mattress, the rat weighing heavily on his mind. It had been stone cold dead and come back, just like Freddie Kruger! And it had spoken for God’s sake. As the skinhead closed his eyes and dozed, he wondered not for the first time if Neil might be brought back to life using the same means? He missed Neil greatly. Neil had been his best mate. They had done everything and gone everywhere together, even screwing the same chicks whenever they got the chance. It would be a good crack to have Neil back. Together they were a winning team. The skinhead tried to work out how long Neil had been in the ground. Quite possibly too bloody long. He might be inviting more trouble by trying to resurrect his pal. The rat certainly wasn’t a good advertisement for raising the dead. Yet the idea persisted. So what if Neil wasn’t quite the same? Did it really matter? A mate was a mate, no matter what. He drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
2.
No movement, no sign of life, yet he continued to wait.
It was now three days since he had taken the pillow to her, since he’d suffocated the life from her body. Soon she would be renewed and for that she would thank him. Then it would be his turn. He looked forward to the moment when she took his life, for he knew it was a means to an end. Very soon they would be together forever. Amen.
David Webster stared longingly at the crucified body of his dear departed wife, suspended above him on a cross constructed of two lengths of solid pine delivered to his door by the local hardware store, and silently willed it to move. He was growing impatient. He had done as the voices had asked, having committed murder before ceremoniously crucifying the body, using incantations the voices taught him, all of which was supposed to bring about its resurrection. Now it was payback time. He wanted Loren back, right now, untainted, as lovely as before, and immortal!
It was freezing down in the cellar. Webster hitched up his coat collar, blew warmth into his cupped hands. How much longer did he have to wait? He lit a cigarette and drank from the half-empty whisky bottle that had been full that morning. Something should have happened by now. He felt panicky. The effects of death showed despite the low temperature. He did not want Loren back if she wasn’t in good physical condition. The voices maintained a healing process would take care of any problems once she was revived. Webster was dubious.
His eyes suddenly widened with expectation.
Had there been movement from the corpse just then? He watched closely, before finally concluding that it was wishful thinking. Changes were starting to occur that were quite alarming. Rigor mortis had been bad enough, but the gruesome sight of the lividity now discolouring the skin was far worse. He sat on the cold flagstones that formed the cellar floor, and waited. Nothing happened. He drank more whisky, smoked more cigarettes, all the time willing the body to move, asking for reassurance from the voices, which had fallen strangely silent.
He began to pace the cellar angry and scared, cursing aloud, fighting against the haunting notion he had been duped, worried suddenly that the voices might be a product of his own imagination, wondering if perhaps the trauma of the tube crash had sent him mad? He wanted to cry. He stood before the crucified body of his wife, mother of his children, and did cry. Oh dear Lord what had he done? He extinguished another cigarette using the heel of his shoe and continued the morbid vigil, sitting crossed legged at the foot of the cross, eyes riveted to the naked rope bound body it supported, willing it to stir.
Time was fast running out. With the passing of rigor mortis the body had grown limp. The head now lolled awkwardly. A blackened tongue protruded like a slug from the side of a half open, breathless mouth. The corpse, Webster thought suddenly, was testament to the insanity infesting his mind. As time passed he grew convinced there would be no miracle; no rising of the dead. Dead was dead, living for eternity a pipe dream. The voices had tricked him. He could barely bring himself to look at the lifeless carcase, but look he did, and he was forced to confront the awful reality of his actions. He grieved deeply for the self-inflicted loss. The last of his hope started to flounder with the onset of physical deterioration.
A horrid waxen sheen affected the skin of the corpse, from which came a rich fetid smell signalling the onset of decay. Webster wondered if his wife’s resurrection had not merely been delayed. How then would he cope should she return damaged, her flesh failing to rejuvenate?
The body hung unmoving like an obscene statue. All of a sudden a fly stole into the cellar. It circled the corpse and settled on a wrist, which was chaffed by the rope used to bind the limb to the cross. Realising that the laceration offered the perfect breeding ground for maggots Webster sprang into action initially swatting the insect away, before going in search of some kind of repellent, returning moments later with a can of fly spray, which he sprayed frantically, managing to get a direct hit. The fly quickly succumbed to the poison and dropped to the floor. Webster crushed it underfoot and then fetched antiseptic cream from the bathroom, applying it to the damaged wrist of the corpse like a doctor administering to a patient. The slow realisation that he was being watched prompted him to stop what he was doing. He looked up and saw that half opened eyes stared back at him.
The cellar was suddenly filled with the sound of disembodied voices, arguing over rights to the body. Webster spoke his wife’s name, hoping she would reply, at the same time dreading the idea. Her chest rose imperceptibly as clogged lungs strained to drawer breath. The cadaver expelled stale air and hitched as its heart fought to pump congealed blood through shrunken veins and arteries. Flashes of blue static momentarily framed the corpse. Webster watched unbelieving, as life returned to the body, whilst wondering if the physical damage caused by the event of death would be repaired.
The eyes of Loren Webster stared coldly, holding no recognition. From deep inside her body gastric juices gurgled disgustingly in a gut that strained to work and craved to be fed. All of a sudden the horror and absurdity of what was happening hit home. Fear and regret overcame him. This was not his wife before him, that sane part of his mind warned, but a monster raised from the depths of Hell!
The body struggled to be free of the constraints binding it to the cross. It tugged and pulled determinedly but the rope proved too strong. It looked directly at Webster and spoke, the lips struggling to form the words, which when uttered, drifted from the mouth in a lifeless drone, as vocal cords damaged by bodily degeneration failed to cope adequately with the demands placed upon them.
“The ropes........they huuurrttt!”
Webster eagerly set about undoing the bindings thereby setting the thing free, encouraged by the notion that if the corpse could speak it must therefore be capable of thought. Moreover, it could feel pain suggesting the nerve endings were intact. Perhaps physical rejuvenation would follow automatically, therefore? The last binding was removed. Webster struggled to support the body but lost his balance and went crashing to the floor, where he was pinned beneath its weight. He felt its warm fetid breath against his neck, closely followed by the chilling sensation of its teeth tearing at his flesh.
Tricked, I’ve been tricked, he thought vaguely, as life slowly ebbed from his body.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The boy was in the garden idly kicking a tennis ball against the wall when the Father called him into the house. He picked up the ball, stuffing it into the pocket of his
shorts and ran down the path to the front of the rectory. It was almost teatime. He couldn’t wait to see what the Father’s housekeeper, Pat, had cooked up for them tonight. She was probably the best cook in the world, he thought, even better than his mom. He liked it here at the rectory. It was better than the council house he usually lived in with his mom. It was big and posh and there were no barking dogs or rough kids to contend with. The dogs kept him awake and the kids from down the road would often lie in wait for him as he returned from school and steal personal items or money from him. On the last occasion they had beaten him up. He hated them. He hated the council estate he had to live on since his father had gone away with the woman from work.
He reached the front door to the rectory and climbed the steps to the porch where the homely smell of cooking wafted through the air. He wished he could stay here forever, but knew it wasn’t possible. As soon as his mom was better he would have to leave and go back to the awful place on the other side of town to be bullied again. It wasn’t fair! He had been in the priest’s care ever since his mom was rushed to hospital with a burst appendix, having collapsed in front of the Father during confessional. As there was nowhere else for him to go, he had found himself with a Catholic priest for a temporary guardian.
That was three days ago. A lot can happen in three days. The boy’s name was Brian. He was five and prettier than most girls his age. This fact did not escape the attention of the priest who had wasted no time in gaining his trust with gifts of sweets and little trips into town where the child was treated to visits to toy departments and amusement arcades. Last night the Father had taken him into town to a McDonald’s restaurant, which was followed by a visit to the cinema.
