Hell Pit

by WR Armstrong

  The boy was having such a good time he had barely thought about his mother, although he and the Father had visited every day since she had been taken ill. Part of him wished his mother would stay in hospital forever, which would mean he could stay with the Father at the rectory. Perhaps his mother could live in the rectory too when she got well again, he thought as he entered the kitchen. They would be happy here in the care of the priest without the dogs and the rough kids and the drunks from down the road.

  The Father sat at the big wooden table, waiting patiently for the housekeeper to serve up the meal. The boy joined him and they offered up a prayer of thanks. On the menu tonight was steak and kidney pie with potatoes and vegetables, followed by treacle pudding, which was Brian’s favourite. Throughout the meal the boy talked eagerly about the film they had seen the previous night. Father Donnelly listened, occasionally smiling and nodding, whilst secretly marvelling at the child’s unblemished beauty.

  They finished the meal Pat O’Brien had prepared and afterwards the boy was allowed to watch some television. Later, when the housekeeper had gone home to her own house that felt so empty now that her son was no longer there, to battle with the voices that filled her sleeping hours as well as her waking ones, the priest introduced the child to his secret hideaway. He had the child’s trust. The time was right.

  “Would you like to see a magical place?” he asked Brian as they played a game of snakes and ladders by a blazing log fire. The child’s eyes lit up and he nodded his head vigorously.

  “Very well,” said the Father. “But there is a condition.”

  The boy frowned, momentarily suspicious.

  “You must not tell anyone. It has to be a secret. If others find out about it the magical place will lose its power.”

  Reassured there was no hidden catch the boy promised to keep the secret.

  “Good,” said the priest and led the child by the hand. They left the rectory following the leafy path to the rear of the house. Here it was very private. The garden was bordered by a hedge, which in the child’s eyes seemed to ascend into the sky. At the bottom of the garden there stood tall trees that cast dark shadows. The light was starting to fail. The priest had to reassure the boy that no harm would befall him. They left the path and walked across an open area of grass in the direction of what appeared to be a dense thicket. As they walked, the priest related the story about Noah and the Ark. When he finished, Brian asked to be told another. The priest obliged recounting the one about Moses parting the Red Sea. By now the child had forgotten any concern he had for his safety. The Father would protect him if anything untoward happened. As they reached the thicket of brambles the priest produced a bag of sweets from the pocket of his cassock, inviting him to take one. He chose a toffee.

  “Not a word to your mother or I’ll be for the high jump,” warned Donnelly with a sly wink.

  He nodded, happy to play the conspirator.

  They had arrived at the thicket and seemed to have gone as far as they could.

  Brian looked around curiously and inquired the whereabouts of the magic place?

  The Father raised a silencing finger. “Watch,” he whispered and walked off, disappearing behind the thick gnarled trunk of an old oak. The boy peered round and saw to his surprise that the brambles thinned, creating a natural gap through which a person might pass. Around him the trees cast their dark shadows while the night proceeded to drawer steadily in.

  Brian would have been scared by now was he not in the protective company of the Father, who at this very moment was beckoning him forward. He did as he was told, following the priest into what turned out to be an opening wherein there was a short flight of steps leading to a rough stone door with a huge metal ring for a handle.

  He was suddenly hesitant. “What’s inside Father Donnelly?”

  Donnelly smiled, pleased by the child’s show of curiosity, and turned the heavy iron ring, forcing his shoulder against the slab of stone. At first it refused to give. The elderly priest pushed with all his might. This was always the tricky part. Getting the blessed door open was far too strenuous an activity for someone his age, he thought as he shouldered it more forcefully. At last there was a rough grinding sound as the door to the forgotten crypt gave. The priest never opened it all of the way, just enough so he could pass through. And he never closed it fully either, fearful he might not be able to reopen it. A small gap was always left just wide enough to allow leverage if the crow bar the priest kept just inside the door had to be utilised.

  The Father knew he was taking a terrible risk in bringing the boy here, but it hadn’t stopped him before. The compulsion to touch the child: to have the child touch him, was too strong to resist. He supposed the good Lord would banish him to Hell when he died. He rued the day it happened but was too weak to resist temptation. He always did penance for his sins, but knew it wasn’t enough in the eyes of the Lord. He was in a position of power. Over the years he had constantly abused the trust others placed in him.

  He slipped through the gap and into the crypt.

  Outside Brian gazed around nervously. The boy was beginning to have fresh doubts about this adventure. It didn’t feel right. The priest seemed strange. He gazed up at the tops of the trees that towered over him like giants. He was about to say something when the Father beckoned him inside. He hesitated.

  “Come on lad,” Donnelly encouraged, crooking an arthritic finger. “Don’t you want to see the secret place?”

  He did, very much. Curiosity finally got the better of him. He stepped through the gap in the briar and came to the big heavy door the priest had had so much trouble opening. A gnarled hand was extended to him as the Father winked that sly wink again. The scene reminded Brian of the story his mother told him about Little Red Riding Hood, and how the big bad wolf pretended to be her Grandma and would have eaten her if he could. The Father seemed cunning, like the wolf. Brian wanted to leave, but when the priest uttered words of reassurance the unwelcome spell was broken.

  “Come along Brian,” Donnelly said. “I promise it will be fun.”

  “You won’t hurt me, will you?” Brian said worriedly.

  The priest promised he wouldn’t. At last the child stepped through the doorway into the crypt, whose interior was now illuminated by a single kerosene lamp.

  2.

  Billy Snipes liked snooping around graveyards even though the activity gave him the creeps. He was sure a time would come when one of the things buried in the graves would suddenly rise up to give him a real fright, but it was all part of the fun. He enjoyed scaring himself. It gave him a strange kind of buzz. He was an avid reader of horror comics and novels. He liked horror films too, especially the gory ones. In fact the grosser they were the better he liked them.

  Billy was twelve years old. He had chosen this evening to investigate the old rectory, see if anything was behind the big brooding building, because someone had told him the new priest was a touch weird. He didn’t know if it was true but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need much encouragement to think the worst, and in his over imaginative mind he had already labelled the priest a devil worshipper.

  Besides, he’d grown overly familiar with the churchyard to the point whereby it had lost its air of mystery. He was after new excitement. He hoped he might find a mausoleum behind the rectory, like the one in the film of the same name, or perhaps hidden graves. As he wound his way deeper into the churchyard, passing through the rusty swing gate leading to the rectory itself, he was filled with excitement and expectation. He glanced up at the sky, already darkening with the onset of night, and thought he saw a bat flit across the dusky horizon.

  Taking his courage in both hands he negotiated the narrow path, before finally pausing at the front gate to the rectory. The knowledge that he was trespassing held no fear for him. The priest who resided here was old and incapable of giving chase. As for the housekeeper he knew worked here—well—she was a woman, and women weren’t into that kind of thing. He knew the housek
eeper’s name—Pat something or other, because she happened to be one of his mom’s friends. He thought it was a shame about her little boy being killed in the tube crash. The kid had attended the same school as him. He had passed the child’s grave on the way to the rectory. Knowing someone he was personally acquainted with was buried there gave him the creeps for real. Apparently, there was growing concern for the kid’s mother since the tragedy. Rumour had it she refused to accept her son was dead, and was telling people he would return. That kind of talk gave Billy a major case of the jitters. Grown ups shouldn’t speak like that. It was okay for kids to lark around trying to convince each other the dead could be raised, but not adults. Adults should know better.

  He opened the gate, which creaked on its hinges from lack of oil, like a gate in a haunted house movie, he thought. He didn’t take the path, keeping instead to the perimeter of the garden. He hurried round the back for fear of being spotted, stopping briefly to peer in through one of the rectory windows. He found himself gazing into an empty kitchen. He turned, scanning the garden, distractedly brushing a clump of fair hair away from his eager eyes. The garden was filled with bushes and flowerbeds. A copse stood at the bottom that he thought looked vaguely interesting and might warrant further investigation. He headed over but was disappointed with what he found. He was just about to call it a day when he spotted the narrow clearing in the brambles. He drew closer before pausing, suddenly uncertain. Steps led down to what looked like an entrance of some kind. He pressed on, and then he saw the stone door with the big iron ring, saw too that it was slightly ajar.

  But that wasn’t what made him turn, and run for his life. It was the terrified scream that suddenly tore through the air to shatter the early evening silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The student was working in the aperture alone, using a trowel in an attempt to uncover more human remains. He wished his colleague would hurry up and return from the toilet. He didn’t like being on his own up here. It was spooky as hell. The lighting didn’t help. It cast shadows that looked alarmingly like faces. Bloody hurry up, Jimmy, he thought as he scooped more of the clay soil into the large metal bucket attached to the side of the scaffold tower. Nobody was supposed to be up here alone. He had warned Jimmy they would get into serious trouble should it be discovered they’d parted company. There should have been someone around to replace Jimmy but it was late and the other team members had either gone home or were on an extended break, taking advantage of the fact the bosses were attending an important press conference.

  The student stopped working and looked down. There was still no sign of Jimmy. He checked his watch for the time. The skiving bastard had been gone fifteen minutes. How long did he need to take a leak for God’s sake? He’d probably crept into a corner somewhere to have a crafty fag for smoking was strictly prohibited in the tunnel. The student returned to the task at hand. The work was slow and tedious. The excitement lay in the fact that you never knew what you were going to find. For example, this site was throwing up discoveries that made even the experts scratch their heads in wonder. Nevertheless, excavating was like pulling teeth and the student had had enough for today. He’d been working since early this morning, helping to catalogue finds at The Dempster Foundation before coming here. He was dog-tired and wanted to get home.

  The light thrown by the arc lamps flickered uncertainly. He paused, feeling suddenly apprehensive. One of them had blinked out earlier that day. They were old, unreliable. Why couldn’t the archaeology society get better ones he wondered? If this site was so monumentally important, which was what everyone was saying, why then weren’t the powers that be investing more money in the excavation? The student glanced down again hoping to see his work mate returned, but there was still no sign of him. When he looked up into the aperture once more something had changed. The shadows seemed more substantial, swaying and bobbing hauntingly in the dull yellow light cast by the arc lamps. They were mesmerising, like ghostly dancers. He thought he heard a voice and looked round expecting to find Jimmy finally back from wherever it was he’d been, but no one was there. It came again: a soft whisper.

  “Up here.”

  The sound made him jump. Who the hell said that? He looked up, sensing he was being watched, and suddenly his mouth dropped open and his eyes widened with horror. The shadows weren’t shadows at all, he realised, but people and they were emerging from the earth, reaching out in an attempt to embrace him. He stepped back, terrified, trying to shut out the voices that had invaded his mind, but they were so hard to resist. They found purchase in his brain where they chattered maniacally.

  He stumbled, lost his footing and fell against the rails, painfully jarring his backbone. The impact shook him from his hypnotic state. He could see the faces clearly now. They grinned maliciously. He had to get away from them. They weren’t people, but demons and they wanted him to kill! He fumbled for the safety catch on the metal gate and with a struggle managed to force it open. He thought he heard the sound of other voices from below, but was unable to look away from the aperture and the demonic faces filling it. He heard his name called but was unable to answer for the demon voices forbade it. They were winning, slowly devouring his soul, he realised. He must get away from them before it was too late and they possessed him completely. He began descending the ladder. In his haste he misjudged the spacing between the rungs and almost fell, while above him the demonic faces gibbered like loons, feeding on his fear, demanding he join forces with them. He hurried down the ladder, missed another rung and this time slipped and fell headfirst to the ground, landing with a sickening thud some fifteen feet below.

  Above him the lunatic spirits receded into the tunnel roof, angry at being foiled, to vanish like shadows in the night. He was vaguely aware of activity taking place around him as witnesses to the accident rushed to his aid.

  “Call for an ambulance!” he heard someone say from what seemed like light years away.

  He tried to speak; to warn of what had happened, and with a supreme effort managed to raise a trembling hand and point heavenwards. “Ghosts,” he said in a broken whisper.

  At that point his brain physically slipped as his crushed skull surrendered to its weight. Unconsciousness closed in, and the pointing hand fell limply to the ground, where the fingers briefly twitched before falling still.

  2.

  McGrath was in a financial meeting when he received news of the fatality. Twenty minutes later he was standing on the station platform at Northwalk Underground grilling Bill Wilkinson on the matter. The engineer filled him in on the details, mentioning that no suspicious circumstances appeared to surround the man’s death. McGrath asked if there were witnesses. Wilkinson related accounts he’d heard from those who’d seen it occur

  “From the little we know, safety rules were blatantly disregarded. The fall victim was up there alone. It appears he suffered a panic attack. One thing’s for certain, being in contravention of safety regulations won’t do the archaeologists cause much good.”

  McGrath was unsympathetic. “That’s their problem. If they want to violate the rules it’s up to them. We can only advise. We aren’t responsible for health and safety enforcement.”

  Wilkinson sighed uneasily, and said, “There’s something you should know Paul. Just before he died, the fall victim claimed he saw ghosts in the tunnel roof.”

  McGrath observed a scene of crime officer accompanied by a police photographer pass by, recalling how, only minutes before, the dead man’s body had travelled the same route as it was removed to the local mortuary. The man’s death could have been avoided so easily, he mused, if only the archaeologists had done what was expected of them.

  His thoughts were interrupted as an official from the Coroner’s office arrived to inspect the accident area, accompanied by a senior official from the health and safety executive. He watched them enter the tunnel, which was temporarily cordoned off, due to work inside having been halted until the case was officially wrapped up.
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  “It looks like the archaeologists have scored an own goal today,” Wilkinson commented.

  “That, Bill, is an understatement,” McGrath replied.

  “May I speak to you for a moment please?” The voice came from behind.

  The two men turned to find Kate Marshall standing there.

  Wilkinson discreetly excused himself leaving them alone. Kate smiled awkwardly at McGrath, who acknowledged her with a brief nod, and then headed for the tunnel.

  “Hey, not so fast,” she said following.

  McGrath reluctantly slowed his pace.

  “That’s better. Look, this is difficult for me. I’ve come here to tell you that Professor Carrington is as shocked and concerned as you are by today’s incident.”

  McGrath, clearly annoyed by events, found no solace in her comment and quickened his pace. She struggled to keep up.

  “He wishes to assure you,” Kate said, walking as quickly as she could, “that an official investigation will be launched in order to discover what went wrong.”

  McGrath had heard it all before and carried on walking.

  “Please Paul, don’t be like this.” She tugged at his sleeve. And then, losing patience: “Will you stop being so bloody obstinate!”

  Realising Kate was only doing her job he relented, stopping at the side of the track just before the tunnel entrance.

  “I apologise,” he said forcing a smile.

  Kate slowly nodded. “Apology accepted. And if it’s any help, I can understand how you must feel. Things are difficult at present. A lot is at stake. Tempers are bound to get frayed occasionally.” She paused, considering, and then continued: “Whilst I don’t blame you for being angry, Paul, I really do think you should give Carrington the benefit of the doubt. He’s truly devastated by today’s events and would like to talk to you about the situation.”