by WR Armstrong
An alley stood a few hundred yards further along the suburban street, which she intended using as a short cut to reach the park. It started to spit rain as she entered the narrow byway. High fences either side darkened as rain soaked into the brown grainy timber. Above her, the afternoon sky was a mass of sluggish grey cloud, which Angie found utterly depressing. A little way along she glanced back nervously, with the sudden feeling that she was being followed.
She recalled the stories that had graced the pages of the newspapers recently, telling of the unsolved cannibalistic murders committed in London. The reports had given her nightmares. What made the stories more disturbing was the fact they were linked to the burial site, as one of the victims, and one of the killers, were casualties of the tube crash that had heralded the discovery of the mass grave. A leading tabloid brazenly hinted that elements of the supernatural were involved in both crimes, although the crimes themselves appeared to be unconnected.
Angie braced herself against the worsening weather, and tried to think more pleasant thoughts. Errol would be waiting for her when she got home, big, black and as hard as rock. He would run her bath, undress her, and then he would gently bathe her using strong ebony hands whose touch always got her as horny as hell. Afterwards, he would carry her dripping wet into the bedroom where they would indulge in another endless sex session that would leave her exhausted, but elated. The thought made her break into a trot, more eager than ever to get home. It was true what they said about black guys, she thought as she negotiated the rain soaked path. Black guys were definitely the best. So what if Errol was occasionally unfaithful? Lots of men were unfaithful, black and white. So long as he came home to her, it was all that mattered. In fact, she felt honoured that he did. It meant she had to be doing something right. She hoped he would eventually make her his bride, not that her prissy parents would approve, racist bastards that they were. They maintained they didn’t like him because he had no proper job. She had tried to explain Errol was entrepreneurial, that his business was multi faceted, but they refused to see past his colour. As far as they were concerned, he was a lazy no good shit with no prospects, and no future. If only Errol wasn’t so secretive about his work, she might be able to reassure her parents by going into more detail about what he did. Whatever his work involved, it forced him to keep irregular hours, although it seemed to pay extremely well. Errol was never without a wad of notes in his back pocket, which he was happy to spend on the slightest whim, although he refused to pay the repair bill for her car, even though she had begged him repeatedly. Maybe, if she gave him an extra incentive next time they hit the sack together, he might change his mind, Angie thought with a lewd grin.
She held onto the idea gladly as she continued her journey, for it cheered her, and took her mind off the fact that she was cold and wet—and unaccountably afraid. She glanced back nervously over her shoulder again, but nothing was there. She was letting her imagination get the better of her. It was the stories about the pit, all nonsense of course. It was just a hole in the ground, filled with old bones that couldn’t possibly harm anyone. Nevertheless, her unease remained. She suddenly thought back to the near miss with the car. Something had distracted her, the fleeting glimpse of some kind of animal, moving awkwardly. It was that, she realised, which had started her thinking about the rumours surrounding the burial pit, rumours that suggested it was, haunted.
She hurried on, while above her the sky grew black and treacherous. The high wooden fences shielding neighbouring back gardens seemed to close in around her, making her feel claustrophobic. She quickened her step, breaking into a half run. She heard a noise from behind that sounded ominously like the rumbling growl of a dog, but when she looked the alley was empty. And then she stumbled and fell, twisting her ankle, grazing her hand and drawing blood. She rose to her feet, using a handkerchief as a bandage, although her ankle was more painful than her hand. She hobbled awkwardly. A little further along the alley she heard the sound again. This time when she looked back something was there, lurking in the low bushes that lined the byway. Angie whimpered, terribly afraid, wishing Errol was there to protect her. Whatever stalked her was squat and of stocky proportions: a stray dog more than likely.
She tried to run but her ankle forbade it. Not that running would do her much good, she thought, for it had been drilled into her from an early age that to run from an aggressive animal was unwise. She reached the end of the alley feeling panic stricken, and gazed onto a huge spread of open parkland, hoping to see someone, anyone that might come to her rescue, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. The fear returned, compounded by the fact that she was totally alone, with nowhere to hide. She would have to deal with the situation by herself, she realised with dread.
She suddenly turned, having heard the threatening growl of a dog. This time she saw it, small but incredibly powerful, and it was staring directly at her, a hunter observing its prey. Gripped by an impending sense of doom, she searched desperately for something to climb, but it was hopeless. The terrain was a flat empty expanse. She hurried across the park as best she could, given her injured ankle, but it was useless: the joint was unimaginably sore, and could barely support her weight.
Behind her, frighteningly close, the dog growled repeatedly. Angie kept going, struggling to stay on her feet. When she next looked around, she was horrified to see that the creature had narrowed the distance between them quite considerably. It suddenly quickened its gait and bared its teeth, slavering obscenely. She screamed; terrified as much by its grotesque appearance as by its obvious intentions. And then, without warning, she stumbled and fell.
The dog closed in for the kill.
The old guy was out for a morning stroll when he spied the shape in the field, which at first glance resembled a bundle of discarded clothes. Curious, he wandered over. Immediately he saw what it was that lay on the frosty ground, he fled back home where he called the police.
“There’s a dead body on Lloyd’s Park,” he blurted to the duty officer who answered the call. “A dead body, that’s right. I think it’s a woman.”
The officer was suspicious. “You only think?”
“It’s hard to tell.” He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand still able to taste the vomit he’d disgorged as he’d staggered from the corpse. “S-Something has eaten her,” he stammered into the mouthpiece.
There was a telling pause. And then: “Would you care to repeat that sir?”
He did.
The policeman calmly requested his personal details before instructing him to return to the crime scene to await the arrival of the police.
“Do I really have to?” he asked worriedly.
“I’m afraid you do,” said the officer.
“But it’s not as if she’s going anywhere.”
“Please, just do as I ask.”
So the old guy did.
The dog got him too.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
For Kate the week passed quickly. She travelled to Bristol at Chrichton’s behest to carry out a preliminary check on the second manuscript, while Chrichton himself spent every waking hour cooped up in the tiny annex, studying that which was in Father Rinaldi’s possession.
She returned from the trip disappointed with what she had learned, for in her considered opinion the second manuscript was nonsensical, bearing little relevance to the burial pit at St Anthony’s. Chrichton seemed disinterested in what she had to say, and for the remainder of the week kept her busy with the task of searching through old parish and council records for more clues as to the origin of the manuscript he was in the process of decoding. He guarded his notes jealously.
In London meanwhile, further murders of a similar ritualistic nature to those already committed occurred in quick succession, leaving the city populous in a state of shock, and the rest of the country afraid for the future. To compound matters, information leaked to the Press suggested murder victims were rising up from the dead in order to avenge their own deaths.
Rumours abounded suggesting crucifixion was an integral part of the murderous ritual. Kate’s reaction was to research ancient rituals in an attempt to understand more about what was happening, and why unconnected murders were being carried out in copycat fashion.
By Friday, it was reported on the news that London was in the grip of a mini epidemic, with a spate of further ritualistic murders being committed. One man had stumbled bleeding into a police station, a gibbering wreck, insisting he’d murdered his wife and children, urged on by that which he described as “heavenly voices” promising immortality as a reward for his actions.
His family systematically put to death, their corpses crucified, mimicking the barbarous method used by the ancient Romans, the man reported his deceased family members subsequently returned to life and threatens his own. He described them as “zombies”, a phrase enthusiastically adopted by the Media in future reporting of such incidents.
2.
Meanwhile, Chrichton continued his vigil in the chapel, seated in the same position night after night, hunched over the manuscript like an old scribe. He worked by candlelight, finding the soft flickering glow of its flame kinder on his eyes. Much of the language used in the aged document was unworldly and immensely difficult to decipher. It was blatantly obvious that Father Rinaldi was ignorant as to its true meaning, as was the Catholic Church itself, for true meaning was cleverly concealed in the ancient text.
Even if the more obscure language used was successfully decoded, one could be forgiven for thinking it was of Christian origin. It was however, Pagan, with satanic undertones. Chrichton thought it amusing that the Church had, in its ignorance kept a document in its possession in the mistaken belief that the esoteric writings contained a mystical message relating to its faith. Was the truth but known the old text would have been quickly consigned to the bin.
Chrichton broke off from his study having successfully decoded another section of the document. A strange faraway look played on his face. He was listening to the manic voices inside his head, which he’d first heard during his initial ascent into the aperture caused by the bomb explosion.
He thought about Kate. She’d been on his mind a lot lately. She was an attractive, intelligent woman, whom he had the greatest respect and admiration for. He thought about the life they might share together following the immortalising ritual of death and corporeal resurrection. Together, they would march on through time, he mused, making love, procreating, helping create a new species that would never know the pain of illness, or the agonies and disappointments of old age. They would be the true master race! Kate would see Paul McGrath and people like him as weak and inferior, born to grow old and die.
And it would all happen so very soon. The anthropologist could hardly wait. Their work was almost finished here. On Sunday, they would return to London, although Kate had been led to believe that they were to stay on into the following week. It had been a clever ploy by Chrichton, for it had eliminated any danger of Kate travelling back to London on Sunday with McGrath.
He ruminated over his completed notes, which revealed secrets of a community long dead, and supplied the location of the safe haven in which they worshipped, and where the reborn of the present would seek refuge until they were ready to infiltrate the sanctum of the living.
He placed the notes in a folder, and snuffed out the candle, plunging the tiny room into darkness, whilst inside his head the voices spoke amongst themselves conspiratorially, excluding him. The anthropologist wondered if the voices weren’t plotting against him. As if sensing his concern they offered reassurances that he would share with them in the glory of eternal life.
He smiled; the faraway look on his face concealed by the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The washing swayed gently in the afternoon breeze. A thrush settled on a nearby garden fence, focusing its shiny black eyes on the ground, as if trying to see beyond the topsoil. A sudden gust of wind caused a sheet to flap loudly. The sound might have been that of some giant bird taking flight. Startled by the sudden noise the thrush flew off, disappearing over a rooftop before soaring into a sky that promised a clear rain free night.
Pat O’Brien stared blankly through the kitchen window overlooking her small back yard, thinking back to the night she’d ventured into the graveyard where her son was interred. She recalled that that particular night was also a clear one. In her mind’s eye she saw herself struggling to exhume the young body. She’d had such high hopes. But why wouldn’t she have been hopeful? The voices promised she could have Tommy back if she carried out their wishes. What reason did she have to doubt these merciful angels? She had waited until dark before creeping into that grim lonely place, armed only with a spade and a torch, and a desperate desire to have back her little boy the way he was. A crescent moon shone down from the night sky, she recalled, eyeing her like a conspirator as she carried out the gruesome deed.
A vole happened by at one point, scaring her badly. Had the desire to have Tommy back not overwhelmed her so she would have fled! Dawn threatened to break and shatter the concealing darkness as she had broken open the pine casket containing her son’s lifeless body. She was horrified to see the worms had made a start on his dear sweet face, yet her resolve remained steadfast. The voices promised Tommy’s body would rejuvenate, that he would seek her love and guidance as he’d always done, and that Pat would have the pleasure of watching him grow into adulthood to become someone she was proud of.
She too could aspire to the joys of eternal life said the voices, if she so wished. In fact Tommy would encourage and help her achieve that end. Together they could live on for eternity. Her doubts allayed, the grubs were ignored. She’d used every ounce of her strength to lift his unresisting body onto the side of the grave.
Dead.
He was dead, Pat had thought, struggling out of the deep dirty hole in the ground that night, whose earthy sides crumbled treacherously as she’d tried to gain purchase. She’d somehow managed to haul herself out, though even now, days later and with her crime undetected, for she had been careful to refill the hole, she was haunted by the memory of exhuming her son’s body, and returning it home with only the night as her witness. She had installed Tommy in his bedroom, which had remained undisturbed since his untimely death.
She buried her face in her hands, devastated, haunted by the unlawful act. Regardless of her motives, what she had done was pure insanity, more so to think she could get away with it. A sound reached her ears from above. She looked up at the ceiling, terrified, thinking of her young son, and the voices that in the end had betrayed her.
Faint noises drifted from Tommy’s bedroom, the creaking of a bed as something shifted position, as that which had once been her son moved—followed by a loud thud! Tears welled in her eyes, knowing it—the thing—the creature, whatever it was, had thrown something to attract her attention. She could no longer think of what she’d exhumed from the grave and taken to the small bedroom at the back of the house, as her son, for it was an unfeeling monster. Yet she found it impossible to abandon it totally, fearing a small part of Tommy might still exist somewhere inside the rotting body that was once her little boy. It was said a person could get used to almost anything given time and the right circumstances. Having suffered the trauma of the past few days Pat tended to agree. She was getting accustomed to having the thing around, although she tried her best to forget it existed. The initial horror and loathing had worn off, replaced by a dark acceptance that she had committed an unforgivable act she would have to live with for the rest of her natural life. And perhaps beyond. She had listened to demons and was paying the cost.
He—it, she reminded herself, had been too long in the earth. Its body was twisted and bloated, the eyes askew. She had mustered all her courage; cleaning it up as best she could, laying it in the bath, bathing its wounds, the leaking sores that plagued a livid skin, relieving it of the insects occupying its orifices. She had even disinfected and sprayed it with fly killer for
God’s sake! Mad, she must be stark raving mad! No matter what she did, the thing failed to look or smell any better. She should have left it at that, she thought belatedly.
She should never have carried out the next step involving the awful ritual in which she’d crucified the wretched thing on a flimsy homemade cross that barely supported its weight, whilst reciting incomprehensible words.
She had waited patiently for something to happen, never thinking for one moment anything would. By then the voices had left her. Maybe she had outlived her usefulness, she’d thought at the time, or perhaps those awful heckling voices were merely a product of her imagination. It was not beyond the realms of possibility little Tommy’s death had broken her mind. If she was mad, the good Lord might find it in his heart to forgive her for what she had done. She had tended to the thing as it hung suspended from the insecure cross, demonstrating a mother’s natural instinct to administer to her off spring no matter what the circumstances. She had attempted to moisturise away the scaly dryness affecting its lifeless skin, apply band aids to its wounds, do anything that might sooth it, make it look a little more presentable, a little more—human.
Pat wrung her hands together, anxiously, reciting a short prayer, only the final few words audible. “Holy Mary, mother of Jesus, pray for us sinners. Amen.” Tears of regret rolled down her cheeks. What in God’s name had she done! She fiddled nervously with her rosary beads, whilst agonising over what to do for the best. It was not possible to return her son’s body to its grave: much too risky. How could she ever face Father Donnelly again, or anyone else for that matter? A terrible thought occurred to her, one of many, although this was by far the worst. Whatever dark magic had been invoked to bring the thing back would be needed in order to return it to its restful state for it was presently—Pat struggled to find the right word—undead. Without the voices to guide the way, it would continue to exist as it now did, until its body collapsed from decay or God Himself put an end to its unnatural state.
