Hell Pit

by WR Armstrong

  She waited patiently until the two men had left the house before venturing out into the long dark hallway. The house was silent save for the distant sound of a barking dog. Giving herself the all clear, she walked across the hall to Chrichton’s room, her footsteps echoing in a telltale tattoo on the polished hardwood floor of the rectory’s upper level. She thought she heard movement downstairs and froze, afraid to draw breath, thinking the two men might have returned without her realising, but no further sounds came. Sneaking around made her feel like a common thief. She dreaded to think how Chrichton would react should he return unexpectedly to find her snooping about.

  She opened the door to his room and entered, taking in the scene as quickly as possible, aware she might not have much time. She spotted Chrichton’s battered brown suitcase on top of a wardrobe, and wondered if it might contain his notes on the manuscript. She pulled it down, placed it on the bed, and opened it. The suitcase was empty: his briefcase then? But where was it? She hadn’t seen him take it with him and doubted he would have left it in the chapel. It must be in the room, surely.

  She began to search, looking beneath the bed, behind the long velvet drapes of rich purple framing the bay window, but without success. Then she looked inside the wardrobe. She felt guilty for having invaded Chrichton’s privacy to the degree she had, but was compelled to discover why he was so reluctant to discuss his findings with regard to the manuscript.

  The briefcase was tucked away behind a gunmetal grey trench coat. Kate hurried over to the window to check the coast remained clear, then returned to the wardrobe and retrieved the case, careful to note its exact position, suspecting Chrichton was the type of person who might notice the slightest disturbance. She had half expected the case to be locked, but it wasn’t. She lay the case on the bed, flipped open the lid and found herself staring down at Chrichton’s scrawled notes. She lifted them out of the briefcase with something verging on reverence and, with her heart thumping hard in her chest, she began to read.

  It took almost an hour. At the end of it Kate felt mentally drained. The notes were complicated, hard to fathom, written in code, though she was adept enough to glimpse the hidden meaning. She placed them back in the briefcase, ensuring they looked undisturbed, before returning the case to the wardrobe. She shut the wardrobe door and straightened the bed covers. Before leaving, she made doubly sure nothing was out of place.

  Back inside her room she lay down on the bed, pondering what she’d learned from the act of deception. She was glad she had gone through with it even though the experience was traumatic, and had left a sour taste in her mouth. Yet no matter how scary she had found entering someone’s private domain, the feeling could not compare with the impending sense of doom reading the anthropologist’s notes had engendered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  They converged upon the Church of St Anthony like macabre gatherers at some hellish wake. Night had fallen when those who had rediscovered the pleasure of living at the expense of the living entered the deserted churchyard via a forgotten entrance. They wandered amongst the graves marked by crosses, stone angels and plain slabs, bound for the rear of the church itself.

  In the wood beyond the rectory stood their safe haven, the place where they might grow strong, where their numbers would gradually swell until they felt ready to conquer Mankind. They clawed eagerly at the solid slab of stone, prizing it open with cold unfeeling fingers, entering the dark crypt beyond where an inner door opened seemingly of its own volition.

  Into the dark, filth encrusted corridor they trailed, the heavy stone slab sliding closed behind as mysteriously as it had opened, whereupon black candles, unused these past centuries, sparked magically to life, illuminating the pitch black interior, revealing a grime infested labyrinth of winding corridors.

  The creatures walked into the heart of this underworld where others of their kind would soon share in the unholy communion. They breathed in the stale suffocating air whilst flames from the ancient wax candles flickered dully, illuminating stone shelves, upon which, lit up prettily, stood the skulls of those they had sacrificed in a bygone age. Crosses of different dimensions and conflicting styles etched deeply into the stone walls of this, their temple, signified the power and the glory of their master, whose presence had been felt on the earth centuries before Christ’s arrival. It was he, Lord of the Sons of Darkness, who proclaimed the cross in all its majesty to be the giver of life, blessed with the power to align the cosmic axis, uniting Heaven, earth and the underworld. Whosoever believed in this, he fervently preached, shall be blessed with life ever after, even when life itself has passed out of them.

  The undead watched curiously as the flames threw shadows and the skulls stared blindly. They silently conversed with one another, planning for their endless future. After a time, a young boy, whose eyes gleamed with the power of insanity, took centre stage, the ageless demon squirming inside his brain speaking inside the minds of his elders, while at his side sat a small sturdy dog, licking its chops expectantly. The ravaged group had rediscovered home.

  Now it was time to feast on the living.

  2.

  Media interest in St Anthony’s church was causing Donnelly restless nights in which he tossed and turned, often failing to achieve sleep, terrified his guilty secret would be discovered. Tonight he was forced to take pills in his quest for an undisturbed night’s slumber. When finally he drifted off, his mind was tortured by a succession of nightmarish images in which he was once again a child at the mercy of a cruel, bullying mother.

  In the dream he suffered on this particular night, he unwittingly relived the day she dragged him kicking and screaming in front of a full-length mirror, forcing him to view his effeminately dressed form. He would never recover from the humiliation of seeing himself in the pretty pink shoes and frilly cotton dress with its exquisite lace collar, which his mother had made whilst carrying him in the womb, convinced he would be born a girl. Mary Donnelly had longed her whole life for a baby girl, ever since losing her younger sister to smallpox when she had been but a toddler herself. Since the baby’s conception she had prayed to Jesus every night, begging to be allowed this one indulgence. She had planned for a daughter, had told friends and relatives the baby she carried was a girl, and that God had spoke personally to her, telling her this was so. For nine months she had walked around in a dream, living for the moment when baby Eve would be born into the world.

  Instead she had been cursed with a boy. Devastated, she blamed God, turning her back on the Almighty. But most of all she blamed the baby whom she would have to rear and protect and try her best to love. When little baby Patrick was delivered into her arms she was barely able to contain her disappointment, and her fury. Ever since, she had managed to curb those emotions by living out a private fantasy in which she dressed her young son in clothing meant for Eve, the daughter she had been denied. However, the charade failed to diminish the sense of outrage she felt, and the game in which Patrick postured as Eve would always end violently, for Mary could not forgive him for failing her.

  Patrick hated her for making him into a sissy little girl, turning to his father for consolation. John Donnelly readily obliged, bestowing certain acts of affection upon his son that made the young Patrick Donnelly, feel confused and guilty, although the repeated paedophilic acts to which he was subjected was still preferable to the beatings he took at the hands of an unforgiving mother. On one occasion Mary Donnelly had beaten him about the soles of his feet to the extent he could barely walk. On another she locked him in the big dark cupboard beneath the stairs that stank of damp, and was home to a nest of mice. Tonight the priest dreamt he was dragged from the mirror to be thrown inside that hellhole to coexist with so many squealing rodents, together with something far, far worse—the haunting image of a boy he knew was dead. In the dream Donnelly squatted terror struck, peering blindly into the unfathomable dark, trying to work out how this could be—how he could be gazing upon dead Tommy O’Brien.

&n
bsp; Suddenly, mercifully, he woke. But that wasn’t quite true because he was awake already, and had been for some considerable time. He had simply refused to accept what his eyes showed him, for the boy he’d buried in the ground weeks ago, whose body had been robbed from its grave at some point since, stood over him like the bad dream from which he thought he had escaped. Worse, reflected in the dead child’s eyes was stark evidence of his own past crimes, denouncing him as a child abuser to be reviled, the child’s presence serving as a profound reminder of his unforgivable compulsion!

  Donnelly strained to speak, to vocalise the fact that the boy was dead, in the vain hope that doing so would relegate the apparition to his unconscious mind from whence it surely had come, but the horror of the reality confronting him struck the paedophile dumb. This was no hallucination. This was real: the putrid stench of decay confirmed the fact, as did the icy touch of the child’s hands and that of countless others he suddenly realised were present in the room. Now, as they raised him struggling from the bed, the priest pleaded with them to spare him his life, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. And then he was being carried kicking and screaming from the room: his fear of the child greater than that he’d ever experienced at the hands of his victimising mother.

  As he was manhandled down the stairs, he glimpsed the faces of those bearing his weight, their ghastly appearance terrifying him further. Faces pitted with ugly sores and lacerations, eyes devoid of emotion, mouths drooling grotesquely, signified the insanity of the situation he was prisoner of. It was all too much for him to bear. He screamed until he was hoarse, convinced he was to be punished for his sins, the terrified sounds reverberating around the house, though failing to reach the outside world. He passed out from fright, regaining consciousness to find himself lying naked on his back, bound by his hands and feet, in a candle lit tomb that smelled like a cesspit. He saw its cavernous walls were decorated with bizarre symbols in relief, the sign of the cross dominating, human skulls resting on stone ledges serving as grotesque ornaments. He opened his mouth as another scream built inside of him, but was immediately silenced as a rough calcified hand smashed into his face, crushing his nose like putty. His aggressor was an emaciated black man whose own face was a mass of leaking sores, and whose eyes were rolled back so only the whites were visible. Without warning the Negro grabbed Donnelly’s hand, raised it to his mouth and promptly bit off two fingers, sending the clergyman into deep shock, whilst all around, the living dead gorged themselves on the bodies of their human victims. Soon they turned their full attention to the priest, their voracious appetites unsated. They converged, prodding and poking at Donnelly’s nakedness, nibbling tentatively at his trembling flesh. The priest’s terrified screams filled the tomb as the blood soaked cadavers hunkered down to indulge themselves yet again, Tommy O’Brien prominent amongst them. Donnelly strained to see past the rudimentary light thrown by the candles as something licked his feet. He saw it was a dog, one with extremely powerful jaws and a mad glint in its dim yellow eyes, revealing the presence of the evil lurking within. And then Tommy O’Brien was standing over Donnelly, naked, grinning maliciously, his penis horribly stiff and swollen. At that point Donnelly’s mind finally snapped, and he smiled back in acceptance of the living nightmare he was about to endure. Screaming was futile: no one would hear him for he was shut away, imprisoned by the monsters that were his captor’s. The dog was making a start on his foot, though he was impervious to the pain, anaesthetised by the numbing effect of insanity. He allowed himself to be manhandled onto his stomach and felt the weight of another bear down on his back as the child-thing sought to defile his tortured body, practising sweet revenge on the paedophile priest. And then a voice that was neither a man’s nor a child’s but both, whispered into his ear. “We know your sins, Father. We know them well.”

  Moment’s later Donnelly’s inhuman rapist spilled its rotten seed into his ailing body to the stirring of a multitude of hungry mouths that invaded his flesh, swiftly turning him into a feast for the dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Milo Pilkington had been introduced to the security business by his elder brother, Tony, following nine long months of soul destroying unemployment. That was six months ago. Since then he had been forced to accept the scummiest jobs imaginable in order to keep that position, guarding building sites, scraps-yards—on one occasion he had found himself patrolling a rat infested municipal dump. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he had also been assigned to patrol inner city council estates where delinquent kids, not merely content to increase crime statistics, regularly operated with knives and guns.

  Unpleasant as those jobs were, they paled into insignificance with the one to which he was presently assigned, which was to guard Northwalk Mortuary, from where it was rumoured corpses had recently been stolen, which had yet to be recovered. Initially, the prospect had spooked Milo to such an extent that he’d had second thoughts when offered the job, but the cash was badly needed. A wife and young baby couldn’t survive on fresh air alone. Neither could he, though he might have chosen to try, rather than take up his present post had he not had dependents.

  He walked into the mortuary that evening, ready for his nightly stint down in the basement of the large deserted municipal building, giving the place the obligatory once over as he went, never expecting to find anything out of the ordinary. After all: who in their right mind would want to break into a morgue, he mused as he travelled the lonely corridors, before taking a steep flight of steps downwards. Someone had, he reminded himself, and they had been crazy enough to steal stiffs for Christ’s sake. As expected the place was deserted, and Milo resigned himself to another long night sitting around twiddling his thumbs until the morning sun rose, and the daytime staff arrived, allowing him to go home to his needy family.

  The main mortuary area took the form of an antiseptically clean windowless white tiled room equipped with surgical equipment, sparkling stainless steel sinks and half a dozen hospital gurneys. It also housed a large number of refrigerated lockers set neatly into two elongated walls, containing the bodies of the deceased. Suicides, accident victims, victims of old age, sickness, they were all here, ready to be dispatched to their final resting-place.

  As Milo entered the tiny annex room that served as the kitchen, he thought he heard movement out in the main room. Leaving his sandwich box and flask on top of the low standing fridge, he went to investigate. No one was there but had he really expected there to be? The staff had departed hours ago. His eyes scanned the wall opposite, where the mortuary occupants rested in their refrigerated homes, and he found himself wondering not for the first time if all the stories he’d heard about the dead rising up against the living were true? He shuddered at the notion that they were, and quickly let it drop. He looked over at the door that led out into the corridor and wondered if the noise had come from that direction? He took a moment to listen for further sounds, heard nothing and returned to the kitchen, where he placed his sandwiches in the fridge, before pouring a mug of steaming coffee from the flask.

  When he re-entered the main mortuary area he heard the noise again. It sounded like—what exactly—shuffling, yeah, that was it, thought Milo: it sounded like someone was making their way slowly along the corridor outside towards the mortuary room, dragging their feet as they went. Milo placed his coffee mug silently onto the sink drainer and then paused, unsure whether he really wanted to know what was out there in the corridor.

  All at once the overhead lights flickered. Milo cursed under his breath. The bloody things seemed to have a bad habit of failing whenever he was on duty. The municipal building was old and badly needed updating. He supposed he should be used to it by now, but that wasn’t the case. It always put him on edge. And tonight there were the sounds he was hearing as well. He swallowed uneasily and loosened his collar and tie. His windpipe felt constricted. He was perspiring. He looked over at the far wall again and in his mind’s eye, saw the mortuary lockers sliding open of their own volition, t
he bodies inside climbing clumsily to their feet and crossing the room towards him. He imagined them shuffling, because that was how the risen dead were supposed to move. In most of the films he had ever seen on the subject, zombies were clumsy slothful creatures. Yet oddly, they nearly always got their victim.

  When no further sounds came, Milo put it down to his imagination playing tricks. He was just about to turn and go back into the kitchen when he saw a shadow pass behind the semi-transparent Perspex swing doors leading out into the corridor. Somebody was out there after all. But how had they gotten in without him realising it? Had they, whoever they were, already been in here lying in wait? The mortician, a guy called Straps was usually the last to leave. Maybe he was still here. But why hadn’t he made his presence known if that were the case? Milo had only met him once, briefly. He was a tall thin man with a dour expression, in keeping with his chosen profession, Milo had thought at the time. Another sound reached his ears that came from a floor to ceiling cupboard on the other side of the room. Was someone hiding in the cupboard?

  “Shit,” Milo said to himself. He felt for his mobile phone, which was attached to his belt and thought seriously about using it. The noise might be nothing more than a broom or some such thing falling against the door, he thought. As for the shadow he’d seen flit behind the swing doors, it mightn’t have been anything more than a trick of the light. Nevertheless, it was better to be safe than sorry. With that thought in mind, he crossed the room to the cupboard, pulled open the door and immediately froze. For a long time he stood rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.