Silent as the Grave

by Bill Kitson

  ‘Now, when you’d been given a second chance, a chance that isn’t open to everyone, what have you done? Exactly as you did before. Ignored others, ignored what they were feeling, what pain and distress they were in, and gone your own sweet way until it was too late. You’ve lost her, Adam, exactly as you lost me, and for the same reason. Because in your foolish, blind, selfish arrogance you failed to see what she needed from you until it was too late.’

  I woke up by sitting up. I was bolt upright in bed with a pounding headache, sweat pouring off me as if I was in the heat of a tropical rainforest. Although I was sweating I felt cold; chilled to the marrow by the ghastly nightmare. It was the coldness of fear; the icy desperation of terror that gripped me. As I strove to remember and rationalize the grisly dream that had haunted me I knew there was more than just a bizarre twisting of events in the nightmare. Somewhere within my fantasy lay a key I must try to use.

  I glanced at the luminous dial of my watch. 2.15 a.m. I had slept barely three hours and felt jaded, yet I knew I couldn’t rest any longer. I flicked on the bedside lamp and stumbled from the bed. I’ve no idea how long I paced the bedroom floor trying to shake the memory of my terrifying dream. It did not recede; rather it intensified. I sat on the ottoman at the base of the bed and began to think. It did no good, for all my puzzling I felt I was no closer to a solution than when I’d begun. My mouth felt dry and I needed a glass of water. As I stood up and turned towards the dressing table for a glass I bumped my thigh painfully against the corner of the ottoman. I stood for a moment cursing the Rowe family ancestor who had placed the ancient box in my room. I leaned on the lid for support. I stared at the box. Was this what had been under my nose and overlooked all along? I dismissed the thought as fanciful but it refused to be dismissed and the more I tried, the stronger it returned. I went and filled my water glass and sipped it slowly as I looked at the antique wooden blanket box. I set the glass down and approached the chest slowly; almost apprehensively. I had looked inside when we were searching for the missing briefcase; knew it contained blankets.

  I reached for the lid. There was no creak, of the type so beloved of film-makers, as I opened it. The chest was too well-made for that. My imagination wandered to picture a line of movie directors arriving at the Pearly Gates only to be served with writs for defamation by Chippendale or Hepplewhite. I dismissed the notion and lifted the lid to find the blanket box still contained blankets. Nevertheless, my curiosity remained high and I lifted the blankets out of the chest one by one. I stacked them alongside on the floor until I was looking at them empty interior of the box. My fanciful imagination satisfied I stared at the empty receptacle. Despite my initial disappointment there remained a slight query in my mind. Something wasn’t right.

  I told myself I was clutching at straws, that whatever the meaning of my dream, if indeed there was any other explanation but the workings of an overwrought brain; this was not the answer. Such weird coincidences only happen within the covers of lurid thrillers or in the realms of Hollywood films. Despite my overwhelming sense of anti-climax the notion refused to go away. Something wasn’t right about this chest. I looked again at the age-darkened, oak-panelled ottoman. What had I failed to spot? What was there to see? It was no more than a rectangular container without legs sitting flush to the floor, filled with blankets.

  I had given up and picked up the first of the blankets to replace them inside the ottoman when I paused. I looked at the small pile of bedding; then at the chest. ‘That’s odd,’ I told myself. I stared again at the chest; then at the blankets. I moved directly in front of the ottoman and sat on the floor. When I was seated, the top of the box was at eye level. It was when I viewed it from this angle that I realized what was wrong. When I’d opened the ottoman the pile of blankets had reached within half an inch of the lid. Stacked alongside the chest they only came halfway up the side. Obviously there was a difference between the dimensions of the interior and the exterior; a marked difference at that. To my mind there could only be one logical explanation for this. The base of the blanket container was not the base of the box. There was a hidden compartment below it.

  I leapt to my feet and stared at the interior. The base and walls of the box were plain. No blemish that might be a device for accessing the hidden part of the chest. I suddenly realized I was cold. Before I began a detailed examination I decided it would be a wise precaution to get dressed. As I did so, I thought over the problem. Of course there wouldn’t be access via the interior, I told myself; that would be too obvious for the cabinet maker. If the object was to create a secret compartment the way to open it would be hard to find or it would defeat the object.

  As soon as I was dressed I resumed my examination. I pulled it away from the bed. That in itself wasn’t easy, as the chest was extremely heavy. One significant fact occurred to me from my initial inspection. The box had been designed with a secret compartment in mind rather than a false base being put in later. Although, as I’d surmised, the way into the inner compartment would not be obvious; it would be visible if only one knew what to look for. I stared long and hard at the chest, studying it from all angles. I even tipped it on one end to see if the access might be through the base.

  No success perhaps, but a faint thrill of excitement for, as I tilted the ottoman, I was sure I felt something move within it. I replaced the chest on the floor and paced around it once more, looking at the design. It was a long time before the solution came to me. It was an obvious one really, but all magicians’ tricks are easy once they are explained. All the joints holding the sides of the box together were off the type known as ‘tongue and groove’. They were exquisitely made, fitting perfectly together. Possibly the craftsman had used a little glue to help secure them initially but from the high standard of workmanship I thought that even that might not have been necessary. If the maker had used nothing but tongue and groove joints to build the chest, then why was there a screw hole complete with screw one-third of the way up the rear panel of the chest?

  I reached into the pocket of my body warmer and removed my Swiss army knife. I opened the flat-bladed screwdriver and gave the screw a quarter turn. There was a soft click and the false bottom of the chest sprang open on beautifully made concealed hinges. I stared at the interior of the compartment. My excitement was at fever pitch as I reached inside and removed the heavy ancient volume from within. I was in absolutely no doubt that I had discovered the missing book; the Rowe family journal. What secrets would it yield? I wondered as I placed it carefully on the bed. I opened it at the first page and began to read.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The manuscript was old, the pages yellowed with age. The journal had been compiled in many different scripts; some of them impossible to decipher. There was obviously a marked variation in the standard of literacy of the many contributors. In parts the ink had faded so badly as to be completely illegible. I have to say that these sections, and those where the handwriting defied deciphering, were the only parts of the volume that I derived any pleasure from. My enjoyment was one of relief from a catalogue of crime such as I had never witnessed before or ever wish to read again.

  I hadn’t delved far into the volume before I became convinced that the legend of inherited insanity of the most terrible sort within the Rowe family was far more than a myth. It was an all-too-sickening reality that had been understated rather than exaggerated with the passage of time. The journal had not been started by William and Roland Rowe but their crimes had been faithfully catalogued by a descendant.

  I wondered as I read the account of some of the twins’ misdeeds whether they had been recorded out of some perverted sense of pride in their achievements or whether they served a more practical use? Had they perhaps been set down as a benchmark for future generations to follow – or even as a challenge for them to outdo the evils of their forbears?

  If it was the latter, it soon became apparent that William and Roland’s successors had risen to the challenge with enthusiasm an
d alacrity. It seemed there was little or no crime or perversion the various generations of the Rowe family were incapable of committing. Nor, it appeared, was it only on the male side that this dark genetic fault had been passed down through the centuries.

  Sickening tales of kidnap, rape, and murder were accompanied throughout the blood-bespattered pages by equally sinister accounts of incest, sodomy, nymphomania, and even necrophilia. In my entire journalistic career I had never seen or heard of anything so appalling, so lacking in any leavening aspect of shame or remorse at the horrors being so carefully set on record. I skimmed the pages, for reading in depth was impossible. I have a strong stomach, but not as strong as that.

  My reason for wishing to find the journal had been twofold. To discover if there was truth in the legend of madness in the Rowe family for one thing: well, I’d certainly achieved that. My second motive was to discover if certain crimes had been committed and now I knew the truth of that also; not that it afforded me much comfort.

  My last piece of reading was so horrific I closed the journal suddenly and threw it violently on top of the bed in disgust. My heart went out to the nameless, faceless victims whose torments had been so great. Their suffering had not been forgotten, it had never been recognized. I went into the shower room. I felt sick and dirty, as if I’d never be clean again, as if the mere act of reading this dreadful journal of sin had robbed me of every wholesome thought. I washed my hands; then as if that was not enough scrubbed them. The book had been musty with age and my hands were grubby but there was something rather more symbolic in the care with which I washed my hands. Once I had finished drying them I used the corner of the towel to lift the book. My intention was to replace it inside the secret compartment within the ottoman from which I wished it had never been disinterred.

  As I picked it up, I noticed a tiny piece of paper, barely visible, protruding from the end of the spine, presumably dislodged by my violent treatment. I looked at it carefully. It appeared to be the corner of a folded piece of notepaper. My curiosity was roused despite a warning voice that cautioned me that I might find it contained fresh horrors. Using the tiny pliers within my multi-tool, I managed to obtain a grip on it. I pulled gently and eased it out. The paper had obviously been carefully concealed.

  I unfolded the paper and inspected the contents with mounting interest. The date was the first thing to catch my eye. Once I realized the significance of that I turned the letter over to discover the identity of the writer and the addressee. My excitement mounted as I began to read the text of what was clearly a love letter.

  I was in turn shocked and amused, enlightened and puzzled by the message contained within the letter. It was only after I had read the contents for a third time that the full implication struck me. Suddenly, it felt as if everything I had heard and read about Mulgrave Castle and the Rowe family, the curse, the madness, and the legends, had been turned on its head.

  I paused for a long time, undecided what to do with this information. In the end I folded the letter carefully and secreted it, not back in the journal but in a hidden, interior pocket within my gilet. The contents of that letter were potentially explosive. I had to work out what relevance they had to the crimes that had been committed recently. Even if they were unconnected, the information within that letter would have far-reaching consequences if it became known. In any case, the facts had remained secret for a long time. A little while longer would not be harmful.

  I replaced the journal in its hiding place and locked the secret compartment, pulled the ottoman into position at the foot of my bed, and replaced the blankets. I sat down on the chest to consider the facts I had learned from within the pages of that testament of wickedness.

  Apart from the confirmation of the crimes that had been committed and the madness that had brought them about, the most significant fact within the journal had been confirmation of the existence of the secret room I had guessed at from Miles Rowe’s history of the castle. It was now plain that Miles had read the journal. His careful avoidance of any mention of the misdeeds led me to speculate whether the omission was due to tacit acceptance or shame.

  I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see the time was 6.30 a.m. I drew the curtains back. Although it was still dark, I could see the sky was clear and cloudless. I was relieved, for Charlie’s sake as much as anything. At last he would be able to get transferred to hospital and receive proper medical attention. As well as that the change in the weather should mean that the police would be able to reach the castle and begin their investigation into the murders of Beaumont and Rathbone along with the attacks on Charlie, Marsh, and me.

  If the police concentrated their efforts on the current crimes, the least I could do would be to attempt to solve the ancient mysteries and settle the issues raised by the legends for all time. In order to do that I would have to locate the chamber built ostensibly to house the fugitive priests. I was now aware that this could have a far more sinister purpose.

  The corridors of the castle were deserted, as was to be expected at so early an hour. I reached the head of the stairs and paused. Whether it was the quietness of the old building or my reaction to the horrors I had recently been reading I wasn’t sure, but I had a feeling that I was being followed or that someone was watching me. I dismissed the idea as fanciful and began making my way down the broad staircase towards the ground floor.

  I paused again at the bottom. Had that sound been the echo of my footsteps or was someone else moving about close by? I glanced back up the stairs. Once more I felt a slightly uncomfortable sensation that I was not alone. I shrugged it off. I was obviously in an over-sensitive frame of mind.

  I walked slowly across the wide hall, my nerves taut as piano wire. As I reached the library door the merest wisp of noise reached me. Had it been via my ears or was it my imagination playing tricks? I opted for it being my imagination. I opened the door slowly. When it was half open, the door creaked and so jangled were my nerves by this point that the sound made me shudder with apprehension and glance wildly round in all directions. There was nothing. Gradually, my nerves settled and my pulse rate reduced to a more acceptable level. I stepped cautiously into the library, casting darting glances to my left and right with every stride. The room was empty. I closed the door carefully behind me and paced slowly to the far end of the room, close to the huge fireplace. As I reached it I thought I heard that sound again and turned sharply. I looked around. The room was empty, nothing was moving and yet this time I was convinced it had not been my imagination. Although there was nothing to see and the door remained firmly closed as I had left it seconds before; something had made that slightest of sounds.

  I was still pondering what to do when everything went dark. I was conscious for a split second but hadn’t time to react to the bag being dropped over my head before the blow came and I felt nothing more.

  I remember a blurred impression of consciousness, of being aware that my hands and feet were bound and of being dragged along a smooth surface. Then there was a pause and through the thick dark canvas hood that had been used to blindfold me I heard the faint muttering sound of indistinct voices whispering a short conversation. The voices were too soft for me to make out the identity of the speakers. Before I could listen further I felt myself being hauled upright into a standing position. I was supported for a brief moment then I was pushed violently backwards. With both my ankles and hands tied I was incapable of saving myself. I felt myself falling then various parts of my body came in contact with a very hard surface, first my back, my elbows, and my head. Then I heard a snapping sound I didn’t much care for, from my right leg. Then I was dragged for what seemed an eternity before I blacked out.

  The first thing I was aware of was the pain. It was the pain that enabled me to establish that I was conscious. Although I was no longer blindfolded the darkness was as complete as when my assailant had placed the bag over my head. I tried to move and the agonizing pain level shot up. I tried to assess my situation a
nd as the mists slowly cleared from my battered brain I realized with a fresh outburst of horror where I was. And that I was not alone.

  I knew where I was by the darkness; yet those who were with me could no longer tell whether it was light or dark. I knew where I was by the coldness; yet those who were with me could no longer tell whether it was cold or hot. I guessed where I was by the lack of sound; yet those who were with me could neither see, nor feel, nor hear.

  For them and now for me; this place was as silent as the grave.

  For them and now for me; this place was their grave.

  I tried to think but a wave of despair swept over me. Thinking had done me absolutely no good so far. Thinking had brought me to this dreadful place; but thinking would not get me out of it. Nothing would get me out of here. I knew beyond all doubt that those who were with me had tried to think; had tried to work out a way to escape. The truth, the brutal and unavoidable reality, was that there had been no escape for them and now there would be no escape for me.

  I attempted to move and the pain became intense, unbearably so. I had experienced pain before, notably when I had been shot in Ethiopia, but this was different. This was pain layered upon more pain. It was at that point that my brain decided enough was enough and took the sensible option. It chose to shut down.

  I came to again, slowly. I could not begin to guess if this happened minutes later, or hours or even days. Time had ceased to exist. As my brain began the slow process of adjusting to the situation and came to terms with a level of pain it was now forced to accept as the standard, I became aware of a fresh sensation. It was a sound; a sound in that silent place. I listened; and heard it again a gently rustling sound with sinister overtones. A slight but definite sound, but what was making it? What would make so insidious a sound? A fresh wave of horror engulfed me as realization dawned. I knew then what had made the sound. I knew then what would be at home in this cold, dark, damp, and foul place; this silent place where I was lying imprisoned. I knew what it was that would be waiting with infinite patience until I was too weak to resist.