Run to Ground

by Bark, Jasper

  “That’s right, lad, I’m Dawn’s father.”

  THE END

  “Run to Ground” is part of a story cycle known as The Heresy Series.

  The series explores the ancient blasphemy known as the Qu’rm Saddic Heresy.

  The following story “How the Dark Bleeds” is also part of this series, as is the novel The Final Cut, which is out now from Crystal Lake.

  If you enjoy the two stories in this book then we think you’ll also enjoy The Final Cut. In fact, we’ve included the first two chapters at the end of this book just to whet your appetite. Hope you enjoy.

  For those who’d like to learn more about the Qu’rm Saddic heresy, we’ve also included a short essay by the leading academic expert on the heresy—Nicola Tanthus PhD.

  HOW THE DARK BLEEDS

  The scalpels were so sharp Stephanie could almost taste them.

  It had taken her a while to steal a full set. The long ones were the hardest to acquire. The surgeons notice when they go missing.

  She arranged them in order of size for the tenth time that night, laying them out on the bare floor of the basement room. It used to be an auxiliary boiler room but they gutted it when they modernised the hospital’s plumbing. Now it was empty apart from a few supply boxes. The bare walls hadn’t been painted for over two decades and the only light bulb had been smashed.

  Stephanie had brought a flashlight. She wasn’t ready to let the darkness into the room. The darkness didn’t threaten her, but what waited there did. Presences that thrived in the darkest hours and places.

  The urge to use the scalpels was growing. Stephanie couldn’t hold out much longer. She felt dizzy with longing as she picked up the shortest scalpel and thought about how it would feel slicing through her jugular.

  Stephanie’s heart beat faster and to hold back the yearning just a little longer, she pressed her index finger onto the blade. It sliced through the layers of skin and a thick red trickle of blood ran out. She could feel the presences in the dark draw closer as she let the blood spatter on the concrete floor forming a tiny pool.

  Stephanie shone the flashlight on the little red pool. Maybe it was because she hadn’t eaten in a day or more, or perhaps she really was losing it, but Stephanie was sure she could see pictures reflected on the surface of the blood. Images that swam in and out of focus like sediment rising from the bottom of a disturbed pond.

  The images looked familiar. She stared harder, willing them into focus as she realised what they were. They were scenes from her life. Not memories, because she was watching herself from the outside. It was a disconcerting feeling, like watching yourself on video, or hearing how your recorded voice sounds for the first time. Her life was being played back to her, stripped of all the self serving misconceptions that so often colour our memories.

  There was a word for what she was experiencing but Stephanie couldn’t quite remember it. She’d had a conversation about it just recently, she was sure. Maybe the images in the blood would remind her. She stared hard as a scene began to form, a scene from her recent past.

  Stephanie saw herself on the hospital wards, in the ICU . . .

  ***

  Stephanie’s uniform hung awkwardly about her. She could never find one that fitted. They were always too small or too large for her.

  She tried to adjust it surreptitiously as the Duty Nurse briefed her. Stephanie nodded without paying too much attention. She was supposed to sit with someone on a suicide watch.

  The patient had suffered third degree burns from a house fire. Her father had died in the fire and the patient had tried to take her own life, so she had to be kept under constant supervision.

  Stephanie sat down beside the patient and smiled politely. The patient gave Stephanie a cursory glance and then went back to scowling at her book. She was thin, with close cropped brown hair, olive skin and elfin features. She seemed to be repressing an intense, twitchy energy, as though there were something inside her trying to scratch its way out.

  Her right arm and shoulder were covered with heavy dressing. The dog eared paperback she was staring at was The Living Goddesses by Marija Gimbutas. There was a pile of similar textbooks and faded hardbacks by her bedside.

  “Good book?” said Stephanie.

  Without looking up the patient said: “Her work’s largely dismissed by most academic and she makes too many unwarranted assertions, but her views on the origins of religion are worth consideration.”

  “But you’re enjoying it, right?”

  “This isn’t the sort of book you read for enjoyment.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it is. Are you a student then?”

  The patient put down her book and stared straight ahead, not bothering to hide her irritation. “You know, none of the other nurses asked so many questions.”

  “I’m not like the other nurses.”

  The patient smiled and turned to look at Stephanie for the first time, gazing right into her. “No, you’re not are you,” she said, implying something Stephanie couldn’t quite grasp.

  “My name’s Stephanie by the way, I didn’t catch yours.”

  “It’s Jan.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m sorry if I ask too many questions. I like to make time for people, that’s all. The other nurses might be caught up with their workloads but I like to find out what’s going on. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen, that they miss. The people that have just walked in here, right under their noses.”

  “Oh, I think I would.”

  Jan relaxed, and her mood thawed. “I’m not a student, but I was doing a PhD a few years ago. My Aunt brought my old books in. I’d left them at her house. She hopes I’ll pick it up again, to take my mind off what happened.”

  “What did happen?”

  “I’d rather talk about my PhD.”

  “Of course, sorry. I’m not an academic, but you could try explaining what it’s about.”

  “Well it was supposed to be about ‘Negative Depictions of Femininity in Pre-Rational Goddess Culture’, or that was the title at least. It ended up being about the Heolfor.”

  “The what? Is that a foreign word or something?”

  “It’s ancient Anglo Saxon. It means gore, or blood spilled in anger, but it might have a deeper meaning, one whose roots go back to an almost forgotten myth.” Jan pulled an old book out of the pile by her bed and turned to a passage. The print was too small for Stephanie to read. “The first definite mention of the myth is in the Nine Herbs Charm, an Old English spell to treat infection and poisoning. It says ‘These nine herbs have power against nine horrors, against nine venoms and against nine poisons: Against the red venom, against the running venom, against the blood that walks in woman’s form, in sisterhood compact.”

  “Okay, you’re beginning to lose me.”

  “That’s okay, I’m not done yet. There are a few other mentions in Anglo Saxon writing, including suggestions that the Heolfor were around before even the Celts got here. The next important reference to the Heolfor is in the Malleus Maleficarum.”

  Jan rifled through another book and pointed out a replica of a woodcut title page. “It’s Latin for ‘Hammer of the Witches.’ Basically it’s a handbook for hunting and persecuting witches written in 1486. At one point it tells the story of Marie Van Stratten, a woman who claimed her blood was bewitched and was desperate to be free of her so it could join the Heolfor. She claimed her blood was speaking to her and begging her to slash her wrists so it could escape her body. She disappeared soon after on the night of a new moon.”

  “Why a new moon?”

  “Ah, now this is where it gets interesting. Have you heard of Edward Kelley?”

  Stephanie smiled to herself and turned away so that Jan wouldn’t see. She poured a glass of water so Jan wouldn’t wonder why she’d moved. Some patients could be so taciturn to begin with, but get them on the right topic and they’ll pour their hearts out.

  “You should drink this,” she said handing Jan the glas
s. “Your throat sounds dry. Should I have heard of Edward Kelley?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Jan, putting down the water without touching it. “He was an alchemist and a spirit medium who hung out with Dr John Dee, Queen Elizabeth I’s court magician. They used to speak to angels by scrying.”

  “Scrying?”

  “Basically, Kelley used to stare at a polished black stone till he had visions. These angels would speak to him and Dr Dee would write down what they said. One of the things the angels told them about was . . . ”

  “Let me guess—the Heolfor.”

  “Give the lady a gold star. According to Dee and Kelley, the Heolfor represent the worst aspects of femininity and are governed by the dark side of the lunar goddess Monanom. She was a strange minor deity, a bit like the Roman god Juno. A lot of goddesses have like a threefold aspect, they’re both a maiden, a mother and a crone, representing the three stages of a woman’s life . . . I’m not boring you, am I? I have a tendency to go on a bit about this stuff.”

  “No, no, it’s really interesting, carry on.”

  “Okay, so Monanom only has two aspects, the maiden and the crone, and they’re joined back to back like Siamese twins. The maiden is in love with the sun god but she has to hide the dark crone from him. For this reason, her love is a chaste love and everyone sees her as the ideal woman while her hidden sister has to live in darkness, hidden from the sun where she can work her evil deeds. Everyone hates and fears the crone but loves and worships the maiden.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a sister like that, loved by everyone.”

  “Thought you might,” said Jan, giving her another penetrating look. Stephanie looked down at the floor, embarrassed and unnerved. Sensing this, Jan flicked to another page in her book.

  “So, anyway, the maiden aspect of Monanom inspires women to be faithful daughters, wives and mothers. The crone lives in darkness, she’s strongest when the moon is new or hidden and she inspires madness, betrayal and murder in women. The moon is supposed to affect the tides and the blood, especially menstrual blood. So the crone’s servants, the Heolfor, are composed of blood, because that’s what she has most control over.”

  “So, they’re like vampires then?”

  “No, vampires feed on blood, the Heolfor are made entirely out of blood and nothing else. Or as Dr Dee wrote ‘blood that taketh on the human form and walks as to a woman’s carriage.’ They were said to bewitch the blood with their song and drive people to hideous acts in the darkest hour of the night. Some scholars have suggested that this is the origin of the concept of ‘bad blood’ and also why early physicians were so keen on bloodletting to release bad humours.”

  “You have read a lot about this haven’t you?”

  “Told you I was obsessed.”

  “Were there lots of these Heolfor?”

  “There were nine. That was an important and magical number to the Anglo Saxons. Each of the Heolfor represent a different type of aberrant female behaviour, a bit like Jungian archetypes, if you know about that.”

  “A little.”

  “There was one that represented the worst type of wife, for instance, one who betrayed her husband, slept with his enemy and had him killed. Or the worst kind of mother, who slaughters her child, the worst daughter who disobeys and murders her father. That sort of thing. This doesn’t freak you out, does it? A lot of people get all funny when I talk about it.”

  “No, not at all, it actually makes a lot of sense to me, strangely.”

  “Excuse me,” said the Duty Nurse. She was standing right next to the bed holding a clipboard, but Stephanie hadn’t seen her come up. “I’ve just been going through the staff roster and I can’t seem to find you . . . ”

  ***

  Stephanie closed her eyes to stop the vision. She didn’t want to see anymore. The rest of the memory was tedious and she was happy to let it end there.

  So scrying was the word she was looking for. Was that what she was doing with the blood? Stephanie wasn’t seeing any angels though. She wondered if Edward Kelley ever saw dark visions from his past. Things he hadn’t told Dee about.

  She stretched her back and shifted onto her haunches because her knees were sore. The flashlight flickered, its beam dimmer. The batteries were starting to go. She couldn’t hold the dark at bay much longer.

  She couldn’t keep her eyes off the pool of blood either. Stephanie leant forward and gazed at it. An image of her reflection swam to the surface. Only it wasn’t Stephanie’s reflection as she was now, it was a reflection from the past. A transparent reflection in the window of a ward. A window through which Stephanie was watching Mike . . .

  ***

  He had his back to her and he seemed worn down, stooped and a little older. Stephanie couldn’t stop herself feeling a twinge of satisfaction. Maybe if he hadn’t left Stephanie for her own sister he might not be so sad.

  Stephanie had been three months pregnant when Mike left. She miscarried soon after. It had happened at three in the morning. Stephanie had phoned Mike as she sat on the loo, screaming at him as the blood poured out of her. Mike had claimed he was at his mother’s at the time, the liar.

  Stephanie felt mean going over those memories though. Mike was looking at his child in an incubator. The tiny infant boy was six weeks premature. Mike had a right to be sad and concerned. Anyone in his position would be.

  Stephanie usually avoided the Neonatal ICU. Today she’d decided to visit. She hadn’t expected to see Mike here. She hung back, uncertain of what to do, not wanting to make things awkward.

  Mike looked lonely. Her sister was nowhere to be seen. That was probably just as well. Stephanie didn’t think she could face her at the moment.

  Stephanie’s sister had plotted against Stephanie her whole life. She made a point of stealing what Stephanie prized most, especially when she was a teenager, that’s when her sister stole their parents’ love. She’d been having mental problems and they had to take her out of school for a while.

  Stephanie spent long hours in her bedroom, wearing the same nightie for weeks on end, listening to her sister play up to her parents downstairs. She was being the perfect daughter that Stephanie could never be. Her parents never looked at her sister with the same weary disappointment they reserved for Stephanie.

  It would make Stephanie so angry that she’d scream at her mother when she came in to change the bed sheets or try to coax Stephanie into a clean nightie. Her mother and father responded to these fits with a tired resignation.

  Stephanie knew her sister was making the most of the situation. Soaking up the extra love and attention until finally there was none left for Stephanie.

  Things got a little better when her sister went away. That’s when Stephanie started taking her pills and seeing a psychiatrist. Sometimes she would tell her psychiatrist how she felt when she pictured her sister at boarding school or travelling in Europe. Stephanie’s psychiatrist would always try and discourage her from thinking or talking about her sister, though. So Stephanie never told how she fantasised that her sister and seven others were secretly plotting her downfall.

  Mike also discouraged Stephanie when she told him about her sister. He encouraged Stephanie not to dwell on her or what happened in her past. Then one day, without any warning he just up and left Stephanie for the one person who had stolen everything from her.

  After what seemed like ages staring at the incubator, Mike turned round without any warning, and caught Stephanie’s eye. Stephanie froze. She couldn’t just turn her back and walk away. She had to face him. He was wearing the same look of weary resignation that she used to see on her parents’ faces. That was her sister’s doing. That’s how she made everyone look at Stephanie, eventually.

  Mike stepped out into the corridor where Stephanie had been watching him. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, there were streaks of gray running through his dark brown hair and his deep brown eyes looked watery and bloodshot. He appeared to have shrunk as well. He was never tall at five
foot nine, but with everything weighing on his slumped shoulders he seemed to have lost two inches in height. Stephanie hoped her sister was happy.

  “Stephanie . . . I . . . ” Mike said, letting the sentence just trail off as though there were so many things he wanted to say that he couldn’t pick one.

  “How is he?” said Stephanie, pointing to the incubator.

  “Haven’t you been in to check yourself?” said Mike. “When was the last time you looked?”

  “Look, Mike, please, I don’t want to argue with you. I understand how you feel. I don’t want to add to your grief.” Mike looked surprised. “You understand how I feel?”

  “Well obviously. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Mike’s tone changed. He became more conciliatory. “That’s good. It’s really good that you understand, it’s a good sign.” A tentative affection crept across Mike’s face and he reached out and took Stephanie’s hand.

  Stephanie hadn’t felt his fingers wrapped around hers for such a long time, it was a shock. She felt both joy and loss at the same time. Sometimes the simplest displays of emotion are the most honest. Stephanie’s defences melted and she remembered why she loved Mike and how fierce that love was, in spite of everything he’d done.

  “Stephanie, could you . . . could you do something for me?”

  “Of course,” said Stephanie. Mike pointed to the incubator. “Something that would really help him, and me . . . and your parents.” Stephanie began to feel uneasy at the mention of her parents. Her unease only grew as Mike reached into his pocket and she heard a familiar rattle.