by Amy Cross
She drops her sponge into the bucket and starts walking around to the next side of the mausoleum. As she goes, however, she happens to glance up at one of the holes at the top of the wall, just as something seems to slip out and fall toward her. Instinctively, she turns away, just as something small, hard and jangly hits the side of her head and drops to the ground.
"What the fuck?" she asks, looking down. She doesn't see anything, so she tells herself it must have just been a piece of loose stonework.
"Great," she mutters, soaking the sponge before starting work again. "I guess this is how I'll die. Brained by a bit of falling masonry." Glancing over at the ground, she spots something glinting in the sunlight; she steps over and sees that it's a key. Once she's picked it up, she realizes that it's more than just a key; it's an old key, big and rusty like something out of a horror movie. Turning it over in her hand, she glances back up at the hole in the top of the mausoleum. How, she wonders, did a key manage to come shooting out of that thing and hit her on the head?
"This is too perfect," she says, walking around to the big metal door at the other end of the mausoleum. Before slipping the key into the lock, she pauses for a moment. It would be one thing for the mausoleum to randomly eject any old key, but if this turns out to be the missing key to the door, she might have to rethink her opinions on coincidences and spiritual intervention. Taking a deep breath, she slips the key into the lock, turns it, and feels the bolt slide away.
"Great," she mutters. "Of course it turned out that this was the missing key. In this crazy-ass place, how could it not be the key?"
She glances over her shoulder, to make doubly sure that she's alone.
"What do you think, Sparky?" she asks, staring at the now-unlocked door. "To go in, or not to go in? That's the question." She thinks back to Mayor Winters' agitated insistence that she should, under no circumstances, go through the door, even in the unlikely event that she got it open. He was most definite on that subject; at the same time, she feels as if the key's serendipitous arrival must mean something, and that it wouldn't hurt to at least open the door and peer inside, even if she doesn't actually enter. "Keep this between us, Sparky, okay?" she says quietly, before grabbing hold of the heavy door with both hands and forcing it open. It's not an easy job, and the hinges creak like mad, but eventually she manages to get it open just a couple of feet.
"I'm going in," she says out loud, affecting the tone of voice of a soldier who's about to embark upon a deadly mission, before grabbing a torch from her work-belt and shining a beam into the mausoleum's dark interior. The light picks out nothing but bare walls at first, although eventually she spots what appears to be a long stone box pushed to one side. Leaning a little further in, she's surprised by the dank, cold air, and by the huge mass of ivy that has grown all over the place. She steps forward, keen to see the rest of the place, even if she knows deep down that she's already come way too far.
"Hey," she says, her voice sounding so small in the empty stone space. "I'm the new gardener," she continues. "Just thought I'd introduce myself." She takes another step forward, and now she's fully inside the mausoleum. She keeps one hand back, resting on the inside of the door; it's not like it's light enough to blow shut, but she still feels better if she can make sure there won't be an accidental entombment. Reaching up, she pulls at some of the ivy, shining the torch along its thick branches until she sees that one strand, at least, seems to have grown straight through the side of the stone coffin. "Nice," she mutters, turning and shining the torch over to the other side, where she sees another coffin. "Mr. and Mrs. Petersen, I presume," she says, before realizing that there should be three more coffins. After all, the Petersens are buried in here with their children, but the beam from the torch shows nothing but bare stonework in the rest of the mausoleum.
Stepping back outside for a moment, she hurries over to the side of the cottage and grabs her biggest scythe. She figures she might as well rip out some of the ivy while she's got the chance; it's not as if anyone's going to know, and it'll make her life a lot easier. When she gets back over to the mausoleum, she reaches inside with the scythe and starts hacking away, pulling as much out as possible. After a few minutes, she's got a fair way through the mass of foliage, but she quickly finds that one of the branches is refusing to budge. Stepping back inside the mausoleum, she follows the root down to the hole in the side of one of the coffins; when she gives it a tug, she feels as if the root is stuck in the coffin itself, which means that every time she gives it a pull, she's probably nudging the dead body, almost as if she's trying to wake it up.
"Sorry," she mutters, as she pulls again, but the ivy just won't budge. "Fine," she adds, figuring that she doesn't have to get every last piece of greenery. Shining the torch over to the other side of the interior, she spots more ivy. She steps forward, ready to pull it down, when she suddenly becomes aware of a noise outside. She looks over at the door, and for a fraction of a second she swears she sees a hunched figure hurrying out of the mausoleum. Before she can react, however, the door swings shut with an ominous thud.
"Hey!" she shouts, but it's too late and there's a creaking sound as the key is turned in the lock. Dropping the scythe and torch, she stumbles past the remaining ivy and starts banging on the inside of the door. "I'm in here!" she calls to whoever's on the other side. Pushing against the door, she realizes that there's no way of opening it from the inside. She tries not to panic as she pushes some more, but it won't budge. "Open this damn thing!" she shouts as loud as she can, worried that maybe she can't be heard properly. "Let me out!"
She waits.
Nothing.
With a heavy heart, it occurs to her that maybe she's been pranked by some of the local kids. "Damn it," she mutters, "how could I have been so fucking stupid?" Figuring that some local teenagers probably saw her coming into the mausoleum and thought it'd be hilarious to shut the door, she sighs as she realizes she might be in for a long wait. She knows they're not going to leave her inside forever, but she still finds the whole situation to be extremely creepy, and she's keen to get out before the mayor turns up and discovers her predicament.
"Great," she says, kicking the door. "Fucking great."
Turning, she sees the torch on the floor, its beam still shining bright. Picking her way carefully through the ivy, she reaches down and grabs the torch, which is now wet and grimy thanks to the dirty floor. In fact, thanks to the small holes in the roof, the inside of the mausoleum is generally pretty weather-beaten, with a puddle of cold rain-water having collected over by one of the corners. Frankly, Sam can't help feeling that if she was designing a final resting place for her family and herself, she'd want somewhere a little more swanky. The Egyptians built huge pyramids, whereas moneyed Yorkshiremen of the early twentieth century were apparently happy to accept a cold, barren stone vault.
Shining the torch over at one of the coffins, she reminds herself that there's absolutely no reason to be scared in here. There's no such thing as ghosts, and these bodies are almost a century old, so she doubts there's much to be worried about in terms of maggots or disease. The only danger in the mausoleum comes, she decides, from her own imagination, and she resolves to make sure that she doesn't get to the point where she's magnifying every noise in her mind. Mayor Winters said he'd be back later, so the worst-case scenario is that she'll have to sit around, bored stiff for a few hours, and then sheepishly apologize for having come into the mausoleum when she should have stayed out.
Figuring she might as well keep exploring the mausoleum, she turns and shines the torch toward the far wall. It still strikes her as slightly strange that while there are a couple of stone coffins for the parents, the three children don't seem to be anywhere around. She read the inscription over and over again while she was outside, and it definitely said that the family's three children, who all died young, were buried in here as well. She looks down, but there don't seem to be any slabs on the floor. Feeling a drip on the back of her neck, she realize
s that her attempts to turn this lock-in into some kind of mystery are probably doomed to failure. If the children aren't in the mausoleum, it's because of some mundane, long-forgotten decision. Another drip lands on the back of her neck, and she absent-mindedly wipes it away as she walks back to the door and gives it another push.
No luck.
Another drip falls onto her. This time, a little frustrated, she wipes it away before shining the torch up.
And that's when she sees them.
Suspended in mid-air, a few inches above Sam's head, there are three child-shaped bundles, like Egyptian mummies wrapped in cloth, hanging from a series of ropes. They have strange fan-like objects, almost like wings, attached to their backs, and their faces are marked by thick, dark red patches of blood that have soaked through from their eyes and mouths.
Chapter Four
"The Devil is here!" Father Jones shouts as he barges through the door of Mayor Winters' office. "Right here in Rippon! In the church, no less!" Pausing for breath after his exhausting run across the town square, the old man is almost bent double as he feels a pain in his chest. "The Devil," he continues, gasping for air. "He's here! I warned you, all this sinfulness has lured him into our midst!"
After a moment, Father Jones stands up straight and looks over at the other side of the room, where Mayor Winters is sitting with a stunned look on his face. Unaccustomed to such sudden and dramatic interruptions, the mayor was busy dozing in his chair since his return from the cemetery, and he'd hoped to make it all the way to lunch before being roused. He certainly hadn't anticipated being so rudely interrupted by a member of the clergy.
"Did you hear me?" Father Jones shouts. "The Devil!"
"What devil?" Mayor Winters asks.
"How many are there?" Father Jones replies, hurrying over to the desk. "The Devil is here. In this very town. All these years of sin and greed and modern living have caught up with us. I hope you're satisfied. It's under your leadership that the morality of this town has reached such an appallingly low level. Don't think I haven't seen that some young, unmarried little trollop has taken up residence in the cemetery cottage. You've disrespected the old ways, and now there's a price to pay!"
"I think you might be a little confused," the mayor replies.
"The Devil is here!" the old man shouts.
"The Devil?" Mayor Winters says, staring blankly at the old man. "You mean... the Devil?"
"I saw him," Father Jones says. "Well, not directly, but I saw the mark of his presence. He came right into my church, as brazen as the day he was born, and he walked right up to the altar and he... he..." His voice trails off as he finds himself overcome by the emotion of the whole situation. Even though he has long despaired of the moral fortitude of Rippon's residents, he never thought that the Devil himself would be lured to the place.
"Would you like a brandy?" Mayor Winters asks, trying to be helpful.
"Alcohol?" Father Jones replies, unable to hide his sense of shock. "After everything I have just said, your solution is to imbibe the Devil's potions?"
"Just a small glass?"
Overcome by fury and utterly unable to speak, Father Jones leans on the desk for a moment. His mind is briefly filled with horrific visions in which the entire town of Rippon is ripped asunder by demonic forces, burning the residents and dragging them down to the pits of Hell. He has often been consumed by such flights of fancy, which tend to give him something of a thrill, but this time his fears seem far more substantial.
"Do you mind if I have a drink?" Mayor Winters asks, checking his watch and seeing that he's more or less in the lunchtime zone.
"I don't know why I bother," Father Jones replies, his voice filled with anger. "For forty years, I have served this town faithfully. I have sought to spread the word of God, to encourage the citizens of Rippon to live pure and saintly lives. In some small ways, I have succeeded, but it is clear now that I have failed the community as a whole. I do not know who brought such darkness to -"
"So where is he?" Mayor Winters asks, interrupting him.
"Who?"
"The Devil." He pauses for a moment. "Do you think he's going to stay? Has he booked a room?"
"There is only one solution," Father Jones continues. "We must pray. We must all pray, and offer ourselves to God so that He might grant us salvation."
"That might be difficult," Mayor Winters replies. "You see, I'm not sure that the people of Rippon are very keen on such things. I mean, they're happy to pay lip service to the whole idea of the Devil, but when it comes down to it, I'm not sure how many of them actually believe that he's... well... real."
"Not real?" Father Jones roars, sweeping his arms across the desk and sending Mayor Winters' papers flying across the room. "Is that what you'll say when you're thrown into the pits of Hell? As the Devil laughs in your face, will you scream that he's not real?" Leaning across the desk, he grabs Mayor Winters by the collar and pulls him closer. "Are you such a fool that you would dare speak up to the Devil in such a way?"
"Not really," Mayor Winters replies, trying to get free from the old man's grip.
"Then you have no choice," Father Jones continues, pulling him even closer. "You must ensure that the people of Rippon gather together in the town square in one hour's time, so that we can project our love to God and hope that he will forgive us our many, many... many... many sins. Is that understood? Do you accept the need for such a show of faith?"
"I suppose so," Mayor Winters says, "but I'm not sure how many people will -"
"You must compel them!" Father Jones shouts, shaking the mayor's collar violently. "You must use your words to drag them from their homes!" Finally letting go of the mayor, he turns and strides to the door, before glancing back at the desk. "You claim to be a leader of men, Mr. Winters. Now is the time for you to show that you are not just hot air. Now is the time for you to lead this town and demand that its citizens return to the right path. If you do not live up to the demands of your role, I can assure you that you will swiftly witness the collapse of Rippon into the pits of Hell." He pauses for a moment, mainly for dramatic effect. "One hour!" he roars finally. "The town square! See that it is so!"
With that, Father Jones storms out of the office, making his way into the town square and striding purposefully back toward the church. Determined to ensure that the Devil does not take control of Rippon, he's convinced that he can drive the beast out of the town, so long as he has the support of the local townsfolk. If this does not happen, however, he fears that the whole of Rippon will be dragged screaming into the fires of Hell.
Chapter Five
Standing in the middle of the mausoleum, Sam stares up at the children. It's them. It has to be them. They look like they've been caught in some kind of huge spider web, except it's not a spider web: it's a series of ropes that are holding them in place, hanging from the ceiling. The strange shapes on their backs appear to be faded, painted wings made of wire and paper, as if someone decided it'd be nice to give them some decoration before hanging them up like this. The creepiest thing, though, is their faces: each head has three red patches of blood in the bandages, approximating two eyes and a mouth, and its from these patches that drops of blood occasionally fall.
"Hello?" Sam shouts, deciding that she really, really wants to get the hell out of the mausoleum. She steps over to the door and starts banging, hoping that even if there's no-one else in the cemetery, maybe someone in the nearby street will hear her. It's a long-shot, but it's worth a try. "Hello?" she shouts again. "Girl trapped in tomb here! Can anyone hear me?"
Nothing.
Silence.
Sighing, she thinks of the empty cemetery stretching out around the mausoleum. With a mounting feeling of dread, she realizes that she's kidding herself if she thinks that she has any chance of being heard until someone actually comes close to the mausoleum. At least Mayor Winters said he'd be back later, which means she's not going to wither away and starve indefinitely. The biggest problem is the cold; w
hile the sun is shining outside, in the mausoleum it's absolutely freezing, and the constant drips of icy water aren't helping. Hugging herself for warmth, she walks over to the other end of the mausoleum and -
"You're cold," says a voice suddenly. A hushed, whispered, slow and raspy voice, but a voice nonetheless. It sounds distant, and after a brief moment of blind panic, Sam realizes that it's coming from over by the door.
"Hello?" she shouts, heading back to the entrance. "Is someone out there?"
"You're cold," the voice hisses again, from just on the other side of the door.
"I'm trapped in here!" she says. "You need to turn the key and pull the door open. It's heavy, but I can't do it from inside!"
She waits. Nothing.
"Hello?"
"You have a visitor," the voice continues.
"I..." Sam pauses for a moment. "I have a visitor?" She stares into the darkness, trying to work out what the voice means. "Look, can you just let me out of here?" she says eventually. "We can chat once you've done that, yeah?"
"You're safer in there," the voice says. "For now."
"Safer in here?" Sam pauses again. Her pulse is racing and she's finding it harder and harder to keep from panicking. "I'm really not safer in here," she says after a moment. "I'd like to get out, if that's okay with you." She waits for an answer, but the voice says nothing. "Please," she continues, "can you just let me out?" She bangs on the door. "Please?"
"Who are you?" he asks.
"I'm Sam."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Samantha Marker."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Sam Marker!" she says, getting increasingly annoyed at the repeated question. "I'm the gardener here, and I -"
"Gardener," he hisses.
"Yes, I'm the gardener, and I -"
"There have been many gardeners here," he continues, suddenly seeming rather talkative. "You're not the first, but you'll be the last."
