by John Glasby
The thought added a desperate urgency to his movements. Within seconds he had thrust his body through the opening, dropping softly to the muddy ground outside. He reached up to help Fisher, smelling the freshness of the cold night air and the rain on the moist earth. Out here, each shadow was stationary, unlike the things that had seemed to move inside the temple.
“You all right, Jim?” he whispered into the velvet darkness.
“Sure. Let’s get moving. The sooner we get out of here, the better. Once they find we’re missing, there’ll be hell to pay.”
They moved silently into the bushes, heading in the direction of the car. There was a half-muted whir of things high above their heads, moving across the silent face the moon. Blurred things, only half-seen, seemed to move with them, closing in on either side.
“Perhaps we’d stand a better chance if we split up,” suggested Fisher. He halted behind the swaying darkness of a bush. “They might pick up our trail if we stay together, whereas alone, we could make it unseen.”
“All right, if you think that’s the best way.” Kennett wasn’t too happy about the suggestion, but there was a certain amount of sense in it. And if there was anything after them, it would add confusion if there were two trails.
“I’ll go first,” said Fisher. He eased himself up in the darkness, and vanished along a narrow, twisting pathway that curled in and out of the trees. Far ahead, were the lights of the porch, where their car lay.
Kennett waited for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. It was a mad, insane thing they were doing. Why in heaven’s name had they come here in the first place? He had the idea that other things were creeping up all around him, watching him with night-seeing eyes, following his every move.
He glanced about him, taking in every detail as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Fisher should be well away by now, he decided. There was grass beneath his feet and yellow moonlight above him as he broke cover and raced forward, stumbling and gasping, dodging thorny bushes that reduced his speed.
Someone screamed a little to one side of him. A thin, hideous sound, choked off almost as soon as it had begun. God! that was Fisher. Those fiends had caught him! He forced himself to slow down and turn towards it. Probably there was still something he could do.
Shadowy shapes loomed among the bushes. They were looking for him now, knowing that he couldn’t be far away. A tall figure was beating the bushes, trying desperately to locate him. He gasped air down into his aching lungs and lay still, striving madly to merge his body with the dirt. After a while, the shadows and the crackling of feet in the grass faded and went away. Obviously they had given up looking for him now that they had one of the victims. The swaying grass threw a delicate tracery of pattern-shadows on his outstretched hands. With a groan, he pulled himself to his feet, pushing up on his elbows until his arms ached.
Slowly, he made his way back towards the gaunt shadow of the mansion. At least he was free. There might be something he could do. He rounded a bush and saw that the entrance was empty. There was no one there. The tall Creole was gone. Most likely they were all inside, waiting patiently in the huge temple, taking part in the hideous activities, in which Fisher would be the central figure.
Cautiously, he made his way inside. The great hall was deserted. The table had been cleared of the remains of the meal and the candles removed. For a moment, his courage began to fail him. He felt suddenly sick in his stomach.
Somewhere on the other side of that small door, the most horrible service was being enacted. He realised that his nails were cutting into the flesh of his palms. And there was a thin trickle of blood flowing from his lower lip where his teeth had bitten into it. He struggled against something intangible that seemed to be holding him back.
For an instant, it held him immobile, then abruptly, it was gone, and he almost fell forward on his face in the dimness. His fumbling fingers found the heavy drapery, feeling it soft and smooth in his hands. He tugged it silently aside and felt for the handle of the door.
Perhaps it was locked. If that was the case, there was nothing he could do and— He turned it carefully, holding his breath until it hurt. Fear was a living thing inside him and the whole of his body seemed on fire.
The door swung silently open with a sudden motion, almost pitching him into the temple beyond. With an effort, he regained his balance, and leaned back against the hard wood, fighting the madness that was a roaring chaos inside his brain.
The room was full of people with Kestro, small and fat, standing at the huge altar, his back to them. His hands were lifted high above his head, making peculiar motions in the air. On the altar by his side was the thick, black-bound Book of Set, opened in the middle. A silken sash marked the place.
On the opposite side of the altar lay a silver chalice and a blue-shining knife with the blade pointed directly towards the stone slab in the centre. And on the slab—
James Fisher! Kennet almost cried out. So they had caught him. It had been his cry he had heard. Jimmy, who never believed in anything evil, who thought the world was such a good place, was now face-to-face with death in its most horrible form.
In the candle-light Kennett managed to catch a glimpse of his face, upturned towards the ceiling, the eyes full of a mute terror that was beyond life. Kestro turned. He was muttering Latin in a dull monotone.
Then he went over to the chalice and handed it to a white-robed Creole, who took it, and stood a little way down from the altar in front of the stone slab of which Fisher lay. Kestro took the knife in his right hand, mumbling words below his breath. His face was afire with a mad, fey light. With a sudden shout, he raised the knife high above his head.
His words, loud and clear in the awful silence that followed, reached Kennett quite easily.
“Now, O Prince of Darkness! Come to take possession of this soul, freely given. Make his mind and spirit one with yours. Take his body so that he may dwell with thee forever.”
“No!” Kennett tried to hurl himself forward. The word stuck in his throat, refusing to come out. His muscles stiffened so that he was unable to move. He seemed to be frozen. There was a numbed sensation chaining him to the spot.
The knife flashed downwards. A sudden chant of fiendish triumph echoed throughout the room. When next Kennett could see properly there was a swirling smoke above the altar, then it thickened, changed, and there was the evil face of the Great Master, leering down at the assembled multitude.
Blackness surged up at him from the ground, from the walls and the ceiling above his head. He passed out with a dull flooding in his brain. Then, with a painful slowness, he came out of it. There was sound again and a shuddering ache that filled every nerve of his body.
He opened his eyes. There was a the faint crackle of wood burning and the room seemed vaguely familiar. With an effort that sent blood racing to his brain, he sat upright. Kestro’s room. How had he come here?
“Ah, so you’ve recovered.” God! That accursed voice again. Would it never leave him?
“It was foolish of you to try to escape, of course. But we have one victim for our sacrifice, and that was enough. Your friend Fisher, has joined us for ever now. Don’t you agree that he makes a pleasing addition to my little collection?”
“Collection? What the devil are you talking about, Kestro?” Kennett looked about him. And then he saw it! He knew!
Seven little images, where earlier there had been only six! And the seventh! Something stuck fast in his throat. With an inarticulate cry, he leapt to his feet. There was a mad laughter hanging in the air around him. Wild and insane.
He peered closer to make sure that he hadn’t been mistaken. The tiny features were as familiar as his own. God! He had seen them often enough. James Fisher, complete down to the last detail. Even to the clothes he had been wearing when he had been—dead?
No, it was impossible! He must be going mad, raving. He leapt, screaming, for the door. It gave suddenly beneath his fumbling hands. Out through the deserted hall,
he ran, shouting and babbling and crashing against tables and chairs.
Then he was outside, running down the silent drive, between the devil-shadows that were the bushes. Behind him, he could dimly hear the wild laughter of Kestro, booming through the house. Words resolved themselves in his ears.
“You’ve lost Fisher, Kennett. Lost forever. I have his soul now, locked in his tiny image. He won’t be coming back, Kennett. Now, he’ll stay here forever.”
He turned into the road at the end of the drive. The empty voice faded into silence. The only sound was his own feet splashing through the puddles, and the animal whimpers from his own throat.
SHIRLEY’S GHOST
My first glimpse of Corvellan as I drove down the steep, winding road towards the coast was far from uplifting. Barely visible through the fog drifting in from the sea, the tiny huddle of cottages along the base of the cliffs looked dismal with their roofs glistening in the drizzling rain. Whenever the fog thinned, the ocean looked sullen and grey, not at all how I imagined it would be.
The fog became thicker by the time I drove along the single narrow street. In spite of the poor visibility, I readily spotted the hotel, it being the only two-storey building in the village. It stood a little way back from the road with a small paved area in front where I parked the car.
Taking my bags inside, I rang the bell on the desk and waited for a few moments before the proprietor arrived, a short, stocky man I guessed to be in his late fifties.
He gave me an inquiring look before his face cleared. “You’ll be Mister Hartley,” he said. “I expected you earlier but doubtless this terrible weather delayed you.”
After shoving me to my room, he paused in the doorway. “Are you here on holiday, sir? It’s just that we get so few visitors to Corvellan, even during the summer.”
“Call it a working holiday,” I told him. “I’m writing a book on English folklore and superstitions.”
He gave me a sharp look and it was then I remembered that the Cornish people did not regard themselves as being English.
“I don’ reckon you’ll find many hereabouts willing to talk with strangers. If you’re looking for ghosts and the like, I doubt if you’ll find much of interest.”
When he had gone, I crossed to the window and stared out into the all-enveloping greyness of the late afternoon. His last remark had been a little too quick, too vehement, for it to ring true. It was the first inkling I had that there was something about this village that was worth looking into.
That evening, after an excellent dinner, I went through into the bar. There were only two customers, both old men, and clearly locals, sitting in one corner. One of them, the taller of the two, caught my attention at once. He had the weather-beaten features typical of the fishermen along this stretch of coast. His hair was snow white, yet I had the impression that this had happened prematurely, that it was not due merely to age. But it was the expression in his eyes that struck me most forcibly.
I could only describe it as a ‘haunted’ look. Even without knowing a single thing about him, that expression told me there was something in his past which had laid a heavy burden on him and which would trouble him to his grave.
I turned back to the bartender, a young man barely out of his twenties, with a frank, open face. After ordering a pint, I asked him whether he knew any of the local legends.
He shook his head. “I’m not from Corvellan,” he told me, leaning his elbows on the bar. “I’m from Truro, fifteen miles away. If you want to know anything like that, you’ll have to ask some of the older folk, though I doubt if they’ll tell you much. They’re a close-mouthed lot in these parts.”
“I’m quite prepared to pay for any information,” I said, speaking loudly for I knew the two men were listening from their corner.
When neither of them rose to the bait, I took my drink and went over to sit with them.
“Do either of you know of any hauntings in these parts?” I asked directly, eyeing each in turn.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then the taller man seated opposite me fixed me with a curious stare and said, “Do you believe in ghosts yourself, mister?”
“Not really,” I replied honestly. “Although some of the stories I’ve heard in the past have made me think.”
“Then why do you waste your time and money asking about them?”
“I suppose it’s because there are a lot of people out there who do believe in them and they buy my books.”
The old man shook his head and put down his empty glass on the table.
“It’s not wise to mock such things in that way,” he said.
I leaned forward over the table and met his direct stare. “Then it would seem that you know something. Perhaps you’d care to tell me about it.”
“It’s not something I care to talk about.” he replied shortly. “Especially not to inquisitive strangers.”
With that, he got to his feet and left without another word.
For a moment, I expected his companion to do likewise, but he remained seated.
Seeing his glass was empty, I signalled to the bartender to bring him another. I knew it might be pointless to press him with further questions but I decided to try.
At first he seemed as disinclined to talk as his friend but after another couple of drinks he waxed a little more talkative.
“Old Ben Trevelyan doesn’t like to speak of these things,” he said in a low, reedy voice. “Besides, it all happened a long time ago and he’s been a changed man ever since.”
“What exactly did happen?”
“It were more’n twenty years ago. Ben had a boat, the biggest and best vessel in the village. Used to go out fishing every day. Made a good living from it. His boat is still there, moored at the jetty.”
He took a swallow of his beer. “He married late in life. Pretty young thing she was, much younger than him. Shirley, her name was. Shirley Quaid. Came from Truro, I believe.
“Nobody thought they’d make a go of it, but they did. Leastways for a time. But, after town life, she found Corvellan pretty dull and Ben spent much of his life at sea.”
“So she left him?”
“Reckon it would have been better if she had. But after a time, things got better and she even took to going out with him on his fishing trips. What happened exactly, no one but Ben knows. It were on the night of the big storm, round about this time o’ the year. There’d been no hint of anything brewing so Ben took it into his head to go out at night.
“Shirley said she’d go with him. She always was a wild, young thing, headstrong and afraid of nothing. They set off shortly after sundown.”
“Those are dangerous rocks out there just beyond the harbour,” interrupted the bartender. “And wicked currents.”
“Aye, that’s true,” agreed my companion. “But Ben knew every twist and turn o’ currents and every passage through those rocks. But then, around midnight, this storm blew up out o’ the south-west without any warning. We all knew Ben had gone out with his wife and most o’ the villagers were gathered at the harbour watching for them.
“But a little after two in the morning, when we’d given them up for lost, we sighted the Shirley coming in. She’d taken one hell of a battering and there was only Ben on board and he was barely conscious when we got to him. Some reckon he’d been struck on the head by a beam, though how he managed to bring her past those rocks in his condition, no one knows.”
By now, the old man’s speech was only just intelligible and he was on the verge of falling asleep.
“I don’t think he’ll be telling you much more tonight.” The bartender came over and took the old man by the arm. “Better be on your way home now, Hedley,” he said, helping him to his feet and guiding him unsteadily to the door.
Locking it behind him, he returned to the bar.
“Do you think there’s anything in that yarn he just spun me?” I asked.
“I couldn’t really say, sir. I’ve known Hedley Rohan for some time, he
’s one of our regulars. I doubt if he would have made any of it up.”
Going up to my room half an hour later, I sat by the window, looking out into the night. There was now a full moon riding high in the sky, throwing a net of silver over the water and there, just discernable, I made out the ugly black teeth of the rocks jutting from the water perhaps a quarter of a mile out to sea.
It was easy for me to imagine what it would be like attempting to bring a boat into shelter through the teeth of a raging storm with lightning flashes all around, the thunder rolling overhead, and the angry waves battering the wooden sides.
In spite of my natural scepticism, I had been deeply intrigued by the old man’s tale, yet I knew only half of the story. What could have happened out there on that boat more than twenty years earlier during that terrible storm?
Had Shirley Trevelyan been somehow washed overboard and drowned at sea? Or had something far more sinister occurred out there where there were no witnesses?
The next morning, the weather had changed completely. The sun shone from a cloudless blue sky and there was the promise of heat later in the day. After eating a hearty breakfast, I wandered down to the harbour where a long stone jetty thrust out like a tongue into the sea. The tide was now in and there were a number of boats tied up alongside, bobbing up and down in the swell.
A handful of fishermen were seated on the warm stone, repairing their nets. Scanning the length of the jetty, I looked in vain for Ben Trevelyan. Some distance away, however, I spotted the unmistakable figure of my companion of the previous evening.
He glanced up as I approached and I saw his face harden. Sitting down beside him, making sure we were far enough from the others so as not to be overheard, I said: “Would you like to finish that story you were telling me last night?”
“I don’t remember much about last night,” he mumbled. “If I did say anything, you’d best forget it.”
He made to rise but I caught his arm and pulled him down. After what he had told me, I wasn’t going to let him get away as easily as that. “You were telling me about Ben Trevelyan and how his wife went out with him on the night of the big storm. How only he came back from that trip. So what did happen?”
