Nightmare Valley

by David Longhorn

  “If you won't tell us,” he said finally, “we'll just have to find out for ourselves.”

  Turning off the security feed, he brought up the latest report from Denny Purcell. Then he brought up the color photograph of the Covenant mural from the church in Machen. A few mouse clicks allowed him to enlarge the central section of the image. It was clear what the priest and wise woman had obtained in return for the newborn.

  “Charms or amulets,” he murmured quietly. “Worn externally, of course. By human beings. But what about inhuman beings?”

  Benson brought up in the internal video link to Doctor Zoffany's office. He explained what was required. Zoffany protested, Benson insisted, and mentioned what Lucy had said.

  “If one views this as a war for survival,” he said patiently, “extreme measures are more than justified. Prepare the subject for X-ray. If I were a betting man, I would put the object we're looking for somewhere in the upper torso.”

  “If it's in the head …” Zoffany began.

  “Then we will need a very discreet and quite unscrupulous brain surgeon,” Benson put in. “Let me worry about that kind of detail.”

  Chapter 6: Beauty, Beast

  After finishing Sir Reginald Pelham's diary, Denny took pictures of the most interesting pages and emailed them to Gould. Then she put the journal back in Brenda's battered cardboard box and took out the mysterious pendant, holding it up in the sunlight by the leather cord. The rough-hewn, purplish stone gleamed faintly, but did not convey any sense of mystical power.

  Maybe I'm not on the right wavelength, she thought. But if it is a protective talisman, perhaps being too flashy would be a disadvantage? More likely to be stolen.

  As she stared at the stone, she tried to imagine how such a protective charm would work. It was too simple to say 'magic' and move on. Besides, blithely accepting any kind of magical powers offended her journalist's desire to dig deeper, get at hidden truths. Denny cast her mind back to Malpas Abbey, and the way electronic devices had malfunctioned in the so-called temple.

  Gould's Geiger counter, she remembered. That didn't work at all.

  Gould had spoken of the laws of physics being distorted or suppressed near the portal to the Phantom Dimension. Maybe the pendant worked in the same way? Denny vaguely recalled a TED talk on quantum theory. It had been complex and she had fallen asleep towards the end. But the central point of the expert had been simple enough.

  Probability, she thought. The world works by probability, with all sorts of complex variable influencing every event.

  “So,” she said to the pendant as it spun slowly in the light, “are you a legit good luck generator?”

  Denny put the cord around her throat, then tucked the pendant down the front of her shirt. She had not even thought about the action, but once it was done, she felt a slight dizziness. She remembered the first time she had gone on a roller coaster as a child – the feeling that her stomach had suddenly become weightless.

  “Now all I need to do is buy a lottery ticket,” she said, and had to suppress half-hysterical laughter.

  Another message arrived, and this time it was from Benson, not Gould. Denny had still not met the mysterious chairman, but here he was, pointing her at a supposed lead. It was a news story from several years earlier. She raised her eyebrows as she scrolled down the front page. The headline was clear enough.

  LOCAL DOCTOR'S WIFE SLAIN

  The picture of the victim looked like a passport photo, but it could not disguise her beauty. Denny found herself reading between the lines of the report. Even hardened police officers had been 'shocked by the ferocity of the attack', which had occurred 'just after sunset in the vicinity of Branksholme Woods'. When she put the report together with what Mel had told her, it suggested an Interloper had killed Marie Wakefield.

  Why her, though? And why kill anyone after so many years of inactivity?

  Then Denny gasped, struck herself dramatically on the forehead with a fist. She had assumed that the Interlopers had simply stopped appearing after 1914. But how did she know? More digging was required.

  She acknowledged the message, then pondered her next move. Wakefield now seemed central to her mission – an expert on local folklore, a widower whose spouse was possibly an Interloper victim, and now the medical examiner in a similar case. But how to approach him?

  Honesty is the best policy, she thought. Up to a point.

  Denny looked up the number of the local National Health Service clinic. Doctor Wakefield was listed as the only GP. She dialed the number and got a receptionist, who at first was unwilling to convey a message to her boss.

  “Tell him it's about the murder of Mrs. Wakefield,” Denny said. “I guess you've got my number on your screen there. I'm staying at the Black Swan for the next few days.”

  It was nearly lunchtime, and Denny went downstairs into the bar to check if they served midday meals. Surly, Phoebe rolled her eyes and informed Denny in a monotone that they did not.

  “Could you recommend any local restaurants?” Denny asked.

  “There's a chip shop down the road,” Phoebe replied, with zero enthusiasm.

  “Thanks, Pheebs!” said Denny, enjoying the look of irritation that flitted across the teenager's face.

  From now on, you are Pheebs, she thought. Maximum annoyance.

  Fish and chips sounded good, so despite Phoebe's recommendation, Denny decided to give the place a try. As she left the Black Swan, she almost ran into Mel Bavistock, who was laden with packages and looking harassed. She accepted Denny's offer to help with food and other provisions.

  “Normally we get stuff delivered,” Mel explained. “But I've had to make an emergency run as the firm's van broke down. Car's full of unhealthy stuff the punters like.”

  “Can't be easy running a business and looking after a child,” said Denny as they carried packets of snacks through the bar. “No time for yourself.”

  “No,” Mel agreed, bustling around the small kitchen.

  “If you need any help, like a babysitter for Isobel, I'm right along the hall,” Denny added.

  “Oh, she's very self-reliant,” said Mel, not meeting Denny's eye. “But thanks for the offer.”

  “Okay,” Denny said quietly, putting her burden down. “Guess I'll be going now.”

  Mel looked up, then and smiled wearily.

  “Sorry I've been a bit short with you, it's just …”

  The woman gestured around her at piled of unwashed crockery, pint

  glasses, empty beer bottles.

  “Right!” Denny said. “Gets on top of you. Like I said, if I can help make it a bit easier, just ask.”

  “I will!”

  Mel smiled again, and Denny left her busily trying to bring order to the chaos in the kitchen.

  ***

  Russell Wakefield went through the morning's patients on autopilot. Like most rural doctors, he had too many patients, but few general practitioners wanted to move to a place like Machen. As the only MD in town, Wakefield was the man most in touch with members of the community. He knew far more about Machen folk, he often reflected, than the vicar. The church on Sunday was half-empty. The clinic's waiting room was almost always full.

  As he examined an elderly farmer's ingrown toenail, Wakefield tried to suppress memories of Larkin's body, what was left of it. He tried even harder not to think of what Marie – the real Marie – must have looked like when she was found in virtually the same spot. His thoughts slowly crystallized around one central idea.

  They targeted me from the start, he thought. They killed her all those years ago because they knew they would need me one day.

  As he referred the farmer for day surgery at the county hospital, Wakefield ticked off facts in his orderly mind. He was the one man who could suppress anomalous data about Isobel Bavistock and the Hawkes twins. He had contacts in the police, and would know how much, or how little, attention the authorities were paying to events in Machen. And he could read the pulse of the communi
ty, sense if unease and suspicion were growing among locals.

  So far, there's precious little sign of it, he thought as he sent the farmer away with forms and contact details. Now there's been a killing, people have something new to talk about.

  Wakefield sat up, blinking, at the thought. He realized that he had missed an obvious point. Killing Larkin had not been a random act of violence, any more than Marie's murder. A killing fed the very human desire for gossip, the more sinister and grisly the better. It easily trumped the temporary disappearance of three children who had come back safe and well.

  Officially, at least, those kids are safe and well at home. Thanks to me.

  The doctor struggled with conflicting emotions, turbulent ideas. He had always thought himself a good man, not someone who would willingly overlook evil. Not a collaborator, but one who resists. But he knew that the police, no matter what his status, would never believe that his dead wife had returned to seduce him into joining some kind of weird conspiracy.

  Wakefield reached for the intercom.

  “Janice? I'm going to have to finish early today, reschedule all appointments after three please.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” replied the receptionist. “And I've sent you a message about a personal call earlier today.”

  “Thanks.”

  Wakefield frowned at his PC screen. An American reporter had called, saying something about Marie's death.

  Bloody vultures, he thought. That didn't take long.

  Then he realized that the reporter was calling from Machen. There was no way someone could have got here so quickly from London, the only likely base for a US correspondent. So the woman calling herself Denny Purcell had already been in town when Larkin was killed. Given how few tourists came to Machen out of season, it was hard to see her arrival as a coincidence.

  Purcell, he thought. Like the composer. But why do I feel I've heard it somewhere else lately?

  He put off calling in the next patient to Google the name. The phrase 'Malpas Massacre' appeared repeatedly as he scrolled down links. Opening what he considered a reliable news site, he reminded himself of the details.

  Three people dead. One missing. Horrific injuries. Police baffled. Case still open.

  Now it was clear.

  She knows. She's seen them.

  The intercom buzzed, and Wakefield knew that Janice must be fending off impatient locals. He closed the web browser, making a mental note to find out more later. Then he got up and took some items from the locked drugs cupboard, and put them into his bag. He took a deep breath, reached for the intercom.

  “Send the next one in, Janice,” he said. “I'm ready now.”

  ***

  Denny sat on a bench opposite the church and ate her fish and chips.

  Watching the world go by, she thought. Or at least, Machen's tiny fraction of it.

  Her phone chimed and she licked her fingers clean before checking her emails. This one was from Forster, the head of security at the Romola Foundation. Denny frowned at the contents. Jim Davison was a nice guy, and at Malpas he had shown himself to be courageous. But she resented the imputation that she needed some kind of minder.

  No point in objecting, though. They'll just ignore it.

  Denny saw no reason to alter her plans. She wanted to talk to Doctor Wakefield about his wife, last night's murder, and the returned children. And she needed to explore Branksholme Woods, to see if there was an obvious gateway to the Phantom Dimension. All this in addition to getting close to Isobel, or the other children, to see if they showed any overt signs of being Interlopers.

  I'm almost sure they are, she thought. But almost ain't good enough.

  A family walked past, a mother and father with two small children. The kids were complaining about not having sweets or ice cream, not wanting to go for a walk in the country. The mother was promising treats in the near future in return for co-operation now.

  Could an Interloper fake being a child well enough to be a pain in the ass? A whiner, a nuisance? Or even a kid who's scared of the dark?

  Denny then thought about what she would do if she were sure that Isobel Bavistock and the Hawkes twins were Interlopers. Would Benson order her to kill them? Or stand back while Jim killed them? It seemed insane to even contemplate it. But such creatures could hardly be allowed to roam freely among humans.

  What if they're just the first of many?

  The thought had been preying on her mind since she had first seen the twins. If the Interlopers could replace three children, why not thirty? Or three hundred? This in turn raised questions about how many portals to the Phantom Dimension there were around the world.

  What might be happening in other countries? Back in the US?

  Denny had a sudden, surreal vision of children all around the world being slowly replaced by millions of Interlopers. She knew this was unreasonable, but it was hard to dismiss the horrific idea.

  More likely Machen is just an experiment, she told herself. A test to see how long they can get away with it. Or am I making the mistake of attributing human ideas to them?

  She felt frustrated by the sheer lack of data on what was going on. She got up and went over to a trashcan to throw away what was left of her lunch. A small dog scampered up to her, sniffing, attracted by the food smell. Its owner tried to haul her pet back on its long leash, apologizing to Denny, who made a fuss of the floppy-eared animal as it licked salt and vinegar off her hands.

  Just following instinct, she thought. Smart, but not too rational.

  She was still unsure where the balance between instinct and intellect lay with the Interlopers. It was another mystery she was yet to unravel.

  ***

  After he had finished with his last patient, Wakefield checked the contents of his bag again. Then he thanked Janice and sent her home early. Like many rural doctors, he lived in a house that incorporated his clinic. And he did not want anyone around as he made preparations for the evening.

  She might not come, he told himself.

  Images of the killing flashed into his mind. He tried to blot them out. He stared out of the window at the autumn sun, which was sinking towards the hills. It was hard to believe so much evil, so much violence, could occur here. One of the reasons he had moved back to his hometown was its sleepiness, its sheer dullness.

  Marie found it a bit too dull.

  Wakefield pushed the unwelcome thought away and turned his back on the reddening October sky. He went into the kitchen and laid out various items, most of them innocent enough. Anyone glancing at the scene might think the doctor was about to attempt a little DIY.

  If she comes, will I be able to do it?

  He thought of the strength of the being that had killed Larkin. The man had been old, yes, but also active and strongly-built. It had been very clear that there was not a great deal of fat on Larkin's body. But his attacker had overpowered him.

  So I've got to level the playing field, Wakefield thought, double-checking that he had everything ready. When he was sure he had everything he needed to carry out his plan, he put all the items out of sight around the bedroom. One final preparation involved placing a photograph in plain sight. Then he made himself a microwave meal and ate it while watching the television news.

  It was almost dark when he finished eating. He realized as he washed up his plate and cutlery that he had no idea what the news had told him.

  She won't come. She will come. She might come.

  Wakefield turned on lights all around the house, trying to banish shadows altogether, not quite succeeding. He had often felt lonely since Marie's death, but now – for the first time, he felt vulnerable. Not a man in possession of his home, but a potential victim. He turned on his stereo, raised the volume on Brahms' German Requiem. The powerful chords filled the house, but did not make him feel any more secure. He turned off the music.

  I can't do this alone, he thought. I'll screw it up. I'll fail.

  Wakefield paced up and down in his living room for
what seemed like an eternity. He considered calling the police but dismissed the notion, as he had done innumerable times before.

  Well, officer, at first I thought my wife's ghost had returned for energetic sex on a regular basis, but in fact it's some kind of demon that's taken her form.

  On impulse, he checked his messages again and called Denny Purcell, but ended the call before she answered. He was about to call again when there was a soft click from the hallway. The front door was being opened with a key. Then the hall light was switched off.

  ***

  Denny had spent her afternoon in Hereford, which was the closest place where Jim could find a place to stay at short notice. He had tentatively suggested that he could pose as her British boyfriend and stay at the Black Swan. Denny had vetoed the plan despite Jim's assurance that there would be 'no funny business'.

  “Funny or serious,” she had said, “I sleep alone. We'll just have to find you somewhere closer. There are holiday cottages for rent in Machen, try one of those.”

  After comparing notes on the investigation, Denny had driven back. She was parking the jeep outside the pub when her phone rang briefly. Frowning, she finished parking and then checked. The number was unfamiliar. She hit the call back. It rang a few times then went to Wakefield's voicemail. Rather than leave a message, she decided to go straight to the clinic.

  As she backed the jeep out into the road, she glanced up again at the front of the Black Swan. Isobel was looking down at her. The small, pale face was impassive, apparently devoid of emotion. Denny shuddered, focused on the road ahead.

  I'll be seeing you later, she thought. Whoever or whatever you are.

  She arrived at Wakefield's home to see that there were no lights on downstairs. An upper window, presumably a bedroom, was lit, but as she got out of the jeep, Denny could see no one inside. Then she caught a glimpse of movement in the window. It was impossible to tell in that split second if the figure had been a man or a woman. Curtains were drawn, and then the light behind them went out.