“Josiah and Jessica moved out around 1916 didn’t they?” I said. “So where did they go?”
Vicky shrugged. “That’s the most frustrating part. I can’t find any record of them after that date. I kept searching until the librarian practically kicked me out, but, so far, nothing.”
“So,” Diana said, “are we to believe they transformed into model citizens, retired to the country and ceased dancing naked around bonfires?”
Vicky laughed. “Probably not. Maybe they got smarter and didn’t get caught.”
“I’ll go along to the library tomorrow,” I said. “See if I can pick up where you left off, Vicky. I’m not saying I’ll have any more joy, but you never know.”
“Good idea,” Vicky said. “I’ll tell you where I searched and where I intended to look next if I could have stayed longer.”
“Did you discover any reason why the house should have been empty for so many years?” I asked.
“No. I don’t even know whether it had been put up for sale, or left to rot until Copeland acquired it.”
“Of course, if they were summoning spirits and practicing witchcraft here, it could explain some of what’s been going on,” Diana said. “I read somewhere that houses can retain atmosphere. That extreme evil can somehow embed itself in the bricks and mortar.”
“I’ve read that, too,” I said. “But I always dismissed it as superstitious claptrap.”
“Doesn’t seem quite so crazy now, does it?” Vicky said.
I agreed. Whichever way you looked at it, something wasn’t right in this house. The impossible kept happening and now, whether we understood it or not, Vicky seemed to have hit on a possible cause.
I don’t think I imagined the resigned look on the librarian’s face when I told her what I needed. Or the weariness behind her tone.
“Someone came in here yesterday with the same request.”
“That’s right. I’m here to pick up where she left off. I thought I’d start with the newspaper archives. Do you have the Yorkshire Leader for 1904, 1909 and 1911?”
“On microfilm.”
I smiled. “That’s great.”
“The full year in each instance?”
“Yes, please.”
“Come with me.”
I hoped and prayed the Yorkshire Leader could provide what the Gazette had so far failed to reveal—a photograph of the notorious Josiah Underwood. Being a much more sensationalist newspaper than its traditional, somewhat staid rival, I felt it would be likely to find such a character irresistible.
The librarian brought me the microfilm, showed me how to feed it into the machine and left me to it.
I wound through pages and pages of gossipy, biased reporting on anything from scandalous adulterers to womanizing vicars, and villainous bakers selling bread containing more chalk than flour. Finally my search was rewarded. In the edition of Monday September 12th, a headline grabbed my attention.
Are There Witches in Chapel Allerton?
Directly underneath, a grainy photograph showed the head and shoulders of a man with collar-length white hair. His hard stare made me shiver. I read on.
In court today, Mr. Josiah Underwood, a gentleman of independent means, residing in Yarborough Drive, Chapel Allerton, vehemently denied that he and his acquaintances had been performing rituals most commonly associated with the practice of witchcraft.
“The whole idea is preposterous,” he insisted, during cross-examination.
The article went on to state that the charges had been brought by a neighbor, who claimed that the accused had sacrificed live chickens, rabbits and all manner of small animals over a number of years. He also stated, under oath, that Mr. Underwood regularly consorted in lewd behavior with his female companions, in public and without hint of shame. As no evidence of the alleged sacrifices could be produced, charges pertaining to animal cruelty were dropped, and Mr. Underwood, along with his wife, were fined and bound over to keep the peace.’
“Is it possible to have a photostat of this page?” I asked the librarian.
“There’ll be a charge, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay,” I said, hoping I had enough cash on me. I showed her the page I wanted.
My later searches produced nothing of any value. Each time Underwood appeared in court, the Leader reproduced the same photograph and I learned nothing new. Before I knew it, two hours had flown by.
“We close at one p.m. on Saturdays,” the librarian said. I checked the clock. Ten minutes left. No time to start on any new research. I thanked her, handed over the required fee, took my photocopy and left.
Back home, Vicky and Diana cast their eyes over the article and the photograph.
“He’s an evil-looking sod,” Diana said.
“It’s those eyes,” Vicky said. “They’re creepy. It’s as if he can really see you looking at him.”
“Reminds me of Rasputin,” I said. “There’s a famous photograph of him where he has his arm raised as if he’s giving a blessing. He had the same kind of eyes. Piercing. Searching. Like they could see into your soul.”
Vicky put her hand up. “Stop. You’re giving me goose bumps.”
“Sorry.”
“No, she’s right,” Diana said. “I know the picture you mean. Gave me the chills the first time I saw it. This Josiah Underwood does have that same intense stare.”
I looked at the photograph again and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Something felt alarmingly familiar about him. That gaze. A flash of memory—the raven. No, crazy thoughts. Suddenly I didn’t want to hold it anymore. The paper had become moist and clammy in my hand. Unpleasant to touch. I folded it and tucked it behind the clock on my mantelpiece.
I have no idea what woke me in the middle of the night, but my heart thumped and I had broken out in a sweat. I lay still in the darkness and listened, but all remained quiet. I couldn’t see my clock in the dark and felt too scared to switch on the light.
Across the room, a white mist began to form. I held my breath until my lungs felt as if they would burst if I kept it in any longer. Slowly, and I hoped silently, I exhaled.
The mist swirled. I prayed it wouldn’t come any closer but gradually it drifted nearer. A strong smell of rotten eggs wafted with it. I shrank to the edge of my bed, until I could retreat no further. I leaned against the wall, hunched up, my knees under my chin, as small as I could become.
Still, the mist advanced, agonizingly slow. Soon it would be on me. I wanted to cry for help, but my mouth wouldn’t open. My jaw locked, my muscles froze.
The mist changed shape. It started to take form. Human form. Tall, male. That’s all I could make out.
“Alice…Alice…” The voice had an almost hypnotic quality.
My jaw unlocked. “Get away from me. What do you want?”
That laugh. I had heard it before. The mist lost its form and swirled away. I continued to stare long after it had vanished. I didn’t trust what I believed I had seen. I must have dreamed it.
Eventually I fell asleep and woke feeling more tired than when I had gone to bed. I dragged myself up and crossed the chilly room to turn on the electric fire. Hopefully I had put enough money in the meter to keep it going for a few hours. The clock on the mantelpiece showed twenty minutes past ten. I stared at it for a moment while my befuddled brain kicked in. Something was missing. Then I realized the photostat of Underwood’s trial had disappeared.
Chapter Five
Vicky waved a piece of paper around. “It’s from Mr. Copeland. Apparently he’s gone on holiday for a couple of weeks and asks us if we would show any prospective new tenants round.”
“He’s left the keys to the vacant rooms?” That seemed a bit too trusting for him.
“Oh no. We are to show them our rooms and explain that the empty ones are just like them.”
“Typical!” Diana flung a wet tea towel onto the draining board. “That means I’ll have to keep my room clean and tidy. Can’t have people thinking I’m a s
lut.”
Vicky and I laughed. “Never mind, Diana,” Vicky said. “Think of all those missing pairs of knickers you’ll find when you get to the bottom of that pile of clothes on your chair.”
Diana grimaced.
“At least we’ll be able to vet the new lot. Make sure we don’t get any odd people,” I said. “Not that we’re likely to be here long enough for it to matter.”
“I don’t know. It could take a while to find somewhere we like,” Vicky said. “Given that we’re all on a pretty tight budget.”
“We’ll find somewhere,” Diana said. “I have every confidence in us.”
We all heard it at the same time. A deep sigh that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Let’s get out of here,” Diana said, already half way down the hall. We didn’t need to be told twice.
Outside in the cool autumn air, we breathed easier.
“Did that really happen?” Vicky asked.
“We have to get out of that house,” Diana said.
I agreed, but a nagging, irrational doubt in the pit of my stomach wouldn’t leave me alone. Would the house let us go?
Almost a week passed and no one came to look at the rooms. Finally, on Thursday evening, I opened the door to a smartly dressed woman on the doorstep.
“I’m Roisin Devlin. I’ve come about the room.” Her voice matched her appearance. A pretty, smiling face, olive complexion and a lilting Irish brogue.
I opened the door wider. “I’m Alice Lorrimer. Come in.” She did, but a change came over her the instant she stepped over the threshold. The smile disappeared. She clutched a small crucifix at her throat while I prayed we weren’t in for another religious fanatic.
I led her upstairs, noting she seemed a little unwilling to follow me.
“I’m sorry we don’t have keys to the spare rooms but there’s one on the ground floor at the back and the other one is here.” I pointed at the door of number four. “Mine is the only one with its own kitchen. I’m on the top floor and you’re welcome to come up for a cup of tea. I’ll try and answer any questions you may have.”
She didn’t say a word and I was struck by how pale she had become. She followed me up the final flight of stairs but stopped halfway.
“Whatever’s the matter?” I asked.
“I’m sorry. I…” She turned around and started down the stairs a good deal faster than she had mounted them. I followed her.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I will be when I get out of this house,” she said. “How can you live there with…that?”
She flung open the front door so hard it banged against the wall. The house shook. She had already made it halfway down the path when I called out to her.
“What do you mean? What are we living with?”
I have never seen a more pitying gaze. “Abomination. It’s all around you. Don’t you feel it?” She crossed herself rapidly and clutched at the crucifix again. Then she had gone, as fast as her high heels would allow, leaving me once again perplexed and anxious.
When I told Vicky and Diana about it, Vicky spoke my thoughts. “The sooner we get out of this house the better.”
I awoke in the darkness. Outside, rain beat on the window. I closed my eyes and turned over, pulling the covers more tightly around me as the chill penetrated my nightdress. I faced into the room. A noise. A whooshing sound as if someone had shaken a sheet. My eyes snapped open. A shaft of moonlight shone through the thin curtains, casting an eerie glow over the far end of the room. In that glow, something moved. My breath caught in my throat. I watched the shape unfurl, grow, take human form. I gripped the covers hard. The moonlight faded and disappeared—and with it, the shape. I don’t know how long I stared into the darkness. Nothing moved. A wave of extreme weariness washed over me and I drifted back into a troubled sleep.
“A friend of mine at work told me about a house on her road today,” Diana said the following evening. “It’s in Roundhay. If it’s anything like hers, it could be exactly what we’re looking for.”
I inhaled and crossed my fingers. “Oh God, I hope so.”
The next evening, the three of us sat in Vicky’s room and split a bottle of chilled white wine between us while we quizzed Diana about the house she had been to see.
“What was it like?” I asked.
“Big enough. On a good bus route into town and it’s been looked after. Even the decorations are recent and someone has actually thought about the color scheme. The kitchen is modern and fully fitted. New gas stove. Central heating, too. I really like it and the rent is within our price range. An estate agent is administering it on behalf of the owner and, basically, if you both agree with me, we can have it, subject to satisfactory references.”
“When can we go and see it?” Vicky asked.
“Monday evening after work. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
“Just get us out of here!” I said.
“I’ll drink to that,” Vicky clinked her glass with mine and then Diana’s. “Here’s to our probable new home.” We raised our glasses, as the house shuddered.
“What the hell?” In my haste to stand up, I spilled my wine.
The echoing sigh sent shivers through my body. I tasted bile and swallowed hard. I guessed my face had turned as white as Diana’s and Vicky’s.
“Oh my God,” Vicky clapped her hand over her mouth. I followed her terrified gaze.
In the center of the room, a dense, gray mist formed, from the floor upward. Shapes moved around within it. As they took more solid form, voices sang, faintly at first, then louder.
“They’re chanting,” I said. I couldn’t make out the words. They seemed to be in another language.
“There’s so many of them,” Vicky said. “Who are they? What do they want?”
The mist swirled and then dissipated. Thirteen men and women, dressed in Edwardian dark gray, yet oddly transparent, stood in a circle, ignoring us. Their chants grew louder. I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t budge.
“Can anyone get to the door?” I asked. Still the group ignored us.
“No,” Vicky and Diana replied.
A tall, thin man with long white hair moved to the center of the circle. He held a live—yet ghostly—chicken in one hand. It flapped and clucked. A glint of metal in his other hand revealed a sharp, evil-looking dagger.
Vicky screamed as he slit the chicken’s throat. Blood poured from the still-flapping bird, but disappeared before it hit the floor.
The man stared at us. He, at least, seemed aware of our existence. The cold, steely eyes invaded my mind and planted unwanted images. A bonfire. Thirteen men and women dancing around it, naked, chanting. A young woman, also naked, except for the gag and ropes binding her to a wooden post. The man with white hair held a sword in his hand. He raised his arms high and wide. The sound of screaming. A roar. Louder than any animal. In the flickering light cast by the bonfire against the blackness of night, a horned figure, eight feet tall, loomed. Its eyes flamed red and its scaly skin shone with iridescent green. Its eyes met mine and I filled with hopelessness and despair. The vision vanished. I felt a painful tug as the thoughts were forcibly dragged from my mind. What the man had put there, he took away, with no pity for the hurt he inflicted. I staggered forward, clutching my head.
“They’ve gone,” Diana said.
I opened my eyes. We were alone once more. No sign anyone else had ever been there. A sudden movement grabbed my attention.
“The wall! It’s moving.” I glanced back at Vicky, and then at Diana who stood with her mouth slightly open. “It can’t do that.”
Strange undulations produced a ripple effect along the wall.
Diana grabbed my hand. “It’s…breathing.”
The ripples became more regular, seeming as if that wall inhaled and exhaled. Its entire length rose and fell rhythmically. With every movement, a scraping sound as that of bricks rubbing together, punctured the silence in the room.
<
br /> “I can’t stay here another night.” Diana’s voice quaked. “I’m going to grab some things and go to a B and B.”
“I’ll join you,” I said.
“Me, too.” Vicky stepped back to retrieve a suitcase from the top of her wardrobe.
She didn’t get there.
The wall creaked and expanded. Further along, the door buckled, then fell off its hinges, clattering to the floor as the wall filled the space and closed up.
The three of us clung together.
“The window!” Vicky wrenched herself free of our grasp and raced over to try and open it. “We can get out of here.” She tugged at the catch. “The bloody thing’s stuck. I can’t get it unlatched.”
“Smash it!” Diana said, picking up a dining chair and hoisting it above her head.
Vicky let out a scream and clutched her hand. “It…I don’t believe that happened.”
“What?” I pulled her out of the way as Diana rushed forward, tossing the chair at the window. We all ducked to avoid the inevitable shards of glass. To our right, the wall heaved and expanded again.
The glass didn’t shatter. The chair smashed on the floor as if it had been caught and thrown back.
Vicky’s voice trembled. “I saw a hand…long nails. It scratched me.”
Her damaged hand poured blood. It didn’t make sense, but the bleeding scrapes did resemble scratches, as if someone had raked their nails across the back of her hand. I grabbed a silk scarf off a chair and bound the wound as tightly as I could. Vicky sobbed as Diana stared at the ruined chair.
“Please tell me I’m going to wake up in a minute,” she said.
Under our feet, the floor shook. Above us, the lampshade covering the main light swayed erratically.
The Darkest Veil Page 6
