The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 2003, Volume 14

by Stephen Jones

  Grant took an early train to London the next morning and passed a pleasant weekend with his fiancée. But there was some indefinable cloud that was hovering at the edge of his consciousness that he could not wholly shake off all the time that he was away from the village and his commission at St Ulric’s. Even Sally had noticed it and though she was too tactful to question him directly, he passed it off by speaking of the problems with the church foundations, which were causing some difficulties. It was nothing the Rector had said nor had it to do directly with the church, but the somewhat moving image of the simple bunch of wild flowers lying on the grave that recurred from time to time.

  But when he caught the 9:30 train at Charing Cross on Sunday night all these relatively trivial matters were forgotten, and he and Sally parted amid laughter and suppressed tears on the girl’s part. Meanwhile, he had promised to have her down to stay at The Bull soon and it was with a lighter heart that he sat down in a corner of the crowded carriage to read one of the quality Sunday papers, which passed the first stage of the journey agreeably. Unfortunately he had to change trains once and the second train stopped at every station so that when he finally arrived at his destination it had turned eleven o’clock.

  It was a somewhat misty evening, with the smell of damp earth in his nostrils and the faint fret of the distant stream in his ears, as he hurried to the telephone booth to ring Sally to let her know of his safe arrival. There were few street lamps and dark patches of shadow obscured the road at intervals while a watery moon gave little light, but Grant could have sworn that someone was keeping pace with him at the other side of the road. No one else had got out at the station and he had passed no one on his way down the street, though it was possible that some railway employee had just finished his duties and was making his own way home.

  There was a gritting sound in the roadside gravel that fretted at his nerves and he stopped twice to see if the unknown pedestrian would reveal himself. But each time all was still apart from the faint rustle of the wind in the roadside trees and the far-off murmur of the stream, now partly blotted out by the encroaching houses. The cheerful lights of The Bull were now showing ahead and once he had made his call and Sally’s reassuring voice was in his ears, things fell into perspective so that when the dark form of a villager passed by the phone booth a minute or two later, the explanation was simple. Darkness, wind and imagination had combined to present a very different picture. He rang off with a light heart and entered the welcoming vestibule of the hotel with a clear mind for the tasks of the following morning.

  Grant slept well and after an excellent breakfast in the crowded dining room he collected his equipment and then set out for the church. The day was overcast and dark clouds were rolling in from the west, but fortunately it was dry, as he intended to make further examinations of the exterior buttresses which had caused him some previous concern. The soil was sandy there and might create some problems with the underpinning. Grant was a very meticulous man, noted for the high quality of his work, and he did not want the builders to run into unexpected difficulties when they were on site.

  But first, out of idle curiosity, he turned aside and retraced his steps of Friday through the older part of the graveyard to where the tomb of Jedediah Briggs stood. The first thing he noticed was that the bunch of flowers had gone. It was no great matter really; presumably some passer-by had made off with them. The second thing, however, was rather more puzzling, for Grant now saw that what he had originally taken for a gravestone appeared to be a sort of portico. A shallow flight of steps descended, presumably to a vault beneath, but they were now completely obscured by a tangle of weeds and ivy, with only the worn top tread showing.

  Then he saw the friendly figure of the Rector advancing toward him along the path.

  “Had a good weekend?”

  Grant nodded.

  “Great.” Brough looked at him shrewdly. “Worried about something? Nothing to do with your fiancée, I hope?”

  Grant laughed. “Nothing like that, thank goodness. I was thinking how curious this tomb was.”

  The Rector bent toward the inscription on the worn stone. “Old Jedediah Briggs? He was something of a local legend. A sort of eighteenth-century tearaway.” He chuckled. “Only without the motorcycle, of course. But apparently he was quite well off at one time and during those years he used to gallop about the parish in a phaeton, lashing out with his whip at anyone who crossed his path.”

  “Nice fellow,” Grant said.

  “You may well say so. Then he fell on hard times and became bitter and even more vindictive. He hanged himself from a branch of one of the churchyard trees in the end.”

  “That’s strange,” Grant observed.

  “Why so?”

  “I thought suicides weren’t allowed to be buried in consecrated ground in the old days. Yet here we have this elaborate tomb.”

  The Rector shrugged. “I believe this thing was put up in the late nineteenth-century at the request of his descendants, who had him reinterred. Yes, you’re right, it’s a strange story. We have something about it in the old church records if you’d care to follow it up.”

  “Perhaps,” Grant said. “But I wonder why it’s become so overgrown when the rest of the churchyard is so immaculately kept.”

  The Rector gave him a strange smile. “You’d better ask the sexton about that. Old Martin’s a bit superstitious and says there’s something odd about it. He’s a silly old fool in some ways but a good church servant, so I don’t press the point. Once or twice a year our team of local volunteers clear the graveyard.”

  The two men had turned away toward the church entrance by this time.

  “Anyway, somebody must think well of him because someone left a posy of wild flowers there on Friday,” Grant said.

  The Rector had his face averted and said nothing so Grant did not pursue the matter.

  III

  When Grant ascended to the little muniments room above the church porch, where St Ulric’s records were kept, the sun was low in the sky, throwing long shadows across the well-kept turf surrounding the church, and the graveyard beyond. Through the tiny lancet windows the dark silhouettes of birds were flying back to the woods beyond – presumably to seek their nests, he thought as he turned away. The records were kept in a large oak aumbry secured to the stone wall with massive bolts, and Grant opened the door with a keen sense of anticipation, though he could not have said why.

  He went through the shelves with quickening interest and took several of the huge volumes down. But to his disappointment the records for the latter part of the eighteenth-century seemed to be missing, though the church history’s relevant documentation was extraordinarily complete otherwise. Just then he was somewhat startled by an odd creaking noise, and the door to the little chamber opened rather furtively, Grant thought; if a door could be furtive, he mused, with an inward smile as the white hair of old Martin, the sexton, was thrust into the gap.

  “Ah, there you are, Mr Grant, sir. Was there anything further you’ll be wanting as I’ll be away home in a few minutes? The Rector said I should keep myself available in case you require my help.”

  Grant was smiling now, half due to the old man’s grave and formal way of speaking, though nothing of this showed on his face.

  “I don’t think so, thank you. Oh, just a moment, though. There is something. Could you let me know what happened to the church records for the last half of the eighteenth-century? Or were they perhaps destroyed in a fire or lost?”

  A darkness seemed to descend on Martin’s features, though his face, illuminated by the rays of the dying sun, was clearly delineated against the blackness of the passage behind him. He bit his lip before replying.

  “As far as I recollect, Mr Grant, they were taken to the County Record Office some years ago.”

  Grant wrinkled his brow. “Why so? That seems rather odd, doesn’t it, as it leaves a gap in these valuable records here.”

  The sexton looked discomfited.
“I don’t rightly know, sir. I believe it had something to do with certain valuable information contained there. Mr Brough would be able to help you.”

  For some reason Grant felt he had to persist in the questioning, despite the sexton’s somewhat evasive manner. “Forgive me for asking but are you sure you don’t know the reason why this material was removed? As I have said, it leaves a gap in the archives. And the County Records Office is a long way off.”

  Martin shook his head. There was a stubborn set to his features now. “I know nothing, sir. But I’m sure Mr Brough would be able to explain. And you can, of course, consult the records yourself. The offices are only an hour’s drive away.”

  Grant nodded. “Well, thank you, anyway. And don’t let me detain you further.”

  With obvious relief Martin backed out the door with a mumbled goodnight and a few moments later the architect heard his heavy boots clattering down the wooden stairs. On a sudden impulse Grant crossed to the narrow windows set in the opposite wall, fully expecting to see the sexton hurrying down the path. But there was no sign of him. What he saw instead was a thin figure, dressed in shabby black clothes tied with cord, who seemed to glide between the gravestones.

  As Grant stood transfixed at the casement, the man turned his face toward the lancet windows, as though he knew there was a watcher there. Grant was left with the impression of red-rimmed eyes that were shrouded in cavernous sockets surmounted by eyebrows that looked like whitened seaweed. The man gave him a twisted smile as though in recognition. Before he had passed the end of the building out of Grant’s sight, the latter took the stairs two at a time to gain the church porch. But quick as he was, there was no one to be seen in all the long expanse of paving that stretched to the lych gate. Grant gave up his researches for that day and after tidying the muniments room and locking both it and the main church door, he made his way thoughtfully back to The Bull to prepare his notes for the parish council meeting.

  IV

  It was a long evening and discussion, as always at parish level, went on interminably. Strictly speaking the church renovation was a Diocesan matter and had nothing to do with the parish council’s jurisdiction, but there was an added complication because the Rector and the church council wished to install toilets and other modern facilities within the church proper.

  This would entail extensive drainage works involving the closure of the public right of way through the churchyard, inconveniencing people who lived in the small suburb beyond: it would mean them having to walk more than a mile round in order to reach their homes. However, Grant had come up with a plan to erect a raised plank walkway across the graveyard while the drainage work was in progress, which met with the meeting’s approval.

  It was half-past ten before the gathering closed and finally Grant and Brough walked across to the Rectory where the former had been invited to a late supper. Grant spent a pleasant time with the Rector and his wife and it was past midnight when he got back to the inn. He slept badly and had a frightful dream, no doubt arising from the previous night’s debate when some members of the parish council had raised objections to the drainage work, which would involve, as they put it, desecrating the graves of the dead, in particular the vault in which the remains of Jedediah Briggs were interred. They had not said that in as many words, but their remarks had obviously planted a seed in the architect’s mind.

  The dream began, as so many do, in a very inconsequential way, with Grant saying goodbye to his fiancée at Charing Cross Station. Then, as always, he was immediately transposed to the village and the graveyard in particular. But instead of it being night, as one might have supposed, it was broad daylight, though the village was silent and deserted; absolutely devoid of human beings. Then there appeared a dark figure, gliding effortlessly between the gravestones. Grant turned to run but was able to take only a few steps, as though in slow motion, like some macabre sequence in a film. But a hand was on his shoulder and the owner of the tattered black overcoat, whom he had previously seen in reality, gave him a crooked smile and beckoned him to follow.

  The pair went down dank steps toward the Briggs vault and there was a charnel stench in the dreamer’s nostrils. He tried to run but fell headlong toward the vault door, which gave with a crash. Grant woke drenched with perspiration, thankful to see early daylight leaching through the curtains of his room. He remembered the words of one parish council member, in reference to the digging up of the graveyard – “If it goes ahead, I warn this meeting, no good can come of it” – but eventually fell into a refreshing sleep.

  For the next few days Grant was involved in a heavy workload, finishing his drawings and specifications. Nightly he was posting his rough drawings and specifications to his London office, where his staff of draughtsmen would prepare the final plans. During his tours of the church building and its surroundings, Grant was surprised to find that the area round the vault of Jedediah Briggs had been cleared of ivy and foliage, just as it had been in his vivid dream. But the explanation was simple: the Rector remarked that the church working party had been along on their half-yearly task of clearing up the churchyard.

  Brough was abruptly called back to the Rectory, following a message relayed by his wife, to the effect that the Bishop had rung regarding the work on the church and would be ringing back in half an hour. Left to himself, Grant circled the massive vault building, which was in remarkably good condition, considering its age. It was a bright, cloudless day, with the pleasant aroma carried from a distant bonfire. The sound of passing cars was more often than not drowned by the reassuring chorus of bird-song.

  The time passed very quickly and Grant was kneeling on the grass, making notations in the jotting pad he always carried, when he became aware that a deep silence had fallen and even the traffic noises had faded. At almost the same moment a dark shadow fell across the nearest tombstone. Grant looked up with a welcoming smile, thinking that the Rector had returned, but it was not Brough. A black-coated figure that was becoming all too familiar passed swiftly by, face averted, toward the mausoleum. As Grant got to his feet, energy flooding back into his frame, he started forward with a hoarse cry. He ran quickly across the turf but when he arrived at the back of the tomb there was no one to be seen. Nothing in the wide expanse of the churchyard either.

  He leaned against the lichen-encrusted wall, perspiration pouring down into his eyes. Considerably shaken, it was some time before he again became aware of familiar sounds: passing cars, no longer muted; the cries of birds; and the distant shouts of children from a nearby school. His nerves at last calmed, Grant made a careful examination of the exterior of the tomb. Was he suffering from hallucinations, he wondered. It was true that he had been working extremely hard and Sally had often urged him to ease up. But it was nothing like that. The person he had seen was tangible enough, though it was true that no one else, apparently, had seen him.

  Nothing unusual about that either, because Grant had been alone, as he was on this occasion. He went down the ancient stone steps with beating heart and tried the great oak door, which had weathered extremely well considering it had been in situ for over two hundred and twenty years. There was something carved into the woodwork, which time and weather had blurred, so that he could not make it out. It was probably in Latin anyway, and his memory in that department was rather rusty. There was an enormous circular iron handle. He tried it gingerly but to his relief it was securely locked. His relief was mingled with embarrassment because he was not normally of a superstitious or nervous nature. He wiped his face with his handkerchief, put the notebook in his pocket and went back up toward the churchyard entrance. It was time for lunch and the reality of everyday things.

  V

  Grant had much to do in the next few days and as time passed the events of recent weeks began to seem fanciful. But one night there was a sudden and quite unexpected thunderstorm of enormous power and ferocity, with torrential rain that continued all night. The storm had eased by early morning and when Grant left hi
s breakfast table at The Bull the rain had ceased and a cheerful sun was drying off the earth, though there were visible traces of the night’s havoc with torn branches strewn across the roads and a few ancient trees down in the countryside beyond.

  When he hurried downstairs with his briefcase and equipment he was met by the hotel manager who said there was an urgent telephone call for him. He was worried that it might be bad news about Sally as he crossed to the reception desk, but it was Brough who informed him that the churchyard had sustained considerable storm damage. A few minutes later Grant was able to see for himself. Two oaks had been uprooted, smashing some of the tombs and standing monuments, while lightning had apparently struck the Briggs mausoleum. The top of the heavy stonework had been cracked and there was a gaping hole in the side wall near the bottom of the steps.

  Brough had a worried face. “The workmen are due to start on some of the church underpinning in a week or two. Do you think this will make any difference?”

  Grant shook his head. “Not unless there is similar damage to the church foundations. But I’ll make a thorough inspection and let you have a verbal report before lunch.”

  Brough now had relief on his face. “That’s good.”

  As Grant went back up the path to the church porch the small knot of curious spectators, which included the sexton and one of the churchwardens, was slowly dispersing. In the afternoon Grant spent more than two hours in the little muniments room, working on his notes and rough sketches. He felt that there might be some difficulty in moving a number of the monuments in the south aisle of St Ulric’s, and he was concerned in case their considerable weight might cause a collapse when the builders started excavating the church foundations on that side in order to commence the underpinning.

  He wrestled with ideas for more than another hour, but eventually felt there was nothing for it but to arrange the removal of the massive tombs before work on the underpinning began. Things would not be entirely satisfactory – they never were in his experience of church renovation – but the itinerary he had planned was the best he could think of for the moment. When he finally left the church the afternoon was waning and an early dusk was setting in, due to the low cloud mass that hovered over the village. There was no one around in the churchyard or in the street beyond, and the sexton, Martin, had left an hour before. As Grant neared the section where the tomb of Jedediah Briggs lay, some impulse again made him turn aside to survey the damage tha the storm had caused.