In only a few seconds, he was reduced to that of a cowering and pathetic figure. Through a gap in the curtain he saw a shape pass by the window. The crunching of feet through crystalized snow outside caused him to tremble with fear. And then there came a rapping on the door. Alistair ran over to the door to check the bolt was still fastened and secure. He was shaking uncontrollably, he pressed his back against the door and began to cough. “Go away, leave me in peace! For pity’s sake, leave me alone!” he cried. The rapping continued. He could now hear a voice accompanying the rapping from beyond the door. The voice was calling to him.
He listened to the voice. It was calling to him by his full name. “Mister Swift, Mister Swift. This is Reverend Mortimer. Are you alright? Mister Swift?” Alistair stood and listened to the voice. His mind was fuzzy due to his illness, but the name, Mortimer. He remembered. The Vicar at St. Peter. He turned and reached for the bolt but then froze. Why would Mortimer be here, at his house? His fingertips left the cold bolt and returned to his side. It must be a trick, he thought. That horror, from the cavern, it was trying to trick him. It wanted to get inside.
The rapping continued, but this time on the window above the kitchen sink. He turned and saw a shadow was peering in at the window, through the parted curtain. “I can see you, please, open the door!” the voice rang out. Alistair bravely walked to the window. The face that was pressed up against the old diamond panes was that of the Reverend Mortimer. Alistair reached out towards the window,
“Is . . . is it you? Really? Is it you?” he asked meekly.
“My god! You look terrible. Open the door and let me in,” the face shouted then disappeared from the window. The rapping continued at the door. This time Alistair slowly drew back the bolt and pulled open the door.
The Reverend Mortimer hurriedly entered the house. Alistair slammed shut the door and frantically secured it using the bolts. He was breathing heavily as he finished. He turned to see the Reverend removing his coat and hat, both of which were sprinkled with fine snow.
Placing his coat and hat down on top of the dining table, the Reverend leaned his cane against one of the chairs before approaching Alistair. “I can’t decide if you look sick, or terrified, or both!” he said with concern in his tone. “I was worried you might be struggling without power in this weather. When I saw that my thermometer in the garden was reading minus five.” Alistair just sat himself down on a chair by the dining table. “You don’t look at all well my friend. How long have you been like this?” asked the Reverend. Alistair coughed then clutched at his chest as if in pain.
“Days. Since I was at the church,” he answered and continued to cough. Mortimer picked up his own coat and placed it around Alistair’s shoulders.
“Come, let’s get you sat by the fire, I take it you have lit a fire?” Alistair just pointed at the doorway that lead to the parlour. Mortimer helped Alistair to his feet and walked him through into the parlour so that he could sit himself down. The fire was burning low and Mortimer threw some more wood into the grate. He noticed that the wood basket was almost empty. “I shall go and fetch you some more wood. I remember the old wood shed from the days I used to visit with George. Shan’t be long.” Mortimer picked up the wood basket, Alistair gripped him weakly by his arm,
“Be . . . careful,” he said.
“Of course,” came Mortimer’s reply. He studied Alistair for a moment, Alistair released his grip. Mortimer remembered when he had seen such pain in a man’s face before. For a moment, he thought he was looking into the face of the late Reverend George Redgrave.
Alistair rose from his seat and followed Mortimer as he left the house via the back door. Mortimer had left the door slightly open so that he could simply re-enter once he had fetched more wood. The door was bumping against the latch in the wind. Alistair desperately wanted to close it. He was afraid that whatever abhorrence that had entered his house before the arrival of Mortimer, could do so again. He waited a while. Give Mortimer a chance he thought. He should be back in a minute. The door continued to bump against the latch.
After waiting a full five minutes, he went over and pushed the door shut. As he did so he became aware of the sound of feet stomping through the thick snow outside. The footfalls were approaching the door. He hoped that it was Mortimer and that he had returned unscathed. The handle of the door jerked up and down. Then there came a pounding on the door. Alistair froze for a moment. He waited for the familiar voice of Mortimer before he opened the door.
Mortimer had returned with a basket full of wood and set it down next to the fire. He was concerned about Alistair’s condition. He had made up a pot of coffee and set it to rest on the stove in the kitchen, but then he decided that Alistair could do with something stronger. Alister told him that there was a bottle of brandy in the pantry.
Mortimer fetched two glasses and poured himself and Alistair a large glassful. “I shall stay here tonight. I am concerned that you do not look at all well. I will make sure you are alright and I shall return to town in the morning to fetch a doctor. I have my car outside.” Alistair drank his brandy in one large gulp. “Steady on old chap,” said Mortimer, and he refilled Alistair’s glass. “Now, are you ready to tell me what’s troubling you? I can see you are not at all yourself, and I do believe that it’s not all down to your illness.” Alistair drank half of his replenished drink and still clutching the glass in both hands he turned to speak to Mortimer.
“May I ask, do you believe in the survival of the spirit beyond death?” said Alistair. He stared intensely at Mortimer in anticipation of his answer.
“The survival of the spirit after death? You are asking me whether or not I believe in ghosts?”
“Yes. Do you?”
“Well, as a man of the church I can say that I do believe that there is indeed an afterlife. I have been touched by many deaths Mr. Swift. I believe that the body is the chariot if you like within which the soul or spirit rides. When the body dies, and is buried, or cremated, the soul is lifted to heaven. To God.”
“But do you believe that the spirit or soul can come back, or even to never enter heaven at all?” Mortimer drank some of his drink whilst he pondered the question Alistair had put to him.
“Well I believe that Jesus rose from the dead three days after his crucifixion. This means that his spirit was returned to his earthly body. So yes, I do. But why do you ask such a question?” Alistair finished his brandy before replying.
“The cavern outside, I went inside exploring. I found remains, the remains from what looks like an ancient burial. Three piles of rocks, graves. The Reverend Redgrave, he also found them. The bones he showed to you remember, you told me he showed you the bones!”
“Yes I told you, he became obsessed with what he had discovered. He intended to have them interred in the grounds of Saint. Peter.”
“Yes, yes he did didn’t he. I read his journal. I found it here, at the house. You see, from his journal it is clear that he was plagued also.”
“Plagued? Whatever do you mean?”
“In the cavern, I found the remains, the same bones that Redgrave had studied, labelled, sketched . . .” Alistair began to cough and excused himself whilst he regained his composure. “The bones were all back inside the cavern, they still had the labels on. Redgrave . . . or something put Them back!”
“Something?”
“Yes, something. You see, I think I have disturbed something. Poking about in the cavern. And now it disturbs me.” Mortimer rose to throw a log onto the fire. He stood a while watching the flames dance across the dry wood.
“You are telling me that you are being haunted. Is that right?”
“Yes. I believe that I am.” Mortimer sat down again picking up his brandy.
“So what has happened to make you believe such a fantastic thing?”
“First it was the sounds, the breathing.”
“Breathing?”
“Yes, a terrible sound, almost bestial. And then the gate. You see the
thing, or phantom as I shall call it, it leaves the cave. I can hear the gate banging as it makes its way towards the house. I can hear it as I lie in bed. It taunts me with its hideous breathing.” Alistair’s hands began to shake and he placed his glass down next to the fireside. Mortimer watched as Alistair shook. He could not believe how the man he had first met a few days since had become this afraid, with almost a child-like fear searing through him.
“Mr. Swift, let us look at these things rationally shall we. First, you speak of a breathing sound. Would it not be fair to say that the wind could possibly have something to do with it? It has been incredibly windy these last few days. You are all alone and somewhat isolated here. It could be your Imagination playing with your mind. You also speak about the gate to the cavern banging. Again, I think the wind is the culprit. This is an old house after all, I know from my own experience how the wind can whip up about an old place like this, the wind can have many voices, moaning, whistling. You are the not the first person to imaging that they hear voices in the wind.”
“I saw it!” Alistair retorted abruptly and he reached for the brandy bottle.
“You saw it? You mean you saw the . . . phantom?”
“Yes, tonight. Before you got here. It was in the house!” Alistair poured and drank down another large measure of spirit.
“So what exactly did you see?”
“I heard it at first. in the bedroom. I went to see. I saw . . . a shadow. I saw it move across the landing and down the stairs. It made no sound.” Mortimer looked around the room in which they sat. He noticed the multitudes of candles burning brightly within an array of candlesticks, jam jars, and other receptacles.
“Tell me, do you have candles burning upstairs?”
“I do. Why?”
“Well there is the answer I think. The candles create shadows. In your present state of wellbeing you must have been suffering from fever induced hallucinations. A simple shadow created by the light of a candle, animated by the flickering flame. My dear fellow you are unwell.” Alistair finished his drink and rose to stand on wobbly legs.
“Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Mortimer and Alistair were in the master bedroom. Mortimer watched as Alistair fetched a bundle of sheets from the windowsill. He returned to where Mortimer stood and placed the bundle down on to the bed. “This was left for me to see.” Gingerly, Alistair unfolded the bundle to reveal the gruesome contents. Mortimer leaned over to see the fleshy carcass, studded with blanket fluff.
“What in God’s name is it?”
“It was my friend, my cat. Smokey.”
“What happened to it?”
“It followed me into the cave. It never came out. I found this tonight left on my bed.” Alistair looked up at Mortimer, he suddenly had the idea that Mortimer might be thinking that he carried out this awful deed. “It wasn’t . . . I’d never . . . I never did it, if that’s what you think?” Mortimer re-fastened the bundle and placed it onto a bedroom chair.
“Let’s get you into bed old chap. We can talk about this in the morning. You need rest. Like I said I will stay here tonight. Make sure you are alright.” Mortimer pulled back the bedsheets. Alistair removed his sweater and climbed inside.
“You don’t believe me do you. You think I’m mad.”
“I think you need a good night’s rest. Like I said we can talk in the morning.”
“Where will you sleep? I’m afraid the other bed isn’t made up.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I shall make myself comfortable in that splendid armchair by your fireside. Now enough talking. Please get some rest.” Alistair lay his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. The effects of the brandy were beginning to take effect. Just as Mortimer was about to leave the room Alistair spoke.
“You will hear it too.” He said. “If you listen, you will hear . . .” Alistair began to snore.
6
Alistair awoke and reached over to pick up his wristwatch. It was nine thirty. He had slept well. He sat up in bed. He could see the sun shining through the gap in the curtain. He got out of bed and pulled on his sweater, slipped his feet into his slippers. He coughed. His cough was a lot drier. He was starting to feel a little better. He became aware of an aroma drifting into his bedroom from the kitchen below. It was the smell of cooked bacon. His mouth began to water.
When Alistair entered the kitchen, he saw the Reverend Mortimer busily working over the wood stove. Mortimer was holding a frying pan containing plentiful rashes of bacon. There was a smaller pan that contained some sizzling fried eggs. A pot of coffee was steaming on top of the stove. Mortimer turned to greet Alistair.
“Good morning. I hope you slept well. I popped up to check on you this morning and you were sound asleep. I popped out to the town to buy some breakfast. You look as though you have some colour in your face. Are you feeling any better?”
“A little, yes thanks. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” said Alistair as he indicated the breakfast cooking on the stove.
“Well I thought I’d make sure you had eaten before I went to fetch a doctor.”
“Oh, please, there’s no need for a doctor, I will be fine. I’m actually feeling a lot better. I think my fever has broken,” Alistair said before seating himself at the kitchen table.
“Well in my opinion I think you need assessment by a physician, and I can also make some enquiries regarding your power outage.” Mortimer dished out the bacon and eggs and brought the breakfast over to the table. He then poured out two mugs of coffee before settling himself down to eat.
Alistair ate his breakfast greedily, and finished it quickly. He then sipped at his coffee before speaking. “I appreciate this. Thank you. You have been very kind.”
“It’s the least I could do. Did I mention that the snow has started to melt?”
“It has? Good. Without any transport, I find it practically impossible to make it into town. It’s the incline!”
“Oh I know. Even in my old car I find it difficult. If it wasn’t for the fact I have recently had a set of new tyres I wouldn’t have been able to make it up and down myself.” Alistair waited for Mortimer to finish his last bite of fried egg. Then he spoke again.
“Last night. Did you hear anything? See anything?” asked Alistair. Mortimer dabbed his mouth with a napkin and thought a moment before answering.
“You mean, did I experience anything supernatural? I definitely did not. And I do believe my friend, that now you are feeling better you will see how all of these troubles were nothing more than part of your affliction.” Alistair drank some coffee before speaking again,
“Did I mention that I was a school teacher?”
“I think I do remember you saying something, you said you were retired from teaching. Is that right?”
“Yes. I used to teach history. I would never have described myself as particularly fanciful by nature. I am not one to suffer from an overactive imagination. What I told you last night really happened. I don’t think that it was just part of my illness. Look, I have been fascinated by ancient times for as long as I can remember. Around the world the belief that we can survive the death of our bodies is extremely widespread. Ideas of the soul can be found in civilizations from ancient Egypt to the shamans of Siberia.”
“I agree Mr. Swift, indeed most Christians, Muslims, and Hindus alive today believe that the soul can survive the physical body, but–” Alistair interrupted him,
“I believe what I heard, what I saw, what the Reverend Redgrave saw was real. Whatever we have disturbed by our lack of understanding and meddling is real. Somehow it now exists in an altered state. It is coherent and sentient. And I don’t know what to do!” Alistair looked at Mortimer and Mortimer could see that there were tears in his eyes.
“What if I were to have a look in that cavern. I could have a poke around, see what’s there. And when I find nothing would that help to ease your mind?”
“No. You mustn’t go in there. But you could help m
e to close the gate. To fasten it again. To keep it inside!”
“It?”
“The phantom.” Mortimer cleared away the breakfast plates and put them to rest inside the sink before returning to pour them both another coffee.
“I have decided to go into that cave Mr. Swift. If nothing else my curiosity has been roused beyond control. We could go in together if you like. We will find the answer to the sound of breathing you hear, and then yes I will help to fasten the gate.”
“I really wouldn’t want you to fall prey to the same fate as I.”
“I won’t Mr. Swift.”
******
It was almost eleven o’clock in the morning by the time Mortimer and Alistair ventured outside. Mortimer had got the hurricane lamp working again and they made their way around the house to the cavern. When they reached the cave, Mortimer passed the hurricane lamp he was holding to Alistair. Alistair took the lamp and Mortimer fiddled with the gate, opening and closing it. “You see, the gate swings loosely, the land falls away from it and has created a slope. Although it opens inwards, the wind could easily push against it causing it to thrash against its post here see?” Mortimer demonstrated using his walking cane to push at the gate. Alistair was not convinced. He looked around, studying the snow on the ground.
“You see those?” he said pointing at a trail of footprints in the snow leading back towards the house. “That’s the trail the phantom made. During its night visits.” Mortimer scanned the trail for a moment.
“How can you be sure that you yourself didn’t make this trail?”
“The snow had freshly fallen. When I saw it, I hadn’t been near.” Mortimer studied both Alistair and again the trail in the snow.
“You know an animal could have made this trail. A fox, or badger perhaps?”
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