“What, those prints are man sized. My feet are a size ten, and those prints dwarf my own!”
“You know, I once read somewhere that the wind can widen a snow print from an animal as small as a squirrel and make it large enough as though it had been made by a person. The snow gradually caves in from around the edge of the print, the wind scoops it out, then the process begins again until you are left with what we see here. Do you see?”
“Not really. There was no wind at the time. Not as far as I remember. Look Reverend, I don’t think you should go in,” said Alistair.
“Will you come with me?” asked Mortimer. Alistair shook his head,
“I fear it. I am sorry you must think me a complete fool!”
“Not a fool. We all have our fears Mr. Swift,” spoke Mortimer. He took back the lamp from Alistair and Alistair held the gate open for him whilst he slipped through.
******
The Reverend Mortimer had travelled half the way down the passage leading to the chamber when he spotted Alistair’s discarded candelabra. Bending down he leaned the candelabra against the rock wall and pocketed the candles that had fallen out. He thought Alistair could do with all the candles he could get until his power was back on.
A little further along Mortimer stopped to examine some wall art. The painting was primitive and depicted what appeared to be the transformation of a stick man first into a stag, then finally into a bird. Underneath the painting was a stencilled hand feature. Mortimer conjectured that if primitive man had no written language as such, then he would be inclined to sign a picture with a reproduction of his own hand.
Moving onwards Mortimer entered the main chamber. He held up the paraffin lamp so that he could take in the splendour of the ceiling to the chamber. The soda straws and stalactites were indeed a wondrous spectacle. Once he had grown tired at marvelling at the chamber ceiling he cast his lamp towards the ground. A little way ahead of him he could make out the three rock piles. Where these the graves that Redgrave and Swift had talked about, he wondered.
The floor around the graves was littered with torn shreds of cardboard. Mortimer noticed a small yellow and green box lying between the second and third grave. He picked it up. It was a box of matches. He slipped them into his pocket along with the candles.
He continued to walk between the two graves until he had reached the wall behind them. He held up his lamp to study more stencilled hand prints. He wondered how old they must be. Hundreds of thousands of years perhaps. Yet they looked as new and as fresh as though they had been done only today.
He traced one of the prints using his index finger then stopped when his finger tip felt moist. He held his hand near to the lamp. He could see his fingertip was red, the same red as the hand stencil. The wall must be damp, he thought. The wet was causing the pigment to become reconstituted and to stick to whatever touched it. He cleaned his finger on his trousers before walking back through the graves and stopping at the front end of them. He noticed that some of the stones on one of the graves were splattered with a red substance. As he held the lamp near to the end pile of stones he saw something poking through them. It looked like a piece of grey fur.
Removing some of the rocks, Mortimer released the piece of fur. He held it up to examine in front of the lamp. It was the whole skin of a cat, complete with face and ears. In repulsion, he tossed it down behind the graves. The skin at first slapped coldly onto the rocks before unfurling slowly and exposing its wet, bloody underside as it slid into an untidy heap on the floor.
At this point Mortimer thought that he heard a low rhythmic breathing. He stood completely still and strained his ears. He held out the lamp as he listened. This time there was only silence. He continued to walk around the chamber.
Outside the cavern, Alistair was getting worried. He glanced at the clock on his wrist. Mortimer had been inside the cave for a good thirty minutes, and still there was no sign of him returning. Alistair walked through the gate and stood at the entrance to the cavern. He peered into the dark mouth but it gave up none of its secrets. A loud ‘kaah-kaah’ erupted from behind him. He spun around and saw the pitchy raven perched on top of the monolith opposite. Not wanting to turn his back on the raven but also eager to see the return of the Reverend Mortimer, he cupped his hands to his mouth and called for Mortimer several times. The raven sat still. Watching.
Soon Alistair could hear a shuffling sound coming from within the cave. He placed a hand over his eyes and peered inside. Still he could discern nothing. The shambling grew louder. There was something glinting in the darkness of the tunnel before him, then Alistair saw the familiar form of Mortimer, he was carrying the silver candelabra as he made his way towards the exit.
Once outside, Mortimer dusted himself down and tapped his cane against the wall of the cavern to remove the remnants of the dirt from the cavern floor. “Well, that certainly is quite a unique experience. Yes, quite unusual indeed,” said Mortimer. He handed the candelabra to Alistair, “Yours I imagine?” he said. Alistair nodded. “These too I expect?” Mortimer reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches. Alistair took them from his hand, and smiled,
“Yes, I lost them. Tried to find them. Failed miserably I’m afraid,” he said.
“I saw the graves. And you say that the bones collected by Redgrave have been replaced under the rocks?”
“Yes, I removed some rocks and was able to see them.”
“I wonder how they got back there? Did Redgrave somehow put them back?” mused Mortimer.
“Maybe he didn’t,” replied Alistair.
“Oh you think the phantom replaced them? Well we have both had our discussion on whether or not we believe in the possibility of the continuation of the spirit beyond the demise of the flesh. I think if spirits do exist, they certainly don’t have enough substance to be able to move rocks, or even to stomp out a trail through snow. For some reason, Redgrave must have returned them. But he was so adamant that they should be interred at the church.”
“Did you see anything else, hear anything at all?” said Alistair, and he looked at Mortimer hoping for something, anything that could affirm the confirmation of his own sanity.
“I did, I saw some remarkable prehistoric paintings. Wonderful geological features. But nothing preternatural I’m afraid,” Mortimer added before holding the gate open for Alistair to walk through. Mortimer closed the gate behind them both. “Now, I suggest the easiest method of fixing this gate closed is by tying it so. Do you have any rope?” Alistair thought a moment,
“I think I saw some in the workshop,” he said.
******
With the gate securely fastened using rope that Mortimer and Alistair had found in the workshop, both men were back inside the house. A fresh pot of coffee sat on the table between them. Mortimer spoke again about fetching a doctor to Alistair. Alistair refused, “that really will not be necessary, you see I have decided to leave this old place.”
“Leave? You mean sell up?” asked Mortimer somewhat shocked.
“Yes exactly. I can’t stay here. Not now. I will put Olde Tudor back on the market.”
“But where will you go?”
“I will stay with my sister Gwen, just until I have completely sorted out my affairs. I will pack tonight and leave in the morning.”
“I see.” Mortimer finished his coffee and opened the lid of the coffee pot only to see that it was now empty.
“I was wondering, and I realise that I have taken enough liberties already with your kindness and generosity, but could I impose on you one final time and ask for a lift to the station tomorrow?”
“Why of course. If you are certain that you have made up your mind.”
“Yes I have. Thank you. Shall we say around nine?”
“Of course. I shall be here at nine. I will still telephone around to see if I can get your power reconnected. The prospect of you spending another night at this place without lights and a telephone worries me.”
“Thank y
ou. But I should be fine. I am feeling much better now, and if I busy myself later with packing, the night will not be a long one!”
******
The night drew in quickly as always. Alistair had managed to pack all his most essential belongings together. He had packed all his clothes into a large brown Leather-trimmed, brass buckled suitcase. He had no way of letting Gwen know of his intentions to spend time with her at her house, but hoped the surprise would be a pleasant one.
With a multitude of candles lit around the house, and a quarter bottle of brandy resting on the small table by the fire, he settled down to continue to read the journal of the late George Redgrave. Even though he had decided to leave Olde Tudor, he wanted to try to understand more about the unsettling events he had suffered since occupying the house.
There were only a few torn pages remaining, clinging on by the thinnest of threads used to sew the book into its binding. The Reverend’s words seemed to have been added with a trembling hand.
I know not what this creature is, or from whence it came. But it would appear to have my scent, and a desire to instil fear in my heart and soul. What it wants, I can only guess. I was certain at first that it was the disembodied spirit of one of the relics from the cave. Now I am not so sure. It could be a tutelary deity, a guardian spirit put in place during ancient times to watch over this plot. I believe this place was once thought of as a sacred site. And I believe it is defended at all costs. I have asked the Lord God by way of prayer for protection and release from this ordeal. Why does he not help me, his deputy in the cloth? The Lord God, the father is the almighty, the supreme being. His house and his laws over which I am the current upholder is the one true holy place, not some foetid cavern. I shall inter the bones at St. Peter. Once buried in holy soil this deity, this guardian will fade and diminish and become little more than a faint whispery echo on the wind. I must do it. I must find the strength and the courage to do it.
Alistair closed the book. There were no more words by Redgrave. He poured himself a large glass of brandy and stared at the flames in the hearth. He wondered had Redgrave managed to bury the bones, would he still be alive today?
After two more glasses of brandy Alistair rose unsteadily from his seat. He went over to the nearest window and parted the curtains a little. Bravely he peered outside into the dark. The snow was still providing nocturnal effulgence that made the night not so murky.
There was nothing untoward outside for a change he thought. No disconcerting breathing, or rattling gates. All he had to do was survive this one last night and then he would be gone. He would rid himself of this ordeal.
Not wanting to sleep upstairs, Alistair wedged a broom handle under the handle of the door leading to the garden, the cavern. He plumped up a cushion and set himself to rest in a chair by the fire. He would spend the night like this he thought. In no time, the brandy had made him sleepy and he slipped into a malady free slumber.
******
The Reverend John Mortimer steered his black Rover 75 around the bend and began to apply the brakes as Olde Tudor came into view at the bottom of the lane. He brought his car to a stop just outside the gate. When he climbed out of his car he was aware of the smell of fire. He glanced up at the chimney on the roof but it was dormant. It was then he noticed a plume of grey smoke rising from the back of the house.
Mortimer found Alistair standing near to a large tin can. The can was burning with a fierce fire. “Morning,” Mortimer shouted. Alistair looked up and greeted the Reverend.
“Good morning. My goodness is it nine already?” he glanced at his wrist watch.
“Yes indeed. But don’t hurry. I have little else to do this morning. I am glad to find you looking more robust!” said Mortimer as he came over to inspect what Alistair was burning. Alistair used a long stick to poke at the fire.
“It’s the cat. I couldn’t just leave it there, in the house. Ground was still too hard to dig. I thought this was a cleaner method.”
“Indeed,” replied Mortimer, “Are you all packed?”
“Almost. Just a couple of bits and pieces left. I can throw them into a bag. It shouldn’t take very long. Would you like to come inside? There’s a little coffee left on the stove.” Mortimer gladly accepted the offer of some warm coffee, and he noticed that all the while Alistair was speaking, he was always glancing around himself as though looking for something high in the trees.
Mortimer sat himself at the kitchen table whilst Alistair set his bags down near the front door. Soon Alistair came to inform Mortimer that he was ready to leave and the pair of them loaded the bags into the boot on the Rover. Again, Mortimer noticed how Alistair scanned the skies as they packed the luggage. Soon the Car was pulling away and climbing up the steep hill into the town.
As the car drove carefully through the slushy residue from the recent snow pile, Mortimer spoke, “how was your last night at the house?”
“Oh, not so bad. I packed, and then I must admit, I indulged myself of perhaps too much brandy. I slept well, although I have a slight crick in my neck from falling to sleep in a fireside Chair!”
“Well, I expect you will enjoy a good sleep at your sister’s house tonight,” replied Mortimer.
“Yes. I am looking forward to it immensely. May I ask another favour?”
“Of course. What is it?”
“Before we go to the station, would you mind dropping me off at the property agents on the high street, Brierly and sons?”
“Why of course. Would you like me to wait whilst you clear up your business?”
“If you could that would be jolly decent of you, it shouldn’t take me long.”
When Alistair entered the office of the younger Brierly, he found Jacob clearing up some business with another client. Alistair hovered in front of the fire in the room and waited for Jacob to see his client out of the office. Jacob looked a little irritated at the sudden appearance of Alistair in his office.
When they were both alone Jacob spoke first, “I’m sorry, did we have an appointment?” Alistair removed his hat before replying,
“No, I’m afraid I was unable to make one. I have been trapped in my home the last week,” he said. Jacob sat down offering Alistair a chair at the other side of the desk.
“Mr Swift, isn’t it? I thought I recognised you. You purchased the old house at the bottom of the lane, didn’t you?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Alistair replied with an angry tone to his voice. Jacob looked over Alistair. He noted how pale he looked, and how he had such dark circles around his eyes as though somebody had taken two lumps of coal from the scuttle by the fire and rubbed them into his eye sockets.
“Well, what can we do for you today Mr Swift?”
“I would like to sell Olde Tudor.”
“Selling? Already?”
“Indeed I am,” spoke Alistair, never taking his eyes from Jacob’s.
“Well to be perfectly honest, you have surprised me. If you don’t mind me asking, what is the reason behind the decision to sell?” Alistair continued to stare at Jacob before he spoke again,
“I think you know why,” he said softly.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage Mr. Swift, I can assure you that.”
“You knew about the house. It was something you said to me when I first came here. If my memory is correct, after I mentioned that I was a retired school teacher, you said, if I may quote you, a man with his feet firmly on the ground. Not open to fanciful leanings. Now, why would you say that before showing me the details of Olde Tudor?” Jacob looked down at his desk, the penetrating stare form Alistair’s red, bloodshot eyes was overbearing.
“Look Mr. Swift, I can assure you I don’t know what you mean, I–”
“Lies. You knew about that house, or more to the point, you knew about the problems that would befall anyone who had the misfortune to live there!” at this point, Alistair had removed a handkerchief and was now mopping his brow. He hoped it was the warmness of the room that was
causing him to perspire. “Please, Mr. Brierly, don’t pretend you don’t know. How many others has this happened to?” Jacob pressed his fingertips together as he sat back into his seat.
“Rumours, just silly rumours, that’s all. Old houses have voices so they say.”
“Voices?” Alistair’s voice was now raised sufficiently enough to alert the senior Mr Brierly, Arthur, who came rushing into Jacob’s office. He stood in the open doorway before speaking to his son.
“Jacob, is there a problem?” Jacob leaned forward in his chair before answering his father,
“No, it’s fine. Mr Swift here was unhappy with his purchase of the old Tudor house, we were discussing getting it back on the market. It’s quite alright Dad.” Arthur Brierly continued to linger and watch Alistair wipe his brow whilst rocking agitated in his chair. “Isn’t that right Mr Swift?” continued Jacob. Alistair rose from his seat and pocketed his handkerchief.
“I will leave it with you, to begin proceedings. I-I will be in touch next week to see how things are progressing,” Alistair said and he replaced his trilby and made for the exit. When he had left the building, Arthur turned to Jacob and said,
“We’re going to have trouble selling that old place. Does he know?”
“Yes Dad, he knows,” answered Jacob.
Outside the property agency Alistair climbed back into the Reverend Mortimer’s car. “Everything sorted?” asked Mortimer. Alistair nodded,
“Yes, thank you. You were very kind to wait. Now, I think I should make my train,” he glanced at his wristwatch, “just!” Mortimer put his car into gear then pulled away down station road.
7
As the train approached Cromer, Alistair removed his suitcase from the overhead rack and made his way to the doors. He noticed that the snow was still hanging around in the corners of the station platform. He buttoned his overcoat as high as it would go, donned his hat, and adjusted his scarf.
Olde Tudor Page 7
