The filthy window pane was jagged and broken, providing a clear view into what was quite definitely an empty room. From the centre of the ceiling a wire hung down and bare floorboards, illuminated by slivers of moonlight, were clearly rotting. Puzzled by where the group could have gone, she crept around to the side of the mill. Not a glimmer of light broke the gloom here; the ancient ivy roots so thick, gnarled and twisted they’d cracked the mortar and pulled away stones.
Partially hidden by the creepers there was a side door. They’d gone in that way, they must have done…Cora peeped through the keyhole half expecting to meet with another eye, but was met instead by the ghostly interior of a large farmhouse-style kitchen, with a range, a stand-alone cooker, and the outline of a butler’s sink with a cupboard underneath it. She nudged the door and surprisingly it opened without so much as a squeak. Hovering in the doorway for several minutes she waited, shivering and listening, scanning the full radius, checking over her shoulder again and again…
Then she stepped inside.
With her back to the wall, ready to run out at the drop of a hairpin, she inched further and further into the building. Jesus Christ, where had they gone? The air was icy, the atmosphere brooding and oppressive. Again she checked over her shoulder, convinced there were eyes on her, stopping after every couple of steps; until something caught her attention. Riveted to the spot her ears strained to hear. Yes, there it was…definitely…the low hum of chanting. Coming from underground?
On tiptoes she flew across the flagstones towards the arched hallway and the cellar door. Were they down there, then?
She hesitated: this was seriously dangerous. If she went down those steps there was a distinct and very real possibility she’d never come back up again. Surely though, surely he wouldn’t kill his own wife? He’d threaten her, hurt her badly, but as the mother of his kids she was his veneer of respectability. Something, she thought later, must have instilled her with enough courage though, because in the end she had pushed open the heavy wooden door and gone down.
With each cautious step the air became ever colder, and the darkness intensified until it was impossible to see anything at all. Finally at the bottom, she groped blindly for a wall to flatten her back to, happening on an iron hook that dug into her spine. There was a key on it. Instinctively she slipped it into her pocket while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The chanting was louder now and in the far distance firelight flickered in a corridor arched with stone – enough to decipher the vague outline of a vast water wheel; a great dinosaur that creaked and groaned with rust and age. She looked back at the way she’d come. It was coalface black and the floor beneath her bare feet was slippery with damp. Could she run if she had to? The lure though, of wanting and needing to see for herself, in the end, proved irresistible.
Using the wheel to feel her way across the room, she ventured closer to the flames; padding silently down the passageway under archway after archway towards a chanting that was beginning to escalate, the words indecipherable like nothing she’d ever heard or could try to describe later. She looked at her watch but it was impossible to see the time, guessing that maybe an hour or so must have passed since she’d left the relative safety of the woods. The smell of smoke and incense was stronger now, and there was something else too….something disgusting like a sewer…although strangely sweet. Only a few more yards to go…
Then all at once it was there in front – what she had craved to know. Cora pressed her back to the wall and peered around the corner into what was a huge, dark cavernous room. And almost vomited in shock.
The scene turned out to be nothing like anything she could ever have prepared for; any expectation of a witches’ circle or a pagan ritual being instantly erased. Set against the far wall stood an altar draped in dark cloth and adorned with stinking, black waxy candles that flickered, oozed and spat, their mustardy light licking the dripping chamber with lunging shadows; and above the alter hung an upside down cross. Her horrified stare quickly took in a trestle table set with goblets of dark liquid, together with plates weighed down with food – no doubt for a feast later – and a powerful, musty incense smoked in the air, drugging the senses.
The whole atmosphere fizzed with frenzied anticipation, and fear gripped her stomach. In the centre of the cave the robed figures had formed a circle, at their head a man in a goat-headed mask wearing a cloak of feathers and fur. The chanting now was much more guttural and becoming louder by the second as they whipped themselves up into a crescendo of excitement. The energy was palpable and her eyes widened and kept on widening as they began to dance around like savages and howl like wolves…
Oh dear God there was something live in the middle of the floor.
Mesmerised and unable to move she watched stricken. The thing in the middle had been bound in ropes and was thrashing around inside a sack, squealing like a stuck pig. Then without warning the howling ceased and they all turned to face the bestial figure at the head of the circle. An inhuman roar tore from his throat as he raised a knife above his head and lunged towards the creature in the middle, plunging the blade into the writhing, screaming flesh.
She must have gasped out loud or even screamed because one of the hooded figures shot a look over his shoulder. She slammed a hand over her mouth. She was in the dark and he in the glare of torch light so he couldn’t possibly see her…he couldn’t!
But it was in that split moment her world tipped on its axis and the full impact of what was happening in this small village truly hit her. The unusual cut of the man’s jutting jaw combined with the bend of his once broken nose gave him away. God in heaven please help us all. There was nothing she could do about this now or ever. Nothing. A drinking buddy of Lucas’ for years, Ernest Scutts was in the sodding police force. It was time to run like hell.
For the rest of that night and every one subsequently, she would lie awake staring into the darkness wondering what to do. Any escape route she might choose was fraught with danger. Losing the children to him and the physical fear wasn’t the worst of it, though – it was the strange things that had happened to people who crossed him. It had been all too easy to overlook individual instances, but piece them together and a disturbing pattern emerged – first there’d been a bloke up at the mine who’d challenged him about fire damp and shortly afterwards been fatally electrocuted using machinery he operated every day. Another man had confronted him over an incident involving his wife, and a row had erupted. A week later his teenage son had been struck blind in the classroom. Out of the blue. No reason. No warning.
Each event taken in isolation could have been put down to bad luck, but the coincidences, now she started thinking about it, were stacking up. She began to count them.
***
When Cora reached the mine, there were ambulances, fire engines and police cars everywhere. A huddle of women turned to glare at her as she stood on the fringes, watching as Lucas helped with stretchers and gave interviews to the local radio station. They’d been mining a deeper seam than normal. It must have been a gas build-up due to ventilation failing, he was saying. Heavy electrical equipment was being used and it was almost the end of the shift. Tragic. He shook his head. Tragic.
Cora, standing on an embankment at the edge of the yard, met his pale blue gaze over the top of people’s heads as he spoke. Inside he’d be laughing. He’d shut them up, hadn’t he? Someone must have been talking about him and the missing gypsy girl, and he’d shut them up. Just like he always did.
***
Chapter Six
Sunday, 27th December, 2015
Celeste heaved herself into the back of the waiting taxi, resolutely refusing to look back at Drummersgate as they trundled away down the drive. The depressingly austere image of a gothic prison façade would be what she’d see – not the modern day L-shaped brick unit it now was. Out here on the wind-flattened moors, well away from the towns, those prisoners would have been left to rot or hang, and their rabid fear was still imprinted in the atmo
sphere. No wonder Ruby suffered such torment.
Glancing neither left nor right as the taxi driver waited for the electric gates to open, she shuddered inwardly. That Ruby held the key to the horrors going on in Woodsend, there was little doubt. The problem was, someone had to be either naïve enough or brave enough to open the door to her mind; and after what had happened to herself and her husband Gerry, not to mention a few well-meaning medical staff… ‘Well, you’d have to want your head looking at for even setting foot in that village! Still, there was a little girl in the midst of it apparently – was she the one about to be baptised? Did Ruby mean by the Satanic sect? Oh Lord, what to do?’
Ruby had actually been quite calm when she’d talked about living in the old mill; despite being haunted by ghostly apparitions and physically attacked with nips and pinches, having the bedclothes pulled off and her name hissed nastily when she lay sleeping - so she was tougher than she looked. But the second the conversation strayed onto her childhood, that’s when her character began switching in and out of different personas – that’s where it became far more than supernatural torment, crossing the line into both mental and sometimes physical illness.
It was also pretty alarming to observe.
No, all that psychological damage was far beyond her own personal remit; she would never take Ruby down the path of seeing what had really happened to her as a child – not ever. The day Ruby had asked her to read her cards was not a day she would wish to repeat. Frankly, there are some things a person just shouldn’t know.
As Noel had reasonably explained, she herself was in possession of a rational mind, whereas Ruby was coping with a fragmented personality on top of a clairvoyance she couldn’t control. Imagine the fear of being mediumistic but not in the driving seat when the spirit arrived! Who could step in to possess you?
She didn’t believe in the devil as an individual entity, but most certainly she’d had first-hand experience of a dark energy hell-bent on destroying humanity; and frankly it was the only thing that scared her because it did real harm. That people raised it out of bravado, ignorance, or a mean desire to hold power over others she had no doubt; that it used these people as a gateway and progressed to channel fear and destruction through them she also had no doubt; by which time, of course, those concerned would have no say in what happened afterwards because it would be far too late. By definition then, the mentally ill must surely be perfect instruments? She frowned. No wonder the evil entity inside Ruby had chosen psychiatrists to attach itself to.
At least the spiritual part of things she could help Ruby with: she could teach her how to shut down unwanted psychic visits and protect herself; and they had, in fairness, made a start on that. Hopefully Ruby now felt less alone with her torment and was reassured that it wasn’t simply her own madness. Again, her heart went out to the girl. What a journey some poor souls had on this earth. She’d been lucky really – married for love, been relatively safe and content, had a normal childhood on a sprawling estate on the edge of Doncaster. Not privileged in any way, but certainly not abused, or terrified of her own father.
But here was the next question: was there anyone she either could or should talk to about what she’d learned today? What about Becky – the one member of the original team left standing? Ought she go and see her?
As the taxi sped over the moors, Celeste popped a toffee into her mouth and clipped her handbag shut again. She chewed and closed her eyes. She was far too old to go opening up this box of horrors, but who else was going to do it? She was here on this earth for a reason and had been given the gift of mediumship by spirit – this was her task and she had to face up to it.
All at once the life force seemed to drain away from her. It was often the way after using a lot of psychic energy; there were so many lost souls in that prison – such a negative, depressing and angry atmosphere. Fancy building a psychiatric unit on top of it! That was the thing – very few people today would even listen to what they’d describe as ‘mumbo-jumbo’ or ‘nonsense’. So now here were some of the most disturbed and vulnerable people on earth housed on top of a prison where terrified men had been hanged and others had lain dying from disease. And poor Ruby relived that suffering every single night.
At least she could take some comfort from knowing she’d helped her a little today. Many mocked all she did and all she stood for; a fact repeatedly borne out by the sceptics who attended her classes just for a laugh. But if they were worn down on a constant basis like Ruby was she’d take a bet they too would use prayer and white light and whatever else they could lay their hands on. In her experience few believed in the dark side until it was way too late, anyway.
Some people swore by black tourmalines to ward off bad spirits, or smudging white heather through every room, burning sage, or ritual psychic cleansing. She’d used them all in her time. It probably wouldn’t be allowed in Drummersgate though, or she’d be accused of witchery, but if she could, she’d advise Ruby to use the whole lot: sometimes it was the power of taking an element of control, of faith, and stoking up positive energy – maybe that’s how these things worked? Celeste’s mind wandered on…at least the doctor in charge of Riber Ward, Claire Airy, was happy for her to visit, so that was one less obstacle. Claire was apparently also against the use of heavy sedatives. All good. Maybe she’d take Ruby some crystals next time she visited then – a black tourmaline or some shattuckite, which would help protect her from possession.
An unbidden image suddenly shot into her mind’s eye and she sighed with annoyance… Darn it! Even now it wasn’t always controllable… A blonde lady was being shown to her: a young woman with alabaster skin so translucent that a map of blue veins could be seen underneath it. She was lying on a bed, staring dull-eyed at a barred window. The woman’s intense fear and loneliness was washing over her to the point of overwhelming sadness; the anguish transmitting itself directly into Celeste’s heart, wringing out a surge of despair as the drip, drip, drip of tears crawled down the woman’s cheek, trickling into her hair; tears she couldn’t wipe away because her hands, it seemed, were tethered. And so she lay, unable to do a simple thing like brushing away her own misery. Hopelessness lay heavily on Celeste and she hung her head… Oh it was like the flu…like being a rag doll… Inwardly she called for help from her spirit guides but the air had become soupy and static and no words formed in her mind. Something was coming… Nausea rose upwards from the pit of her stomach like travel sickness. She kept her head still, hoping not to have to stop the taxi driver.
He glanced into the rear-view mirror. “You all right, duck? Want the window down?”
She nodded, lying back against the seat and breathing through her nose, concentrating totally on not being sick; when suddenly a diabolical face reared directly into hers – a red-eyed girl with lank hair and dead-white skin running with sores.
Her heart jolted and she shut her eyes tightly in an effort to regain her composure. Close down… close down…okay, okay…it’s all okay…
A moment later the air cleared, leaving just the sonorous hum of the car’s wheels resonating into her spine, the countryside flashing past as it had before. Oh it would sure be nice if these things stopped happening, it really would. Especially when nothing seemed linked. What on earth was that all about? Someone wanted to tell her something, anyway.
The taxi began its descent from the moors and the driver leaned forwards to switch on the radio. Apparently a young girl reported as ‘at risk’ in the Bridesmoor area where a police detective had recently gone missing after a car accident, had now been accounted for and was safe and well. Police were satisfied there was no link between the two events and the case was now closed. Celeste closed her eyes.
Lies….
There were links here but she was missing them. That officer was lying in hospital – the one Becky was with. And wasn’t the little girl they were talking about, Ruby’s daughter? No, the case could not be closed. But what could she do?
You need to talk
to Becky.
Yes, yes… Celeste nodded to herself, aware she was twisting her handkerchief into ever tighter knots. She popped another toffee into her mouth. Talking to Becky was now imperative if they were to piece things together.
Time…time running out…
Yes, yes…
Ruby. Ruby’s boyfriend, Jes…Why would he keep coming back to a village his mother wouldn’t set foot in ever again? What had happened to his mother? How exactly had he managed to meet Ruby when no one in the area knew her? And where was this man now? Maybe he could fill in some of the blanks?
Think, think... She cast her mind back to that day she’d gone to Tanners Dell to find Ruby – what had it been, seven or eight years ago now? The whole place had brooded with a menace so cold and merciless it crushed her with its weight the second she walked in. It had been difficult to draw breath as she walked upstairs calling Ruby’s name; a feeling of impending doom building with every step. She’d had to fly downstairs and out into the fresh air after only a few minutes; the sickness staying with her for days afterwards.
Ruby had described floating entities in long cloaks, which lurked in the darkened corridors. Some had red-eyed dogs with them, others swung long sticks or clubs and threatened to kill her. Ghosts didn’t deliberately frighten people – although unwittingly they did if they wished to draw attention to their plight. No, this was demonic activity without a doubt. The whole place was riddled with bad energy – probably from dabbling with the dark arts. Reluctant as she had been to conduct research into Satanism – because even showing an interest in such things could result in the door being opened to demonic forces in the same way as using a Ouija board, particularly for one such as herself. She’d forced herself to find out more in order to see what they were up against. It hadn’t made for easy reading and having the books on her shelves didn’t sit well with her either; but she’d persevered. One of the biggest shocks though, had been that these things were still practised all over the world – often under the guise of respectability – and generally speaking a blind eye was turned.
Tanners Dell: Darkly Disturbing Occult Horror Page 5
