Tanners Dell: Darkly Disturbing Occult Horror

by Sarah England

  She looked up just in time to see the vehicle vanish over the horizon.

  Charming - fancy not even stopping to see if she was okay!

  Slightly tearful at the pain now searing through her ankle, and hobbling a little, her mind flitted back to the second the truck had passed. Now that was odd. No, really odd. A shiver crept up her spine.

  Splattered in mud, it either had blackened windows or no driver.

  ***

  Chapter Eight

  Bridesmoor, October 1972

  Rosella’s eyes slowly adjusted to the light. She blinked repeatedly, turning her head very slowly to face the window. Oh, back here again then…with the sound of rushing water…had she given birth? Why wasn’t she in the cave anymore?

  It looked like the kind of late afternoon you’d light bonfires and rake leaves: darkly golden with fog coiling around copper-tinged tree tops. The air smelled smoky and damp, like autumn was setting in. It could be October, she thought, or even early November? That would be at least four months, then. And no one had come for her.

  The mattress underneath was itchy and stank of body odour – or was that herself? And her hair crawled with what felt like thousands of lice. She scratched furiously at her scalp, drawing blood until the pain negated the torment, before sinking once more into dreams. When she opened her eyes again it was night.

  God, what the hell was in those evil potions?

  An owl’s hoot was echoing around the woods, and a full moon illuminated what was a crisp, clear night studded with stars. She tried to shift onto her side in order to ease the throbbing, smarting pain of bed sores, grimacing as sickeningly familiar stomach cramps gripped her body yet again. Each one shook her in a hot wave of colic, leaving her wrung out and panting, tears streaming, bile burning her throat. What in hell’s name did the bastards give her to make her feel like this? No point in calling out. It would be better if she died. No one was going to find her, anyway.

  The next time she woke, the indigo sky had misted into an ethereal grey, enveloping the room in a tomb of shadows. This was the worst time - between three and four in the morning – and she immediately closed her eyes again, praying for an escape that wouldn’t come – it never did. The huge wooden wardrobe in the corner loomed over where she lay staring at it, fixated on its lock and key. Any moment now and that key would turn and the door would creak open just like it always did. And there she’d be – that wild-eyed woman in the apron cowering amongst the coats with half of her face bashed in, claw hands snatching at the air in an effort to get out of her prison. It was just a dream, a drug-induced nightmare, of that she was sure. All the same… She kept her eyes fixed on it.

  Please God no more…

  Gradually, insidiously, moonlight permeated the veil of fog, glinting on the wardrobe mirror as it held Rosella’s full attention, her eyes firmly fixed on the lock - waiting for the click. The key turned by an invisible hand.

  ‘Rosella…Rosella’… Something brushed against her hair.

  She flinched, nervously scanning the room. Who or what was there? Suddenly a giant spider the size of tumbleweed scuttled up the wall and then fell onto her head. She swiped it off, scrambling this way and that on the mattress to get away from it. It wasn’t really there. It wasn’t real…

  “Go away, go away,” she said out loud. Pulling her legs up to her chest, she backed up as far as possible to the wall. “Go away!”

  There had been no footsteps. There was no other person in the room. Wild-eyed she scrutinised the walls, the floor, and the doorway: no one. These were hallucinations. She was not mad, not mad, not mad…

  She stopped dead. Withdrawal? Drug withdrawal? The thought struck her suddenly and with huge impact. Not a single person had been to her this evening. At all.

  Why?

  She lay listening intently. Apart from the rushing of water there were no sounds. Her legs were heavy and stiff but she could found she could move them. She wiggled her toes and flexed the muscles, then shuffled over to the window. A cool waft of air hit her face through the cracked pane. Air. God, fresh air! Her head throbbed but was clearer than normal too; more like a bad hangover than fighting the usual anaesthetic. Perhaps they had simply forgotten her tonight?

  Peering into the darkness, the scene below was one of heavy woods pretty much on all sides, with just a small expanse of grass directly to the front of the building. It was like some kind of fortress. And so quiet; the trees shrouded in a white mist that seeped onto the lawn in a ghostly effluvium. And it was then, as she watched, that a file of darkly robed figures carrying torches emerged from the forest to glide across the grass and around the side of the building.

  She jumped back. That was ‘them’!

  Crumpling onto the mattress into the smallest, tightest ball, she lay waiting and listening for footsteps to clunk up the stairs. Maybe they wanted her partly awake this time? Or someone would come up in a minute with a horrible cocktail. Oh no, not again, please, please no…

  But no one came.

  Time hissed on until eventually she unfurled herself and strained to hear over the rushing water. How odd. There was nothing.

  Her hands felt again at the raised, lumpy scar on her tummy. Maybe she was pregnant again? What if she had given birth after all and a year had passed, and this was another one? That would explain it – if they weren’t coming for her? Desperately she tried to focus: if she was pregnant again they wouldn’t want to risk losing it, which meant the latest ritual could be done without her.

  The impact hit her drugged brain with full force.

  This was the time to get the hell out of here then! They were busy, weren’t they?

  She forced herself into a sitting position. Every bone in her emaciated body craved collapse: she could barely move let alone walk. And what about clothes? She looked over at the wardrobe. There were coats in there. Oh God, no, not the damn wardrobe…

  She sat for a moment with her head between her knees, waiting for a wave of dizziness to wear off. The walls were collapsing inwards and the floorboards rising up to meet her. It would go in just a minute – the thing was to stay awake. Just stay awake…Once the feeling subsided she needed to try and stand.

  She could do this…had to…there wouldn’t be another chance.

  Clasping the old rug around her, she pushed herself up to standing position and stumbled towards the ancient wardrobe, momentarily caught off guard by the sight of her reflection in its trio of mirrors: huge blackened eye sockets dominated a cadaverous white face that stared back in horror. She recoiled, legs trembling so violently they threatened to give way. Then with a deep breath she lifted her hand to turn the key…

  Hesitated.

  The woman in the apron might be there and grab you, pull you inside with her.

  Don’t look…just get on with it…

  What if someone hears? If it creaks?

  She held her breath, motionless for several long seconds, swaying to the sound of her own pulse and the endless rush of fresh water. There was something else too but a long way off…very faint and getting fainter, probably from below in that dungeon they took her to…a low murmur...chanting!

  A spark of rage ignited deep inside: They’d be high on it, the fuckers. So there was a ceremony then! Just without her. Probably tonight some other poor, miserable victim would be strapped to a table writhing in agony while that horrible man twisted and turned a knife inside them. That face, when the goat’s head mask had been removed, would be etched onto her brain for all eternity – those thin, bloodless lips and hooded yellow eyes that glittered with excitement the more she screamed; the lisping voice telling her she was a whore who enjoyed it.

  Lunging for the key she opened up the wardrobe and flung back the doors, fighting down the rising panic. Just grab a coat…don’t look…just grab something and go…

  That was it. She had it. Go….

  It was an old gabardine that stank of mothballs, but it would do. Still staring wide-eyed at the contents o
f the wardrobe, she quickly retreated, pulling the belt tightly around her waist as she backed away. Every step was like treading on a knife’s blade as she turned around for the exit with arms outstretched. What if they had a look-out – someone posted downstairs to sound the alarm if intruders showed up?

  The door to the landing creaked open, showing the faint outline of a stairwell – silvery shadows flickering across the walls, branches from trees scraping at the grimy windows. With her breath held tightly in her chest, she padded towards it, ignoring the ghostly whispers and hair-stroking from invisible hands.

  ‘Rosella…Rosella…don’t leave us…’

  The tumbling brook was much louder now, each step of descent bringing freedom tantalisingly nearer. Please God, please God. All she had to do was get outside and then run like the wind. Please…

  Every creak of the staircase sent fear shooting round her bloodstream, there being just enough moonlight to show cracks and missing boards as she picked her way down. Then finally she was downstairs, wild-eyed and frantic for an escape exit.

  She glanced around, spying a door immediately to the right. The cellar, she thought, probably leading to the underground chamber where they held their disgusting ceremonies. Chanting echoed on the chill of a draught floating through the cracks in the walls – along with what sounded like wild dog grunting noises. Skirting past it she darted through the kitchen towards a side door and tried the handle.

  Shit, it was locked. Of course it would be. Stepping back she searched for another way out. Later, much later, she would always wonder if there had been some kind of spiritual help in that moment and her prayers were answered, because her eye happened on a diamond glint, like sunlight on steel – a splintered window pane to the right of the door.

  It was her best chance. Reaching up she pulled away the remaining panels of glass section by section, trying not to rip her skin and snag blood vessels as she worked. Blood streamed down her forearms but she kept on going until there was enough of a hole to climb through; and then scrambled out to freedom.

  She landed awkwardly, but the ground was soft. High over the moor top, a full moon slipped in and out of the mist, illuminating a solid bank of trees to the rear. Clutching her stomach she half hobbled and half ran towards it; and only when protected by a cloak of darkness did she pause to get her bearings. Breathing was agonising, her senses swam and fatigue burned into her limbs. Shivering uncontrollably she looked for options: there were several dirt tracks and she picked one at random, racing down it as fast as possible, branches snapping into her face, until eventually it petered out. Which way now?

  To the left and right was a steep lane. Ahead a soft haze lay over fields.

  Which to take?

  ***

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday, 27th December 2015

  Cloudside Village

  Celeste watched Becky half-walking, half-hobbling down the cul-de-sac towards her bungalow. She had her head down against the sharp wind and by the look of it there was mud splattered all over the side of her coat. On a summer’s day it was a nice walk down the lane towards Cloudside across the moors, and even on a day like this it could be bracing with a stunning view on all sides; but Becky looked mithered, wet and irritable as she shouted into her mobile phone.

  At the entrance to the driveway she stopped, clearly frustrated she couldn’t hear whoever she was trying to talk to, and leaned against the garden wall to rub her leg. Celeste stood at the window watching. Hmmm…interesting… A murky black cloud had formed around Becky. Frowning, her head on one side, Celeste focused on the dark shape as it expanded before her eyes and deepened in intensity.

  The whole scene developed over a couple of seconds and already Becky was hurrying down the drive with the black shape akin to a hunchback or a sack of coal attached to her. It was far too late, Celeste realised as she went to open the door - the phantom thing was going to sail straight into her house.

  “I am so sorry, Celeste,” Becky said, wiping her feet on the welcome mat. “I had a bit of an accident on the way over and…”

  Celeste watched her porch dim several shades as if a hail storm was looming, followed by the shadow seemingly detaching itself from the host to sweep across the floor and into the hall – where it remained like a cloak laid down for a lady.

  “What’s the matter?” said Becky. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or perhaps I shouldn’t say that, knowing what you do for a living?”

  Celeste tried to smile, to pretend as she did so often, that she couldn’t see what she could see. “Yes, love. And you look like you’ve been in the wars?”

  Becky nodded, acknowledging her dirty coat. “Yes, this car came out of nowhere and knocked me into the verge. I’m okay, I just hurt my ankle and grazed my leg, but the driver didn’t stop – I couldn’t believe it! You’d think if you’d knocked someone down…. Anyway, there’s no signal on my mobile either and I just wanted to call the hospital and ask if Callum was alright. I wanted to let him know I might be back a bit later than planned and not to worry. I’m daft really,” she continued, as Celeste ushered her into the living room, “it’s not like he’s on planet earth yet, and here I am expecting him to worry what time I’ll be back. He doesn’t even know what day it is at the moment, bless him.”

  “Sit yourself down, love. Cup of tea?”

  “Oh yes please, that would be really lovely.”

  “Just in case you’re wondering – Gerry, my husband’s in the bedroom at the back. He’s on oxygen a lot of the time – chronic emphysema – so if you hear a hissing noise that’s what it’ll be. Did you get through on your mobile only…?” She indicated her landline.

  “Yes, I think so. Thanks, though.”

  Celeste frowned. The whole room, normally bright and airy, had been tipped into a sepia half-light.

  “Is everything all right, Celeste? Only I get the feeling…” She shivered.

  The older lady shook her head. “Actually, Becky, I think you’ve unwittingly brought something unsavoury in with you. I’ll get us that tea and we can talk. To be honest I don’t think we’ve got much time.”

  Poor Becky had blanched visibly. That she’d once had a brush with the dark side was all too evident because she was obviously petrified it would happen again. You had to be brave to risk it again, she’d give her that; although what choice did either of them have? And herself an old lady with an invalid husband! ‘They’ – because it was ‘they’ – would probably see her off this time too, no doubt making sure her final hours would be spent alone and in terror just for the hell of it. Which left just Becky.

  Becky took a sip of hot tea. “It’s gone dark early.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s only half past two and we need the lights on. Is it rain coming, do you think? I’d best not leave it too late to get the bus back. At least I don’t have to walk back across the moors – there’s a bus route from the High Street, isn’t there?”

  Celeste listened to the non-stop nervous chatter as the light bulbs failed to light the room properly, and despite the cranking central heating pipes it wasn’t warm either.

  She pulled a cardigan on and turned up the gas fire. “Yes you can get a bus from outside the pub – it’s two minutes’ walk.”

  Silence sat between them for a moment.

  Then she plunged in. “Becky, I’m sorry but we can’t hang about. Look, the reason I asked you to come and see me is – and I know this sounds dramatic but I think you’ll understand – well, time’s running out, and you and I are the only ones left who know what’s going on in Woodsend. We’re very vulnerable. Your young man isn’t going to wake up; that blonde lady will not survive; and a little girl is going to suffer immeasurably if we don’t do something. Ruby mentioned a satanic baptism and I am pretty sure she was talking about Alice. But you know, or I assume you know, that they dabble with the black arts and that’s what we’re up against?”

  Becky nodded. “Yes I do. I would never have believed any of it if I hadn’t se
en what happened to Jack McGowan, and experienced something similar myself. The problem is we’ve hit a brick wall – the investigation’s been closed down. So what can we do?”

  Celeste stirred her tea, frowning at the gas fire, which had remained blue and ineffective. “There are links, Becky, I’m sure of it but we’ll have to work fast to put it together. Did you know Martha Kind came to see me before she died?”

  Becky nodded. “Our lovely social worker? Yes.”

  “Well, I told her about a diary her predecessor kept and she went to ask the lady’s husband for it and he gave it to her, which I had a feeling he would. Well, a day or so later Martha was dead. Now, I kept being shown that book and I think it’s important. So… well,” she leaned forwards, “someone’s got it, you see? And I’m guessing because I keep getting an image of her, that it’s the lady lying in hospital – with bars at the window. That’s why I asked you who she might be.”

  Becky eyed her intently. “Well it does sound like Kristy, I have to say. But why would she have it? Do you think Martha sent it to her not knowing she was ill? Why do you think it’s with Kristy?”

  “I don’t know. I just keep being shown the book. I have a spirit guide I trust implicitly and that’s how I know. Like I said, I really need you to trust me on this.”

  “Hmm…well, I suppose Martha may have sent it to her because Kristy had called a meeting about all of this…” Becky shook her head. “Sorry, let me explain – Kristy’s a lead psychiatrist specialising in Dissociative Identity Disorder. She had a patient with a very similar history to Ruby and that’s how we all linked up. She tried to help Jack too…oh, and she’d been asking questions in Woodsend.”

  Celeste nodded. “She was stopped. They stopped her. Are you going to go and see Kristy? Were you close?”

  “Not close no, but I was going to go. I think she’s on her own in the world.”