“Eric?” she asked. “What are you doing here? It's only five o'clock in the morning!”
“I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” he said. “Listen, this is so difficult to explain, but there's something very wrong in this village. There's a … a contamination, if you like. We're trying to put everything right, but please promise me that you'll stay indoors and don't go out. Some people have been exposed to it and they've become very sick. Promise me, please. I'll try to come back later, as soon as I possibly can.”
“Later, when?” she asked. “You're scaring me, Eric. And if this 'contamination' is so bad, why is it all right for you to be running about in it?”
“Because it's my job, I'm an investigative journalist,” he said. “And because I've been asked to help. As for when I'll be back, hopefully later today. We need to sort a few things out at the monastery first.”
“The monastery?” asked Diane, her eyes blazing. “Has this got anything to do with what's happening to Heather?”
Eric cursed himself for saying too much. He was too panicky, he was usually so much better than this, but what he had seen down in the catacombs and then in the Stoops' house had really unnerved him. “We just think the film company may have been inadvertently responsible for spreading the contaminant,” he said, adding lamely, “some chemical they've been using, perhaps? Look, I'll see you later, okay?”
She didn't answer, just glared at him with hard eyes. He leaned in to kiss her and she didn't resist, but nor did she respond. She knew he was hiding something from her, that was obvious.
“Look, just stay safely indoors, okay?” he begged. “I'll explain everything when I get back later, I promise. I've got to run, they'll be back to start filming again soon.” He waved, not knowing what else to say, and ran back to his car, aware of Diane's accusing eyes on him all the way. She was worried for her daughter and he couldn't blame her. What a fool he felt, his visit had only made her more worried, not less as he had hoped. He could only pray that she would have the good sense to do as he asked and stay indoors.
The sky was light and the sun was rising by the time Eric parked his car back outside the monastery and scrambled over the wall. He knew that the film crew would be arriving very soon and the grounds would then be full of people. He hurried back to the library as fast as he could, looking nervously all the while for more guards. He wasn't armed as the two monks were, and even if he had been, he doubted very much if he could have shot someone in cold blood, a deed which seemed to have made no impact on their consciences at all. He was in luck, though, and there was no one to be seen.
Ellwood and the two Brothers of the Pariah were waiting for him in the ruined library, having left the catacombs.
“You took your time,” said Bell bluntly. “We were about to leave without you. We told you to be back by dawn.”
“I was … delayed,” said Eric. “There are horrible things going on in the village. I went to my lodgings to phone my editor. The owners … well, she was dead and he was dying. It was awful, their bodies putrefying.”
“Then it's started,” said Bell abruptly. “Come on!”
“Where are we going?” demanded Eric.
“If we are to see Gaunt and try to make him see sense, Eric, we have to get close to him first,” Ellwood said, explaining the Brothers' plan as they left the monastery. “We'd never reach him across an open space. He's evidently using David's cottage as his office. We'll wait in there till he arrives and then confront him.”
“It'll be locked up pretty securely,” protested Eric. “The Brothers have a key,” said Ellwood. “They're custodians, just like David was.”
The two grey-suited men were already unlocking the door. They all stepped inside and Milder locked the door again behind them. Bell led Ellwood and Eric upstairs to secrete themselves in the spare bedroom while Milder hid in a closet under the stairs, close to the front door.
They didn't have very long to wait. Eric had indeed cut his return very fine. Within minutes, they heard the rumbling of the vans on the gravel drive, followed by the hubbub of voices, the loudest of which seemed very angry indeed and were heading directly for the cottage. They listened as the door was unlocked and several sets of footsteps trailed in. Then the door slammed again.
“I don't care how fucking ill they feel!” Terry Gaunt was ranting to Ed Gibbs. “You get all their scenes shot and you get 'em done today!”
“I'll try, boss,” said Ed dolefully, “but they're in bad shape...”
“Don't you give me lip!” screamed Gaunt, punching Ed in the stomach and flooring him. “I'll fucking kill you if you talk back to me!”
“Easy, boss,” said Alec, laying a restraining hand on Gaunt's arm before he could deliver another blow. “Ed didn't mean anything by it, he'll come through for us. Won't you, Ed?” His eyes flashed a warning at the director.
“Yes, course I will, Mr Davies,” coughed Ed desperately. “I'm sorry, Mr Gaunt, I wasn't meaning to backchat you. No matter how difficult it is, I'll get it done. You can rely on me, boss. You know that.”
“Yeah … Yeah, sure,” panted Gaunt, gradually calming down and lowering his arm. “You come through for us, Ed, that's a good lad.” He patted Ed on his shoulder and went to sit down.
Dan Treadwell, who had watched this display of violence in horror, decided to soldier on through in silence and not mention how sick he was feeling. With any luck, he'd be finished today and could get away from here.
“All right, Ed, off you go and make us proud,” said Gaunt, dismissing the director.
“Before anyone thinks of going off anywhere, you'd better listen to what we have to say,” said Bell, descending the stairs with his gun levelled at Gaunt's chest.
Treadwell panicked and bolted for the door, only to find Milder blocking his way. He whimpered like a baby at the sight of the second gun and pissed himself on the spot.
“Get back with the others,” said Milder quietly.
Alec Davies looked back and forth, then swiftly whipped out his own pistol and began to raise it. Milder's reaction was instant, popping a hole in the back of the man's head, spattering his brains around the room. Eric and Ellwood both winced and remained on the stairs while Bell walked down.
“That was most regrettable,” said Milder, without showing a hint of regret. “But please be assured that we won't hesitate to repeat it.”
“So you've both got guns?” sneered Gaunt. “Well whoop-de-fucking-doo. Have you any idea how many of my guys are carrying? You'll never get out of here.”
“We don't want to get out of here, Mr Gaunt,” said Bell. “We belong here, this is our place to be. We are the custodians of this monastery, as was our Brother David Stoker. I have no doubt that you have had him killed. But we're not here for revenge, Mr Gaunt, that is of no interest to us. Nor are we here to kill you. We simply want you to listen to us, to acknowledge the truth of what we have to say, and then leave of your own free will.”
“Talk away then,” said Gaunt, throwing his arms wide. “I'm not going anywhere at the moment, am I?”
At the edge of the property, down by the lake, where the path through the trees angled past the vault and ran alongside the waters, something was happening. The water was beginning to bubble and churn, as if a disturbance was taking place under the water. Then a hand broke the surface, blue and swollen, skin tearing and bursting under the pressure of the inflamed flesh beneath. Then the upper body of a man appeared. His eye sockets were empty holes, his hair lank and wild. The flesh of his face was puffy and greenish, of a marshmallow consistency. Black bile spewed from his lips.
The figure heaved itself out of the lake and up onto the path. Its legs terminated in ragged stumps, bone protruding from the sick meat where its feet had been torn off, left planted in the cement that held them at the bottom of the lake.
Using the protruding bones as hideous stilts, the foetid corpse of David Stoker began to awkwardly lurch along the path, hands groping before it, ruined
nostrils sniffing the air, moving slowly but inexorably towards the monastery.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PUTRESCENT FLESH
Gaunt sat at the kitchen table with his arms folded in front of him, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back in his chair, with a broad smirk on his face.
“I must say, gents, I love the suits,” he drawled. “Marks and Sparks, are they? How very nice of you to dress up to see me. And you even brought the vicar along for tea. Shall we start with an opening prayer, vicar? Or are you too busy quaking on the stairs there with your chum? Mind you, my knees would be knocking too if I was in your position, because there's no way on this earth any of you boys are getting out of here alive. So now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way, who the fuck are you guys?”
“We are the custodians of this monastery, as we have already told you, Mr Gaunt,” said Bell. “We are the last remaining monks of our order, the Brothers of the Pariah. David Stoker was the third member of our Brotherhood. This is our property and we are here to ask you to leave.”
“No can do,” said Gaunt. “I have a film and a documentary to finish. Furthermore, I have a legally binding contract, signed by your Mr Stoker, granting me full rights to film here.”
“We don't care,” said Bell. “You have to leave.”
“I couldn't give a flying shit whether you care or not, pal,” said Gaunt. “You can call yourselves whatever high faluting bullshit you like, but this property is not in the name of any 'Brotherhood' of monks, its sole owner is registered as being David Stoker. I did my homework. As far as the law is concerned, you fuckers don't exist.”
“It's somewhat ironic to hear a man like you quoting the law, Gaunt!” blurted Eric, finding his courage to speak. “And where is Stoker anyway? He hasn't been seen since he signed your precious document.”
“Ah, the mouse has decided to squeak!” sneered Gaunt, waggling his fingers mockingly at Eric. “How am I supposed to know where Stoker is? He signed the papers and went off to visit relatives while we got on with our business. It's of no interest to me where he chose to take his holidays. I nether asked nor care. It's very ironic that he didn't tell his 'brothers', though. Perhaps you weren't as close as you seem to believe?”
“We'll get the law on you!” shouted Eric. “They'll put a halt to your filming while they investigate his disappearance.”
“No they won't!” scoffed Gaunt. “The signature's legit and he's a grown man, he can take himself off anywhere he wants.”
“It doesn't matter,” said Milder, stepping forward. “We're wasting time on trivia. Even David doesn't matter. None of us do. Our lives are unimportant. All that matters is our duty.”
“What duty?” asked Gaunt. “Go on then, tell me. Because you've told me nothing so far.”
“Answer this question then,” said Milder. “Why did you come to this place? Why now? We know you're shooting a movie, but why here? What makes this monastery so important to you?”
Gaunt looked confused and perplexed and didn't answer for a minute. It seemed to Eric that the man had never actually considered this question before.
“Well,” he said at last, “the movie is just a skin flick and the monastery is a good backdrop for it. It could have been filmed near any ruined castle or old property really. But it's the documentary we really came here to make, about St Wulfred's Well. We couldn't very well have gone anywhere else to do that, could we?”
“You're still skirting the issue,” said Milder. “You still can't see it, can you, you can't look at the matter directly? Okay, another question, let's narrow it in a little: why on earth did you decide to make a documentary about Wulfred of all things?”
“Because nobody else had,” shrugged Gaunt. “It was new, it was original. All of this New Age shit is big news these days, there's a lot of money in it. But here's a healing well that actually works and we're the first ones to bring it to public attention. We'll win awards for this documentary, and I'll have my fingers in all the money making pies that follow when people start flocking here.”
“You're so nearly there now,” said Milder. “You said it yourself: nobody else has ever publicised the well. So how did you come to hear about it?”
Gaunt was sweating now, trying to place fuzzy, fevered memories back together. Something was wrong. “I … I was ill … I remember I couldn't sleep, it was too uncomfortable to lie in bed, my lungs kept filling with fluid. I had a terrible cough. I sat downstairs and pulled a book off the shelves. It must have been one of my Dad's, donkey's years old, I'd never seen it before. It was written by a parish priest in the Nineteenth Century, gave details of the healings at St Wulfred's Well and had a map of the place. I had a fever, but this cleared my head. I googled it and found nothing, not a trace. We could make a killing with this...”
“You've been played for a fool, Gaunt. The reason you couldn't find a trace about Wulfred's 'healing spring' anywhere else is because our Brotherhood has spent the last thousand years destroying those traces,” said Bell. “That well has never healed anyone, it's a fountain of poison straight from Hell. Wulfred was no saint, he was a sick monster. Everyone who has ever tasted that water has died a horrible death, often taking others with them. That parish priest's account is one that slipped us by. It's probably Wulfred's malevolent spirit that's responsible for that, reaching out, until it finally managed to reach someone as twisted as itself, someone who would respond to its call and overthrow all the safeguards we have established over the centuries. Someone like you, Gaunt. You're not a gangster, you're not a film maker. You're a meat puppet, played by the will of a monster who's been entombed for the last millennium.”
“Wait a minute!” protested Gaunt, getting to his feet and balling his fists. “I'm no one's fucking puppet!”
“Yes you are,” said Milder, raising his pistol to cover Gaunt. “Since when did you have any interest in documentaries about saints? Porn movies, yes, I can see you doing that, but you can't even see how out of character this project is for you. It's obsessed you ever since you read that book, hasn't it? Gnawing away at your mind, whispering in the darkness? And now, here you are, and you've exposed the tomb to more people than have even known of its existence up till now since before the Norman invasion. Tell me, how many have you let actually drink the water?”
Gaunt was sweating now, his face set in angry denial. But his heart was clenched in his breast, sensing the truth of their words. What the hell was he doing here? He had no interest in this bullshit!
“Excuse me,” whined Dan Treadwell in a small voice, “but what did you mean, about people who drank the water dying? But I had some, you see, he told me to drink it. So did all the girls in the movie, some of the crew too. We've all been feeling ill, so we've been drinking more water to try to feel better... What did you mean?” He was close to panic.
“All of you?” asked Bell, blanching. “That means the effect will be spreading, the evil feeding upon itself, growing... We need to get back to the catacombs!”
At that point, the front door swung open and Jenny Gaunt came barging in. “Ed, where the fuck are you? We need to get filming before these dumb bitches start dying on us! ...” She stopped, balanced on the balls of her feet, hands poised to strike. Milder had spun round to cover her as she entered, levelling his pistol. She fixed his eyes with a steely glare and viciously whispered, “How fast d'you think you can pull that trigger, and what d'you think will happen to you even if you do?”
Bell and Milder were the only two carrying guns now that Alec Davies was down, but neither of the Gaunts seemed particularly afraid of them and Eric could tell that the two monks were at a loss. They had shown themselves to be perfectly capable of shooting people without any apparent display of conscience, but Gaunt's sneering taunts and Jenny's aggression and total lack of fear were things they were unfamiliar with. He didn't like to think how this might turn out, but all possible permutations spelt serious – probably terminal – trouble for himself and Ellwood. The old
vicar was paralysed with fear, completely out of his depth.
Jenny shifted on the balls of her feet, ready to pounce. Both guns swung to cover her. Gaunt rose from his chair. The guns swung to cover him... Eric closed his eyes and prayed.
The swollen, ulcerated corpse that had once housed the mind and soul of David Stoker lurched unsteadily along the narrow trail through the trees. The tops of the broken monastery walls could now be seen over the upper branches and the hubbub of the film crew setting up and preparing for their day's shooting could be clearly heard, some voices raised in anger, others making nasal reassurances of readiness. Just a few paces more...
It emerged from the trees and began crossing the lawn, its bony stumps sinking into the soft ground, making it lurch and stagger with a jerking, staccato motion. The gravel driveway loomed ahead, filled with trailers and vehicles, with people hurrying to and fro, some carrying cameras and sound equipment, some in costume, others with clipboards.
Then the first one of them turned and saw it and screamed.
The thing continued to stalk forwards, more and more eyes turning to fix upon it, people freezing with terror and uncertainty. Was this a part of the movie? Some zombie sex scene that Gaunt's sick mind – or more likely, his daughter's – had decided to introduce? The onlookers slowly retreated, each looking to the others for their cue, none wanting to be the first to react.
Then it stood on firm ground again, its ragged stumps planting themselves securely in the gravel. It raised its arms upright, lake water and ichor dripping from them, and lifted its sightless sockets to the heavens. The distended mouth yawned open, revealing a swollen tongue like a great black slug beyond the frayed blue lips. Floods of dark, brackish water spilled out of its mouth and down its front as its rancid lungs struggled to take in air. Once inflated, it let out a throbbing, ululating wail that stunned the nerves of all who heard it, making them claw at their ears. The sound seemed to carry out over the countryside, rolling out for miles, chilling the souls of all who heard it. Then the corpse wobbled, staggered and fell into rotten chunks.
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