The Festering

by Guy N Smith

  ‘There’s death down there,’ those cracked lips rasped, dribbling a string of spittle. ‘And there’ll be more afore it’s done, you mark my words. I thank God that I’ll be gone soon.’

  The doctor shuddered. Maybe somebody had been up here talking to Josh Owen. He could think of no other explanation. But these certainly were not the ramblings of a man who had come to the end of his time. Williamson nodded but didn’t speak. If the farmer wanted to say any more, he would.

  ‘Listen.’ There was an urgency about Owen now. He glanced towards the window, for the sun was his only guide to the passing of time. ‘There’s somethin’ I have to tell you, doc, and may the Good Lord grant me time enough to say it.’ His lungs wheezed and he coughed up a blob of phlegm.

  ‘Go on.’ Williamson leaned forward, ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I’m only a-tellin’ you what my father and ‘is father told me once, for what it’s worth, the legend of Garth, handed down by word of mouth over the centuries. I only knows what was passed on, and as I’ve no children to tell it to, I may as well tell you, otherwise it’ll be lost for all time. You see’ – he paused and checked the sun again – ‘sometime, I dunno how long ago, there was a feller lived in Garth, a big strong feller, who got a notion to travel to the city and see what ’e was missing. What ’e found there, nobody knows, except ’e got into the devil’s clutches for sure, and when ’e came back to Garth ’e was dyin’ from some terrible plague, a livin’, festerin’ thing ’e was!’

  Williamson found himself glancing into the shadowy corners of the room, his earlier unease mounting. A legend, perhaps, embellished over the years, but he saw again in his mind Jim Fitzpatrick’s corpse with those pulsing sores feeding on it. He shivered uncontrollably.

  ‘This feller, I don’t recall bein’ told ’is name, returned and crawled into a cowshed to die. Folks would’ve left ’im there, maybe burned it down and ’is body with it, except the Witchfinder arrived and called for them to drag ’im out. They hanged ’im, this chap with the plague, but the Witchfinder told them not to gibbet ’im because the plague was a terrible one. They were ordered to bury ’im as deep as they could dig, and the story goes that they dug for two whole days until they had a grave as deep as a well. Then they dropped ’im in and filled in the shaft. Whether any of ’em caught this plague my father didn't say, only that the corpse was crawlin’ with livin’ ulcers that fed on the flesh until all that was left to bury was a mass o’ pulsin’ growths!’

  ‘My God!’ Doctor Williamson felt slightly sick. It couldn’t be, it was medically impossible, it defied all the laws of disease and modern science. And yet he had witnessed this very same festering death with his own eyes!

  ‘Did your father say’ – the doctor moved across to the window – ‘exactly where this grave was situated?’

  There was no reply, and when Doctor Williamson turned round he saw that the old shepherd was lying back on the cushion that served as a pillow, those bright eyes closed as if the effort of talking had tired him and he slept.

  Only the doctor knew, before he checked the pulse on the leathery wrist, that Josh Owen would never talk again. If the smallholder had known the site of the deep grave, then he had taken his secret with him.

  15

  Nick Paton stood in the open doorway, squinted and waited for his eyesight to adjust to the gloom after the brilliant sunshine outside. Holly studied him carefully, her initial excitement at his arrival tempered by his haggard, unkempt appearance. His hair was awry, his eyes were hollowed and red-rimmed as though he had not slept. Overworking, she thought. It had caught up with him in the end.

  ‘Hi.’ She shifted her position slightly and endured the pain which it brought. ‘Fancy seeing you, Nick! I was just thinking about paying you a visit. I saw the van at home when we drove past about an hour ago.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He stroked his chin and leaned up against the doorpost. ‘From now on I’m working virtually full-time for Bennions. My own customers are screaming blue murder, so I’ve taken the phone off the hook. Bennion’s missus asked me to finish off all the existing wells that are still uncompleted, so as the rig and compressor were here I thought this would be a good place to start.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ she smiled. ‘By the way, my husband’s here. In his studio. Not that he’s likely to emerge for the next three hours!’ She gave a laugh. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’ve been feeling a bit off the hooks today.’ He moved into the room and stood by the settee, ‘I guess I’m doing too much. Christ almighty, what the blazes has been going on here? First the workmen, then another killed out on the road. Now Frank. They reckon it was a heart attack.’

  ‘Do they?’ There was relief in her voice.

  ‘Well, he asked for it, trying to do the whole job on his own at his age, all that heavy lifting, plus working himself up into a tizz because he didn’t know how to cope.’

  Holly wasn’t listening. Her entire body seemed on fire, trembling in every nerve, and even the pain was forgotten. Memories of the other night fired her escalating lust as her eyes focused on the lower half of her companion’s body. Nick wasn’t wearing his overalls today, probably because it was too damned hot, just a pair of thin, worn jeans. Her fingers edged outwards and began to stroke him from the knee upwards. She felt him trembling in time with herself. Oh, God, I don’t care if Mike is home, she thought. I can’t stop myself!

  ‘Hey!’ It was a weak protest from the plumber as she ran his zip, delved inside the open vent, found what she was seeking and dragged it out into the open. His knees buckled and found a resting place against herself. With pouted lips, then a flicking tongue, she kissed him, deliriously, holding his legs in case he tried to escape her clutches.

  A minute, no more, and she was smiling up at him as she wiped her lips, her body still crazed with desire. But he had backed off and extricated himself from her hold, and her groping fingers met with just an empty space. He was flushed, zipping himself up, avoiding her gaze. ‘Nick, I … want … you.’

  ‘Steady on, your hubby might come in.’ He moved away still further. ‘Right now I’ve got to get on with some work. Can’t figure out how that well opened up like that, but it’s got to be filled in. I reckon the best way is to order a load of ready-mix and concrete it in good and proper.’

  ‘In case there’s anything still down there?’

  He stared, paling visibly. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘You know as well as I do, Nick, that there was something down that hole. It’s killed men, and caused them to murder people they loved. Whether it’s gone or not, I don’t know. I thought perhaps it had, but I’m not so sure now. The smell, you can always trace it by its vile stench, whatever it is. Oh, Nick, what can it be?’

  He shook his head and seemed reluctant to go outside, glancing through the doorway, hanging back … because now he, too, was afraid. ‘I … don’t know. Maybe, like you say, it’s gone. But where?’ He hesitated. Maybe it had been a mistake to come to Garth Cottage in the first place. He should have known better after last time. This girl was a right raver, he realized, a nympho who couldn’t get enough. Sex crazy! But she was scared, all right, no mistake about that. And who wouldn’t be, after the events of the past few days?

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘Yes?’ He didn’t look up; her eyes were hypnotic, there was no knowing what she would do to him. And it would be plain crazy with her husband just round the corner in that artist’s shed of his.

  ‘I … Nick, I want you to … destroy whatever it is down in the well. If it’s still down there.’

  ‘Destroy it! Are you crazy. How …’

  ‘There is a way, you suggested it yourself. Ready-mixed concrete, cement the lot up, the liner as well, trap whatever it is down there for good.’

  ‘Jesus almighty! Mrs Bennion would have my guts for garters. They haven’t had a penny on the job so far, and even when they get paid it’ll be a loss after all the disasters.’

  ‘
I don’t care, Nick. Just do as I say, fill it in with concrete!’

  ‘I’ll have to get Mrs Bennion’s say-so first. I daren’t …’

  ‘Sod Mrs bloody Bennion!’ Holly had swung her feet to the ground, her eyes were smouldering. ‘They cocked it up, and the customer is pissed off with the whole performance. That’s an order. Fill it in with concrete!’

  ‘All right.’ He was shaken. ‘But first I’ll have to go and have a look, and see how much cement we’re likely to need. But we won’t be able to order it till first thing in the morning because the sand and gravel firm close at five-thirty sharp. And even if you order first thing in the morning there’s no guarantee that you’ll get a delivery the same day. Depends on how many deliveries they’ve got scheduled.’ Stall her, he thought. She’s gone plumb crazy, this thing’s got to her.

  ‘Go and look, then.’ Her voice sounded different, he noticed, rasping as if she had a bad case of tonsillitis or something. ‘And when you’ve done your calculations, come back and let me know. And I’ll phone for the cement if it makes you feel any easier!’

  He went out into the hot sunshine, suddenly glad to be out of the cottage. There was something wrong with Holly Mannion; he glanced back just to make sure that she wasn’t following him. All this business had made her flip her lid, he guessed.

  Nick found himself approaching the open well shaft with caution. Shitfire, it really looked as if something had clawed its way out of there. Or else somebody had detonated a charge of explosive at the bottom of the well. There were muddy footprints all around, dried hard by the sun, and another indentation that … resembled a human shape! He backed away; no, it was probably where one of the coppers had lain to look down into the hole. He told himself that over and over again until he almost believed it. In any case, Bennion had had a heart attack, nothing like … Eaton and Fitzpatrick. And Cole had been killed in a road accident – that could happen to anybody. Get a bloody grip on yourself, Nick Paton.

  He knelt down and steeled himself to peer over the edge. Just blackness, nothing else; he could not see more than a couple of metres or so down. Use your torch. I don't want to see, he argued. You’ll have to. But I can tell her anything I like, and fuck her if there’s either too much or not enough ready-mix. He was curious now; something had caused the well to split open, and he knew that if he found the cause he’d sleep easier in his bed.

  He felt in his pocket for the small torch he always carried, but realized it wouldn’t be big enough, he’d have to use the large rechargeable one out of the van. He got to his feet and swayed slightly. Jeez, keep away from that hole! He wasn’t well, he hadn’t been feeling right for a day or so now – a sore throat, headache, distorted vision at times. Just overdoing it, he told himself. You’ll have to relax a bit more, Nick, my boy.

  He went and fetched the torch, taking his time. However strong it was, he realized it wasn’t going to shine right down to the bottom. Maybe he should haul the submersible pump up. If Holly really meant what she said there was no point in burying an item of valuable equipment needlessly. Yes, pull it up, he decided. He could always put it back afterwards. But he had to switch it off first. He looked towards the control box on the side of the house. Another delay – maybe he could think up a few more. Or, better still, come up with some good reason that would convince Holly that they could not fill the well in.

  There was a sour taste in his mouth. It had been there all day, reminding him of a day-old onion flavour. Onions never had agreed with him, so he never ate any. Which meant it wasn’t onions he could taste – he wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe tomorrow he would have a day in bed, and lock the doors in case that sex-mad bitch called round.

  He flicked the torch on and dropped down on his hands and knees. He felt dizzy, but if he just slid to the edge, leaned over and shone the beam down a bit … what was the point? None, really. He was going through the motions, in case she was watching him through the window. He’d give her some figures and let her sort the mess out.

  He could just see over the brink now, a ragged circular shape that cast its own black shadows, cold and forbidding. He remembered seeing on the television a year or so back how a child had fallen down a well and been trapped there for days. Miraculously, the rescue force had got her up alive by digging a parallel shaft to reach her. Ugh! But he knew he had to look. Just a peep. Purely academic.

  What was that? He jumped, almost dropping the torch. A noise, like something moving. Down there! He was sweating, then shivering; there was a cold blast of air coming up from the borehole, chilling the perspiration on his body. Probably a lump of rock had dislodged and fallen down to the bottom he told himself. He could still hear the sound. It was as though somebody was breathing heavily down there, wheezing, groaning.

  It was the wind in the shaft, he thought, but knew there wasn’t any wind! Well, maybe air was being sucked in somewhere. Or else the pump was making a peculiar noise.

  It had stopped now. The deathly stillness had an atmosphere of foreboding about it, as if whatever had made that moaning sound was … waiting! Well, shine the bloody torch down there and see, he challenged. You’re imagining all sorts of things because you’re overtired. And ill.

  He had to make a supreme effort, but he poked his head over the hole, held the flashlight downwards and flicked the switch. Instinctively he closed his eyes. If there was anything down there, he didn’t want to see it!

  Then he felt the icy blast, a gust of foul arctic air that came rushing up from below, fastened its freezing dead fingers around his wrist. He cried out, meaning to scream but it came out like a suffocated grunt. He tried to wriggle back from the edge but his limbs would not respond, and he held his breath because of the stench of foul putrefaction. He felt the torch slip from his fingers, as though whatever had hold of his hand had wrested it angrily from him. It hit the side of the shaft and the glass shattered. Then it went on down … he found himself counting, the way he had when he was a small boy and his parents had taken him to see the Wishing Well in Tamworth Castle. He’d dropped a pin and counted until he’d heard it go plop in the water at the bottom. He couldn’t remember how many he had counted to then, but he was up to twenty-two now – and that torch must have weighed five kilos!

  He heard it hit something, but it wasn’t water! There was a kind of sickening squelchy thud as if the heavy object had hit soft matter. His frightened brain conjured up something illogical, something repulsive. He didn’t know what; he pictured a shape out of a fevered nightmare, bulbous and indefinable, a stinking morass that shifted and oozed like a fat slug on a damp night – evil, cold to the touch.

  He lay there, scared to open his eyes, feeling it all around him, its malignant odours trying to choke him. He couldn’t breathe. He retched, vomited and tasted bile in his dry mouth. Like in a bad dream, he was unable to move as it stroked him with deathly wet hands and seeped inside his clothing. It was in his lungs, torturing them with its filthy presence, pounding his heart and pulses until surely they could stand no more. And then, suddenly, it was gone.

  He still tasted it and smelled it, but his lungs were gasping in fresh warm air, reviving him. The sun was reheating his body until the fevered sweat returned to saturate his grubby shirt. He opened his eyes but turning his head away so that he did not have to look at the well.

  Slowly he got back on to his knees, then rested a minute or two before trusting his legs with his full weight. He was shaken, frightened, but physically unhurt. There was a foul coating on his tongue, a taste of bile and decomposition. He began to walk away from the well – would have run if he had been able. Heading towards the van, he wondered if he was capable of driving it; then altered direction towards the cottage.

  He had to warn Holly, but perhaps he was too late already. Whatever had arisen from the depths had passed over him, left him and gone elsewhere. Where? It was true what Holly Mannion had said; something evil lurked in the borehole, and he had foolishly ridiculed her. He had interfered with it,
planned to destroy it, and it had warned him: I can destroy you just as I destroyed the others, crazed their brains and festered their bodies.

  He staggered up to the kitchen door. It was still open but there was no sign of Holly lying on the settee in a seductive pose, just empty chairs, and the kettle boiling on the stove. Then he saw that the door to the hallway was ajar, creaking on its hinges as though whoever had passed through had been in too much of a hurry to close it after them. Because they were fleeing from some nameless terror.

  He tried to shout her name but only incoherent sounds came from his lips. Panicking, he wanted to flee this dreadful place, but knew that he could not leave Holly Mannion to the mercy of —

  ‘Nick! Oh, thank God!’

  Holly appeared in the doorway and leaned against the lintel for support. Breathless, near to fainting, she too was having difficulty in speaking. ‘Oh, Nick … I … I can’t find Mike!’

  ‘Can’t … find … Mike …’ He had to repeat her words in an attempt to understand. His thinking was momentarily fogged by fear. Then he began to understand, with a new terror. Not Holly but her husband was missing.

  ‘Nick … do you hear me? Mike is missing. I can’t find him anywhere!’

  He nodded, understanding only too well. He recalled how that thing had touched him with its diseased body, its smell; how it could have taken him as it had the others, but had chosen to pass on.

  And now Mike Mannion was nowhere to be found.

  16

  Mike Mannion made a determined effort to concentrate on his work. It wasn’t easy. His concentration lapsed and he found his brushwork indecisive. Standing back, he made every effort to admire his artwork and failed miserably. Trying too hard, he thought. Usually he just painted, let the brush take over. But today the tool of his trade was as sluggish as he was.