Henry, the Gaoler

by A. W. Exley

  A lack of sensation made me look down. Why aren't we moving?

  Cossimo had stopped next to another horse, its reins thrown over the top rail of the fence enclosing the graveyard. Oh, clever horse knew we had reached our destination.

  Dismounting, I looped my reins over the timber, then climbed through the rails and walked across the grass heavy with a crisp morning frost. Overnight temperatures continued to drop and the moisture froze on the lawn. It crunched underfoot as I walked and my boots left dark tracks.

  Beyond the graveyard with its neatly kept rows of headstones lay an open field. Room for expansion, we used to joke. If the time ever came that our village grew into a town, we had the space for those future residents to have eternal rest. Then the pandemic hit and the meadow where we used to run and fly kites was put to a different purpose.

  Two long, raised mounds of disturbed earth cut through the grass like ghoulish cricket pitches. Our small village lost a third of our number to the pandemic. Too many for the poor old sextant to dig individual graves. Father Mason had two mass graves dug for those dead who didn't have families to dig their own plot. Only closed over in the last couple of weeks, the ground was still sinking and settling as it accommodated those interred in its embrace.

  A group of men stood at the narrow end of the closest pit. Nobody spoke but we all exchanged quick glances. I kept my hands in my pockets to keep the shake from being obvious. I didn't want to be there, but Ella sat in a freezing jail cell. If I could learn anything to help my friend, then I would endure. I'd even put up with Phelps, who stood with his short friend and sneered at me.

  The footman's presence was odd. He wouldn’t normally bother to attend. I couldn't find any connection in my memory between Phelps and Matthews, but perhaps they had been friends. We all served in the same regiment, and that constructed tight bonds between some men. Or perhaps ghoulish curiosity motivated him to crawl from bed so early on his day off.

  Fortunately the presence of Father Mason moderated the bully's behaviour, and he would have to circle around behind me, away from the vicar's ears, to throw his gibes. I moved closer to a group of older men and out of Phelps' line of sight. No point in making his sport any easier.

  "Thank you all for coming out so early this morning gentlemen," Father Mason said, addressing us as though delivering a Sunday sermon. "We have a most disturbing task, to find where poor Mr Matthews may have emerged."

  The men muttered amongst themselves, threw comments of poor bastard and hopes that he was the only one.

  Father Mason clasped his hands before him as he gazed at the most recent grave, where the grass had not yet had time to sprout a soft covering over the raw scar. "Our fine constable Mr Fisher has advised it would be best to spread out and walk a slow line, each of us inspecting the ground around him."

  Like looking for land mines, except I wouldn’t risk getting a leg blown off. With nervous glances at each other, we each took a step onto the dirt. The warm, rich aroma of damp soil pervaded the air as the sun rose and melted the light frost. Father Mason walked to the side, treading the line where green turned to brown, and he gazed at the earth below his feet. Perhaps he couldn't bring himself to walk atop his former parishioners.

  At least these poor souls were buried. On the front the dead often lay exposed, waiting for a ceasefire so we could scramble out and reclaim them in order to consign them to shallow graves.

  One slow step after another I moved forward, my gaze sweeping back and forth. Where had Tim arisen? I had expected to find a large hole, but our task wasn’t that straightforward.

  "Here," someone whispered. He didn't yell or shout because there was no need. Nature herself held her breath. No bird sang, no leaves rustled, not even the faintest gasp of wind. As our attention swung, the man bent down and picked up a pale shape from similarly coloured ground. He held aloft a dirty and stained strip of linen, like those used to wrap the dead. Tim's shroud.

  We started again, using that one piece as our central point, our line radiating from the man who found the ripped piece of cloth. We walked but no one talked. Bit by bit, we found other swatches of fabric as though he had clawed it to shreds and dropped it as he staggered from the grave.

  Then my gaze lighted on something that froze my feet. I stopped and pointed with one hand while I tapped my neighbour in the line with my other hand. About two feet directly in front of me lay a depression with long marks radiating away, where he had scrabbled out. The hole wasn't obvious; the dirt must have fallen back in around his body as he broke free. Funny how a pile of disturbed earth can make your stomach flip with revulsion. Flavours of breakfast raced up my gullet and I had to swallow it back down.

  He had been alive when we dropped him in the ground.

  My mind tumbles down a rabbit hole of horror. Blind, I draw shallow breaths through the rough linen pressed into my mouth. My lungs burn, desperate for air that isn't hot and foetid tasting. My hands lash out only to hit the confines of my cell. The walls move and flex as I push and shove. One finger tears a hole in the fabric surrounding me and damp earth falls into my mouth. Panic lends me strength as I flail in a swamp of bodies. I crawl over the dead, praying I am digging in the right direction and not tunnelling deeper into the earth. After an eternity one hand breaks free; cool air caresses my skin. I sob in relief as I break the surface.

  My body shook as I clambered out of Matthews' nightmare and back into my own. He dug his way out, only for Ella to kill him, separating his head from his body.

  But why didn't the wound bleed?

  As one we edged backwards, away from the hole that led to Matthews' prison. Some walked all the way back to the grass, their bodies sagging as they touched solid earth, with no occupants underfoot. I stopped before the edge, still trying to see into the void.

  The thought of those people under my boots made me nervous, and not just me. Phelps had a sheen on his forehead that certainly wasn't work related. The big brave footman, nervous in the presence of death.

  "Do you think there are others still alive down there, Father Mason?" Someone far braver than I asked the obvious question.

  The reverend cast his gaze skyward, as though seeking a divine answer. "Good God, I would pray not."

  But in the silence that enveloped us, I heard them. A thin, reedy moan like a northern wind through the trees on a winter morning. Except this cry rose from the ground at my feet and washed up my body. Chills raced over my skin, following the path of the noise. I glanced at the men on either side but no one else seemed to hear it. The toe of my boot tapped, but it wasn’t me.

  Something bumped against the sole.

  My breath came shallow in my chest and I jumped back, almost colliding with Phelps who had snuck up behind me. It seemed the solution to his bout of nerves was to launch an attack on me. I shook my head, my eyes wide as dark fears clawed at my senses and my foot continued to bounce.

  Phelps snorted and pointed. "What's wrong, Evans? You scared of a few dead people? Oh that's right, you are!" He burst into laughter at his joke and for added effect, started flapping his arms like wings and making chicken noises.

  Something was rising up from under the ground. Whether real or imagined by my fractured mind made no difference to me; the panic it sparked through my body was real. Noises choked in my throat as maimed soldiers hauled themselves out of the mud. Skeletal hands tried to hold together torn bodies as they appeared before me. Khaki uniforms covered in congealed blood and dirt, they dragged themselves toward me. Hands reached for me. I should have been among them and they had come to claim me.

  My vision went black as my body took charge. I ran. I was only aware of one thing—the sound of Phelps' laughter echoing in my ears.

  11

  I screamed until my voice gave out and still I ran. My vocal cords might not have stamina, but my legs did. Blindly, I didn't care what direction or what obstacle stood before me, I ran away. I would surmount anything to leave the horror behind me. But no matter how fa
st I moved my feet or how hard my lungs worked, it stayed at my back. Death was stitched to me; it formed part of my fabric and rippled over my skin.

  And it laughed.

  The black shadow chuckled and mocked my feeble attempts to slip its clutches until, exhausted, I fell to the ground. Then I curled up in a ball, clasped my hands over my head, and sobbed. Why didn't the Grim Reaper cut me down? Then, at least the nightmare would end. An eternity in Hell would not be any worse than living.

  In the secret room in my mind, I pulled the blanket up and everything went dark.

  August 1914. I had turned fifteen a few days earlier when I crept down the barn stairs early one morning. I slipped a bridle over Cossimo's head, jumped on the cob bareback and pointed him for the village. I read in the newspaper that the recruiters set up a tent on the green and were calling for plucky local lads who wanted the adventure of their lives. They needed loyal men who would fight for King and country overseas.

  That was me.

  Although I dreamed of being a footman at Serenity House, that would still see me anchored to Somerset. The army offered the world. There was just the slight issue of my age. If I waited until I was legally old enough to enlist, the war would be over and I'd have lost my chance. The newspapers reported it would only last a few short months at the most, and all the fighting would be over by Christmas. No one would notice my youth thanks to the growth spurt of the previous summer.

  I wiped sweaty palms on my trousers as I stood in line amongst the other laughing and joking men. The queue edged forward and soon I stood at the front. A man in khaki looked me up and down. He raised one eyebrow and my stomach plummeted. Could he tell with one glance my true age?

  "Keen to enlist, lad?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir." I answered.

  "Are you eighteen?" The question hung in the air between us.

  I swallowed. Lie and embark on a terrific adventure, or fess up and run from the tent like the child I was on the inside? Then a hand dropped on my shoulder. With a glance from the corner of my eye, I knew my plan had been scuttled. Sir Jeffrey stood next to me, a stern look in his gaze.

  "Are you sure, Henry?" He was more than my employer; he was a father figure and a man I respected.

  I swallowed again, a remarkable effort given how dry my throat suddenly became.

  "Yes, sir. I'm sure," I managed to rasp. All eyes in the tent turned to me, assessing my age and discarding me as a foolish child.

  Sir Jeffrey stared at me for such a long time. What did he see inside me? How different would life be, if I had turned tail and fled in that instant? Then he simply nodded and gave my shoulder a shake.

  "I'll be enlisting as well, corporal," Sir Jeffrey said. "These local lads will need someone older and wiser to dampen their fun."

  So many of us made the trek that week, all to line up in the flapping canvas tent. They gathered us together and with other men from the surrounding villages, we formed the 6th Battalion of the Somerset Light Infantry. We set off on adventure and found unimaginable horror.

  As I scurried through the castle in my mind, looking for escape, time kept dissolving and reforming itself around me. It thrust me back to April 1915 in Ypres. The grey-green cloud drifted across the field. At first it looked like artillery smoke, but the colour was wrong. Even the way it hung was wrong. Heavier and lower in the air. As it reached us, we became aware of the smell. Not the acrid burn of gunpowder. Different, stronger, and it made your eyes water.

  As the strange gas cloud enveloped men, it licked at exposed skin and burned. Flesh bubbled and scorched as though unseen fire hid in the mist. It did, in the form of chlorine. Some men ran, but the cloud clung to them. Men cried out as it reached for their eyes and clawed down their throats, burning lungs until blood bubbled between their lips. High-pitched screams of agony cut through me and once again, I ran.

  You should be able to turn back time, like winding back the hands on a pocket watch. Days, weeks, and years would flow the other way and give you a chance to make a decision again, to choose more wisely, knowing the full consequences of your actions. I would have told the younger me not to be such a bloody fool.

  War is no adventure, but systematic death.

  But time only travels in one direction.

  Eventually the chill in my limbs shook my mind free. Raising my head, I found no hounds of Hell waiting to chew my flesh. Only a few birds watched me from the trees high above. A sparrow chirped and flew off as I unwound my body. In my panic, I had thrown myself off the road and burrowed into the shrubbery. Now I had to pick leaves and twigs from my clothing.

  How much time had I lost? Hours, it seemed. My body protested the movement and my joints ached as though I was a rusty hinge left out in the rain.

  I needed to return to the farm. I also needed to reclaim Cossimo, who was probably still hitched to the rail. The patient cob would stand all day, unless someone had thought to throw the reins over his head, slap his rump, and tell him home. Strange how your mind works. I would have been faster on the horse, yet I left him behind in favour of trying to outrun my demons on foot.

  My heart still beat too loud in my chest as I walked back down the road. What would I find? A re-enactment of the horrible battles of the front maybe, or perhaps the absolute slaughter of Somme. Or would I find no re-enactment at all, but the scattered bodies of the villagers and locals I called friends? The men I abandoned as the ground rolled under my feet. Were they torn apart by the skeletal warriors who struggled free of the earth?

  I found neither as it turned out, but still a chilling reminder of the war. Two men patrolled the edges of the mass grave, rifles clutched in their hands. Sentries.

  Another man would have asked what transpired earlier and why they needed an armed patrol at a gravesite. Not me. The mere thought of stepping foot on the grass made my heart stutter. Had I imagined the tapping against my boot from below the ground? When your own mind turned traitor against you, how did you trust anything you saw or heard?

  I peered behind trees and through low hanging branches but saw no one except the nervous guards. There was no sign of Father Mason or any of the others. Phelps had also disappeared, much to my relief. The last thing I wanted was him creeping up behind me again.

  The problem with taking fright and then flight is you have no idea what happened behind you. While I lost myself in scattered memories, events had unfolded here. Perhaps there had been nothing to discover apart from Matthew's torn shroud and a disturbed patch of dirt.

  But why post men to guard the dead?

  I shook my head and tried to dispel foolish ideas. They probably patrolled to make sure no ghoulish people dug around, gawking at where poor Tim had clawed his way free. A simple explanation. Except the chill down my spine refused to budge.

  I held a finger to my lips to hush the horse as I unlooped the reins. I didn't want any sound to attract attention and was grateful I brought Cossimo and not the noisy Triumph. Only as I swung into the saddle did the complete silence strike me as unnatural.

  Once well clear of the village I urged Cossimo onward, and the cob broke into an easy canter. I gritted my teeth as the clip clop of his hooves echoed on the tree-lined roads, as though another horse and rider were directly behind us. Unseen. Following. But always in our footsteps.

  By the time we trotted up the driveway, my jaw ached and Cossimo was blowing. He earned his dinner tonight and I would take extra care to brush the sweat from his long coat.

  Alice and Magda rushed from the kitchen as I rode past the window.

  "Where have you been? You've been gone all day." Alice grabbed the reins as I dismounted.

  Magda stood silently but her hands wrung the fabric of her apron. I looked from one to the other while my brain tried to fumble through the construction of a story to cover my absence.

  "There have been the most horrid stories on the wireless and we were worried about you." Alice's voice dropped down a tone. Deep lines cut into her brow and I had never seen her
so out of sorts.

  I frowned and waited; after all it wasn't like I could shoot back with my own questions.

  She shuffled from foot to foot and kept glancing behind her. "Put Cossimo away first."

  Alice turned and disappeared back into the house. Odd. Not like her to be lost for words. Alice was the most talkative member of our household. I arched an eyebrow at Magda.

  The older woman seemed paler than normal. "We are not alone in what happened yesterday. It seems other villages have had influenza victims return."

  Thoughts collided in my mind. The news might help Ella, or it could condemn her forever. Did the others who returned also attack people, or had Matthews been an isolated occurrence? And Hazel? Even her tower might not protect her if the once-dead victims of the Spanish flu crawled free of the earth and walked again. Wasn't that a sign of Judgement Day, when the dead arise?

  When you most need answers, they are least forthcoming. Before I could seek answers, the patient horse needed my attention. Grooming the cob eased the ache in my jaw and stopped the shake in my hands. By the time I had finished my chores in the barn, my mind had freed itself from the last wisps of panic. Or I had at least hidden it away in a closet in my mental castle, where no one else would glimpse it.

  For once Lady Jeffrey allowed us in the parlour with the rest of the family, although Stewart and I were made to stay by the door while the women huddled around the wireless. The contraption crackled and shards of noise shot from it as though it contained a spitting cat. Then a very proper aristocratic accent filled the room. An unseen man with sharply clipped vowels advised that some pandemic victims appeared to have been in a catatonic state that mimicked death.