Why? What are you scared of?
Shrugging off the troublesome thought, she let herself into their flat and prepared a quick meal. Then she put the radio on, set to the bland pop station Jeff favored, as if it could somehow summon his presence. Then, as she ate pasta from a bowl on her knees, she set to work on the Maspero file.
A few minutes showed that that job was even more tricky than she had assumed. The file was apparently corrupted, but the damage seemed to have been done after encryption.
Why would anyone encrypt a talk on architecture, or whatever the hell it is?
Melody got up to walk around, flexing and stretching. It was already fully dark, and she turned on the main light in the study, then the lights in hall and living room. To her, it seemed necessary to flood the apartment with light, eliminate shadows. Or try to, because somehow a few dark corners remained dark.
Melody sat down again, and tried to think out a new approach. But her concentration failed her once more. She felt nauseous, and wondered if the pasta had been under-cooked.
It was al dente, she thought, getting up and heading for the bathroom. Nothing wrong with it.
She threw up in the toilet bowl.
“Oh God,” she moaned.
“Do not take the Lord's name in vain.”
The small voice came from behind the shower curtain. Melody raised her head, gazing at the sheet of plastic. It was semi-transparent, decorated with cartoon fish and octopuses. Jeff had protested but she had insisted on buying it, saying it was cute. Now she could not quite see through it, the curtain had lost its charm.
“Who's there?”
Movement revealed a small, blurred figure in the bathtub. No, two figures, of equal size. Child-sized.
“Nobody is here,” came the reply, followed by a giggle. Then a hand appeared around the edge of the shower curtain, moved it back a few inches. The fingers looked wrong to Melody. They were too thin, even for a child's. It took her a moment to realize this thinness was due to a lack of flesh.
The curtain fell back as Melody scrambled upright and backed out of the bathroom, watching for a twitch of the curtain.
“You stay where you are, I'm calling the police!” she yelled as her butt struck the dining table. She groped behind her for her phone, felt the hard edge. Then fingers touched hers. Small, cold fingers that closed around the phone and snatched it away. She made a run for the front door, not looking back, began to struggle with the chain.
Always put the chain on for added security, she recalled Jeff saying.
Small fingers clutched at her legs, tugged at her shirt. Nails scratched at her flesh. More giggles. Children, being playful. Then the clutching hands gripped tighter, and she felt one of her assailants start to climb up her back, then another.
Melody screamed, closed her eyes, then hurled herself backwards, trying to crush her attackers. More giggles. She felt bony, light bodies start to pile onto her, nails clawing at her face. She writhed, kicked, punched, felt flesh and cartilage give, but the gang did not retreat. Melody opened her eyes, saw a half-face, a skull almost bare of flesh.
She screamed again.
Then came a pause. The clawing fingers withdrew.
“It is a child!”
Sounds of dismay, confusion. Melody heard a confusing colloquy of hissing voices.
“We must do it.”
“We cannot!”
“If we do not, then he surely will!”
Then came a simple phrase that made her panic even more.
“He will unleash the Wish-Hounds again!”
Melody curled up, still screaming, trying to hold it together. Then she froze as, once more, cold bony fingers touched her face. This time, though, they were not seeking to do damage. Instead, she felt cold breath on her ear.
“Be quiet!” hissed a voice. It had authority, though it was surely that of a child.
Melody kept screaming, but then the fingers moved down to her throat and clutched tight. She began to thrash around again, and once more felt small, bony bodies pile onto her.
“Harken to me! Two lives are at stake!”
“Leave me alone!” she cried. “Please leave me alone!”
“We will!”
“But there is another who will not!”
“The Wish-Hounds will come!”
Melody fell silent. Something about that strange phrase struck a chill into her. She thought of dogs, loping on long legs, jaws slavering, eyes bright with predatory fire.
“Melody?”
A familiar voice, muffled by the door, was followed by knocking. It was her neighbor, Debbie; a kindly woman who Melody often chatted with.
“You all right, love? Should I call the police?”
“Listen! If you value your life, and the lives of others!”
The commanding voice spoke a few more words, then fell silent. The oppressive sensation of skeletal limbs holding her down vanished. As her neighbor continued to hammer at the door Melody gradually recovered her composure, opened her eyes.
Then she got up and let Debbie in.
Chapter 6: Origin Stories
In the summer of 2002, business was going well. Then it stopped going at all.
Joe Sullivan loved cathedrals. He loved simply reciting the names of them to himself, under his breath. Salisbury, Durham, Ely, Winchester – they evoked the essence of England, beautiful and majestic. He loved the fabric of them, the carved stone, and the mortar, the stained glass windows and ancient wooden beams. Joe could have spent every working hour clambering over cathedrals, checking and restoring them.
But there was one cathedral he did not want to work on. Which is why when the call came that morning, his heart sank.
Tracy, his wife and the company secretary, held up the phone in their little office.
“Harry Parry has cried off the tower job,” she said. “He's asking if we can take over. I told him I'd call him back after checking with you.”
“What's the problem?” asked Joe, his heart sinking.
Tracy shrugged, putting the phone down.
“Didn't say,” she said. “Does it matter? We've got nothing till next month, have we? The power station job?”
Joe grunted.
“What is it, then, love?” asked Tracy, speaking more quietly. “It's not like we can afford to turn work down.”
“I know!” snapped Joe. Then, “I'm sorry, love. It's not something I like to talk about.”
“The Weyrmouth Curse?” asked Tracy, arching a blonde eyebrow. “You really believe that stuff?”
Joe walked over and took Tracy in his arms, kissed her on top of the head.
She knows me too well by now, he thought. It had to come out, sooner or later.
“You know my granddad was the first steeplejack in the family? Founded the business?”
Tracy nodded, gently disentangled herself.
“And I know how old-fashioned he was. Never worked on the cathedral. Warned your dad not to. And then–”
“And dad died,” broke in Joe. “He went up that bloody tower, and he came down. Full speed, thanks to gravity. His safety line was cut. Brand new line, tested to a weight of half a ton. Snapped like toffee.”
“The inquest said it was an accident,” Tracy pointed out, looking up into Joe's eyes.
Now she's doing her serious voice, he thought. She's the grown-up, I'm the big baby. Well, maybe she's got a point, but …
“Darling,” he said, “if you want me to go, I'll go. Things have changed, equipment's better now. And besides, I won't be alone.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting him on the behind. “You move that pert posterior over to Cathedral Green and see what they want.”
“I know what they want,” he sighed. “They want to me to check for damage.”
Tracy frowned, puzzled by his troubled expression.
“Well, that's simple enough, isn't it? You go up, take a look, come down. The weather's fine, so–”
“No,” he broke in again. �
��You don't get it, Tracy. Every few years, they check the whole structure for damage. The roof, walls, buttresses, all those statues of saints, the gargoyles.”
Joe turned to the window, looked out across the roofs of Weyrmouth. The dark tower arose, square and enigmatic, above the haze of the morning.
“They find damage, of course. Mostly small stuff. Loose roof slates, corroded stone work, mortar failing. And then they check the tower. And it's always perfect. No damage at all. Not a hint of weathering, no pitting due to pollution. Not even a trace of decay. Not a single trace, in a tower that was built nearly seven hundred years ago.”
Joe turned back to face his wife, gave a rueful smile.
“And nobody knows why.”
***
Doctor Runcie, the Archdeacon of Weyrmouth, greeted Joe when he arrived at Cathedral Green half an hour later. The elderly clergyman seemed worried, looking much older than his sixty-odd years. The Archdeacon ran the cathedral, acting as a kind of prime minister to the Bishop, who reigned rather than ruled. Joe could see the cares of the old man's job in his bleary eyes and heavily-lined features. Above all, though, the clergyman was nervous, and kept glancing up at the tower.
He knows the legend too, thought Joe. And probably what happened to dad.
“We are very grateful,” began Runcie, “very grateful, Mister Sullivan, that you should have stepped in at such short notice. Mister Parry did sterling work on the main body of the cathedral, a most excellent survey!”
So why couldn't he do the tower?” asked Joe bluntly.
“Ah!” said Runcie unhappily. “He did begin, of course, but suffered a bit of a dizzy spell, it seems. I understand that this is not unknown in your profession? Sudden attacks of vertigo?”
Joe nodded dubiously. Every steeplejack had heard tales of experienced men who suddenly got the jitters. It could happen to anyone. One moment you might be at the top of a power station chimney, treating it as another day at the office. Then comes terror, paralysis, the humiliation of being rescued by another steeplejack or – even worse – a Royal Air Force helicopter.
“So he just froze up there?” asked Joe, glancing up at the tower. “How did you get him down?”
“Ah,” said Runcie, looking even unhappier. “He did in fact come down under his own steam, so to speak.”
The steeplejack stared hard at the Archdeacon.
“So he ran away? Harry Parry, one of the most experienced 'jacks in the business, buggered off, and left the job half finished?”
Unable to meet Joe's eye, Runcie mumbled, “We are very grateful to you – stepping in – short notice.”
Sighing, Joe ascertained how much the tower Parry had surveyed. It seemed that Joe would have to start about halfway up. He walked over to the base of the square, hulking structure and took a close look. In theory, the cathedral tower was familiar to him. After all, he had lived in Weyrmouth all his life. But in practice, Joe avoided the area around the cathedral. Now he stared in nervous distaste at the base of the tower, professional eye gauging the state of stones and mortar.
It really is undamaged, he said. Not even a bit of bird-shit.
The realization brought Joe up short. A coastal town, Weyrmouth had a large and noisy population of herring gulls as well as the ubiquitous pigeons and many, many other species of bird. But there were no streaks of graying guano on the tower, so far as Joe could see. He stepped back and strained his neck looking up, hoping to see a tiny winged shape float by. Not a hint of movement above him other than a rushing cloud.
“Is everything all right?” asked Runcie.
“Yeah, no problem, sir,” said Joe. “Okay, I just need to get to the top and lower my lines. Then we can get started.”
Runcie bumbled on about 'getting someone younger' to help Joe 'find his way' to the top of the tower. Joe pointed out that he had been up a few hundred towers of various sizes and could probably make his way to the roof of this one unaided. Runcie looked relieved and, after uttering a few more platitudes, scuttled away.
Joe got his gear from the van and, after taking a deep breath, entered the cathedral. He tried to remember the last time he had been inside the vast building. Joe vaguely recalled a service at Christmas, the glow of candlelight and carols sung by a choir of children. He shivered at the thought. The altar where the service had taken place was right below the tower and the familiar words of comfort and joy had somehow had all the life and beauty sucked out of them. It was as if the mass of gray stone had sucked all significance from the noble sentiments.
Passing through a side door took Joe into the nave. He glanced right, towards the east end of the building, which was lit by the great circular Rose Window. Joe wished he was working down there, far from the tower, in the light of the sun. Shrugging, he turned left, and went into the cold shadows. The doorway to the tower was clearly marked and roped off, but not locked. As he made his way up the stone stairs, he noted that they were not worn. Nearly seven hundred years of feet had tramped up and down this tower, and should have worn down the stairs in the center.
Nothing, he thought. Not a hint of wear. Why aren't scientists from the Uni all over this? It defies the laws of nature.
It only took Joe a moment to work out why the strange condition of the tower remained more-0r-less secret. The church controlled the building and decided who got to see it, who would be excluded. This routine survey was as much outside involvement as the Bishop and his advisers would permit. Besides, it was a boon to the Anglican Church not to have to pay for repairs, which would run into many millions for a building this size.
One of the church's dirty little secrets, he mused. One of many.
As he continued to plod upwards, Joe turned his attention to the walls. They, too, were well-preserved. In fact, the stone might have been mortared in place a month ago, not in the early fourteenth century. Joe had heard someone claim, not long before his father’s death, that the unique state of the tower was down to God's benevolence. He had not found the idea remotely convincing, even then.
Odd shape, he thought, pausing to look at a decorative carving in one great stone block. It was a simple pattern, a square about four inches across with a cross inscribed in it. The square had dots at each corner, and a fifth dot in the middle. Joe ran his fingers tentatively over the carving, then pulled back. There had been a stinging sensation.
Just cold granite on a hot summer's day, he told himself.
Eventually, Joe reached the roof of the tower. He laid 0ut his climbing gear by the crenelated wall and spent a few moments looking out over the city. He made out Weyrmouth Harbor to the east, heat-hazed in the distance. Turning, he looked inland, saw the rolling uplands of the Weyr Valley.
So that's two places I'd much rather be.
Joe realized he was procrastinating and started to secure lines with determined precision. After twenty minutes, he had dropped two new nylon ropes down the west face of the tower, and hooked himself on via his harness. He checked and double-checked that the lines could not fray against the stone. Then he donned a safety helmet, checked his boots, and climbed onto the low wall.
“This one is bold.”
Joe looked around, seeking the speaker. But the small area of the roof was clear of obstructions. There was nowhere to hide.
“Too bold, perhaps.”
A second voice, but again it sounded like that of a child.
“Who's that?” said Joe firmly. “Somebody playing silly buggers?”
Joe heard what might have been a faint titter, but no more words.
“Sod you, then,” said Joe fiercely, and stepped backwards off the tower. After a moment, he was abseiling down the face of the granite edifice, scanning the surface for faults. As with the interior, though, there was nothing wrong with the stonework. If it was all as undamaged the upper tiers, he would have nothing to report.
Joe shifted his attention to the gargoyles that surrounded the top of the tower. They were life-sized images of dogs, or something like dog
s. Seen up-close, any quaint charm they might have had from ground level vanished. The stone heads were too brutal; the huge canines recalled saber-toothed tigers.
“Ugly bastard, aren't you?” he muttered, as he swung a few yards sideways to get a closer look at one.
The normal role of a gargoyle was as an ornamental waterspout, though Joe knew they were also supposed to ward off evil spirits. A gargoyle's grotesque features, the theory went, would frighten away demons. It was an odd notion, now that he thought about it.
Why would images of evil keep evil forces at bay? Maybe it works like electric charges – like repels like.
In the corner of Joe's eye, something moved. He jerked his head around, saw a gargoyle staring out over the city with blind, stone eyes. The gargoyle above him moved then, or seemed to, lowering its vast jaws, about to close them on his head. Joe flinched, raising an arm in panic, almost lost control of his main line.
Of course it didn't move! Get a grip, man!
But the image of the huge stone beast crunching his head open would not leave his mind. He swung away from the gargoyle, and began to lower himself to the halfway mark. Here stood a row of statues that were altogether less alarming. These, Joe recalled, were the various patron saints of old Weyrmouth. They were the divine intermediaries people prayed to in medieval times.
Though none of them look particularly helpful, Joe thought, as he stopped descending and scrutinized the statues. The saints were smaller than life-size, but still had great presence. Yet again, no sign of weathering, no cracks from expanding ice splitting the stone in winter.
Unbelievable, he thought. No way regular granite could survive this long. Unless there's some kind of miracle coating, a medieval plastic or whatever?
The idea was absurd, but Joe was clutching at rationalizations. He had read that Roman concrete was better than the modern kind. Harbor walls built by the Caesars two thousand years ago survived almost intact to this day.
So perhaps some medieval genius had found a way to weatherproof stone?
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