Curse of Weyrmouth

by David Longhorn

  “I bought you some time,” she heard her father's voice say. “I weakened him. Make the most of it!”

  As suddenly as she had left, Erin was back in the cathedral. The interlude in the black vacancy had seemed to take several minutes, but she realized it had filled the gap between one instant and the next.

  The pain from her maimed feet and torn hands was almost unbearable. A hound had clamped its jaws on the back of her neck and she felt flesh ripping. Then there was a sharp yelp and the animal was knocked sideways, its jaws torn free from her body. She thought she saw a ghost in the form of a Roman soldier standing over her, incongruously wielding a huge gold cross. Then she realized that it was John Carr beating off the hounds with the crucifix taken from the cathedral's high altar.

  Can it be that simple? Erin wondered. Like fighting off Dracula?

  The cross was bloody, now. Again, Carr struck and one of the sharp-edged arms of the cross bit into a Wish-Hound's back. The monstrous creature yelped and slunk off to one side. Erin felt herself lifted by strong hands and looked up to see Jen Deighton, wide-eyed but looking determined.

  “Let's get you out of here,” said Jen.

  “No!” cried Nick, He had extricated himself from the Wish-Hounds, but drying blood still streaked his face. “She is the heart of the quincunx!”

  “To hell with your–” began Carr, then stumbled over the word. With a roar of frustration, he hurled the cross at Nick, who tried to dodge. The crucifix struck him on the side of the head, drawing more blood. Again, the Wish-Hounds began to leap up at their supposed master, slavering jaws snapping at his face.

  “Give me a hand, John!” shouted Jen, and the two detectives half-dragged, half-carried Erin away from the melee.

  Now the hounds were crying out in pain. Something was happening to the light. From her prone position, Erin could just make out a golden glow, growing brighter by the instant. She risked a peek and saw Nick, two Wish-Hounds hanging off his body, holding out his arms. A third was slinking away, and Erin heard a familiar, very canine whining noise. By now, Nick's face was radiant, blazing with cold light. Erin shut her eyes just in time as the inhuman figure vanished in a flash more intense than a bolt of lightning.

  Everything went black, then chaotic after-images began to swirl in her field of vision. Erin was alone in a world of pain, huddled on the stone floor.

  But the floor isn't trying to eat me.

  She opened her eyes. Nick was gone, and so were his not-so-faithful hunting dogs. The corpses of Park and Joe were still there, pools of dark blood spreading out around their heads. John Carr and Jen Deighton were leaning on one another, hands over their eyes. Wincing and gasping from pain, Erin stood upright.

  “It's not fair.”

  One of the children stood looking up at her. Gone was the face of bone and rotted skin. Instead she saw a truly angelic face, that of a little boy of about seven years old.

  “We only wanted to go away to the good place,” said the boy. “But you wouldn't let us.”

  “I'm sorry,” she mumbled, oddly ashamed of herself.

  “We won't forget what you did!” snarled the boy, his face suddenly that of a long-dead corpse. “You'll be a lot sorrier!”

  “We have to stay behind now,” said another voice, one devoid of anger. “But it might not be so bad.”

  A smaller boy appeared from behind the taller one. This one had a round, pleasant face. The ghost-child gave a sad smile.

  “The bad angel said we could be free if we did what he said,” the smaller boy explained. “But he lied. I don't think he could send us to the good place anyway.”

  The two ghosts looked at one another, then back at Erin.

  “You suspected he was lying all along,” she said. “But you had to believe in it.”

  “Even the dead need to believe in something,” said the older boy. Then the two disappeared. For a moment, Erin had a vision of the great tower as a living thing, with five pulsing hearts at its base, two more at the middle and top of the structure. The hearts were silent for a long moment, black blood no longer flowing through the granite. Then the seven hearts began to beat again and the vision passed.

  Through her pain, Erin felt immense sadness and regret. The cathedral's prisoners, its child sacrifices, were once more enslaved.

  “I'll set you free,” she whispered. “Now I know you're here, I'll set you free. I promise.”

  “What?” asked Jen, blinking at Erin. “Who were you talking to, just then?”

  “Nobody,” she replied, leaving Jen to help John Carr to his feet.

  Erin staggered out from under the tower towards the altar, where the makeshift stage was. People were milling around in shock. Someone caught sight of Erin and screamed. Erin looked down. She was leaving bloody footprints and had been unconsciously wiping her maimed hands on her white robe. She could just make out one bent angel wing. It was spattered with black gobbets of blood.

  “What happened?” shouted the director, running up to her.

  “Sorry, Tim,” she said, as she collapsed by the altar. “I don't wanna be an angel anymore. They play too goddam rough.”

  Epilogue: Scars

  “That's our report?” asked John Carr.

  Jen shrugged.

  “It's the best I can do. Or, put another way, it's the most I think we can get away with.”

  Carr threw the sheaf of papers onto his desk and kicked back in his creaking chair.

  “Two detectives,” he said, “were present at an incident with roughly a dozen witnesses, during which six people died under very odd circumstances. A seventh was seriously injured. Another person – a colleague of the seventh victim – vanished without trace. And we conclude that a pack of wild dogs got into a cathedral, caused carnage, then vanished without trace.”

  Jen shrugged.

  “It's the usual thing. Some will say it's the Curse of Weyrmouth, then just get on with their lives. Others will claim it's a conspiracy and we're part of it. That's what YouTube's for, mostly.”

  “Bugger!” said Carr. “And nobody thinks there's a link to this business with the tower? I mean, it's not just coincidence, right?”

  Jen looked out of the office window towards the cathedral. The great tower was almost invisible, shrouded in layers orange scaffolding. A huge crane stood on the green, and workmen were busy all over the structure.

  “They say they've stabilized the problem,” she pointed out. “Whatever happened, it seems to have come in a short burst.”

  Carr snorted.

  “All that bullshit about accelerated erosion, storm damage, ice,” he said. “They haven't got a clue what started the thing crumbling, or why it just stopped after a few days.”

  “Should we tell them it was down to ghosts, or something like ghosts?” asked Jen.

  “Point taken,” said Carr, getting up. “Let's go and do some boring, regular police work. And hope whatever happened – well, that it won't happen again.”

  “Fingers crossed,” said Jen, putting on her jacket.

  They spent the rest of the day not talking about the incident at the cathedral. But the memory of the chaos and madness on that night still hung between them like a cloud of ignorance and terror.

  ***

  “They told me I shouldn't bring you any more grapes,” explained Louise, putting a brown paper bag onto Erin's bedside table. “Apparently they're 'sugar bombs', or something. Not part of a balanced diet, anyway.”

  Erin smiled up at her boss. Her pupils, the Englishwoman noticed, were still wider than normal.

  Diamorphine, Louise thought. She must have been in agony for them to keep her on it for so long.

  “Well, that's your National Health Service's way of saying I've got a fat ass, I suppose,” she said. “So what did you get me? Celery? Carbonated water?”

  “Apples,” replied Louise, “plus some books, nothing too heavy, and nice easy crosswords, you said you liked those.”

  “Great!” said Erin, grinning br
oadly. Louise knew she was Erin's only visitor, and had turned up punctually every evening since Erin had been admitted a week earlier.

  Erin reached over to take the bag. Louise made to help her, but Erin waved her away.

  “No, no, I've got to get into the habit of doing stuff for myself.”

  With a heavily-bandaged hand, she managed to put the bag onto the bed next to her, and started to rummage through it.

  “I know it's painful to watch,” said Erin, “but believe me, it's more painful to do it. But don't worry! I'll soon be back at work, being a massive pain in your ass.”

  Erin giggled.

  “They're still giving you pain relievers, I hope?” asked Louise, noticing Erin's dilated pupils.

  “Oh God, yeah,” sighed Erin, “just not as much as I want. But when I do get it, believe me, it's the good shit. Back home this would be costing me a fortune. Hah!”

  “Any update on when you can–” began Louise, but stopped as a doctor appeared accompanied by a couple of senior nurses.

  “Ah, here's my man, doing his rounds,” said Erin in a low voice. “It may be the meds, but I feel a powerful urge to marry Doctor Foster. He is a great big British dreamboat and I am all for a single-payer approach to my love life at this sensitive juncture.”

  Louise tried to stop herself from laughing as Erin continued to discuss her romantic fantasies. By the time the doctor got to Erin's bed, Louise could not look him in the eye.

  “So, how are we today?” asked the young man.

  “I dunno about you, Doc,” said Erin, “but I have decided to quit the varsity rowing team.”

  “Ah, pain relief still quite effective, then,” said the doctor, consulting Erin's chart. “Well, you'll be pleased to know that we can probably take the bandages off your hands tomorrow.”

  “Yay!” Erin waved her arms lazily.

  “Your feet may take a little longer,” the doctor continued, “but you should be able to hobble about on crutches within a week.”

  “Level with me, Doc,” said Erin, putting on a serious face. “Will I ever play the cello again?”

  Doctor Foster smiled, looked at Louise.

  “If you ever played it before,” he said evenly, “then yes. But we could possibly see a loss of sensation in your palms and the soles of your feet. And of course there will be some scarring.”

  “Scars, shmars,” snorted Erin. “I already got plenty of those, they're nuthin'.”

  “Yes,” Foster said, “I did mean to ask about those. Well-healed, of course, so I assume it was a procedure performed in childhood?”

  “Scars?” asked Louise, looking from one to the other.

  “Yep, I'm a freak of nature,” wailed Erin in mock despair. “You had to find out sooner or later. Does this mean no Christmas bonus?”

  “The original scars on Erin's hands and feet,” said the doctor, “are apparently from the removal of supernumerary fingers. Your friend had extra fingers and toes, is that right?”

  “Right,” confirmed Erin. “Daddy insisted they cut 'em off. My mom thought I should be left with twelve fingers and twelve toes because it was the Lord's will, or a sign of the End Times, or some such crap. Crazy old bat. Like I was a two-headed calf born in Idaho. But she doesn't have to be at the wedding, you know what I mean? Right?”

  Doctor Black smiled patiently.

  “I might have to dial down the pain relief a little,” he said, prompting a pout and a moan from Erin. “But otherwise you'll be fine.”

  When Doctor Black left for the next patient, Erin quizzed Louise about 'Saffron', the guise adopted by the being known as Nick.

  “I had no idea,” admitted Louise. “She seemed to check out, but now that I look back at it, all her talk of friends and family was just that. I never met anyone who knew her really well. She was good. A kind of supernatural con-artist.”

  “And she just vanished, without trace?” asked Erin.

  Louise nodded.

  “There was an apartment, because she had to have an address, but it was almost empty. No books, minimal furniture, no TV. What did she do when she wasn't at work?”

  Erin shrugged.

  “Plotted against God, maybe? That would be quite time consuming – lots of angles to consider. And angels – lots of them to consider too. Angel angles.”

  She giggled again.

  “Well,” said Louise, “it's left me in the awkward position of reporting a missing person that I know never really existed.”

  “Hey!” said Erin, waving a hand unsteadily, “you Brits love your paperwork and stuff! If she was on file, she existed.”

  “True enough,” Louise conceded. “The point is, I'm currently down two members of staff. You said you wanted to get back to work? Really?”

  Erin looked serious, now.

  “Yeah, if you still want me. I'd like to stay here for a while, at least. To see if I can help the children. And maybe find out some other stuff. About myself. My dad. Who I am, really.”

  “And this is despite your nearly dying after being here less than a month?” asked Louise.

  They had had this conversation before, several times in fact. But Erin had been even more heavily medicated then, and Louise had not trusted her answers.

  “I need to be sure – for work, you understand?” Louise went on. “You want to work at the museum when they discharge you?”

  Erin nodded emphatically, a lock of thick black hair flopping over her face. Then she gave a military-style salute.

  “I will be reporting for active duty, chief! They can't put ol' Killer Cale down!”

  As usual, Louise had to laugh at Erin's clowning.

  “I'm glad you're on the mend,” she said. “Okay, I'll put you down as on sick leave and we'll fill in some of those very British forms next time.”

  Later, after visiting hours ended, Louise went home and let herself into her neat apartment. She made herself some coffee and put a chilled ready meal into the microwave. Then she stood, gazing out onto the wintry vista of Weyrmouth, long after the machine pinged to tell her the lasagna was done.

  Instead of eating, Louise went to her study and logged on to conduct a search. Something had been preying on her mind. It took her a few minutes to find the relevant academic paper, a study of Cabalistic beliefs relating to angelic beings. She skimmed through, then stopped, staring at the screen.

  'It was commonly held that the Nephilim, angelic beings of great power and uncertain temperament, could and did lie with mortal women. The offspring of such unions were deemed to possess unusual powers, but were also fated to suffer great hardship and often an early death. The distinguishing mark of such an 'angel child' was to have an extra digit on each hand and foot.'

  Eventually Louise remembered her coffee and lasagna, but by then both had gone cold.

  * * *

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