Nightmare Abbey

by David Longhorn

  Donald hurried through the door, resolved not to ask about the dead piglet.

  ***

  “What do you think of our young friend?” Blaisdell asked.

  “He can't take his drink, that's for sure,” replied Kilmain. “He looked distinctly green about the gills when he went off to bed.”

  Blaisdell laughed, and held up his glass for a refill. It was well after midnight. The gilded serving girls were stifling yawns and shivering a little. The candles on the dining table had long since burned down, leaving pools of wax smearing the silver candelabra. The only light now came from the great fireplace. But the two gentlemen continued to drink and talk.

  “Did you really expect the Devil to appear, George?” Kilmain asked. “It seems most improbable.”

  Blaisdell shrugged, and pulled Sukie down onto his lap after she had poured his wine. Gold theatrical paint smeared over his velvet waistcoat.

  Too drunk to notice, thought Kilmain. Or too rich to care.

  “To tell you the truth, Lionel,” said the English lord, running a hand over Sukie's thigh, “I was not quite sure. I was raised by religious tutors. Fear of hell-fire, eternal damnation, was beaten into me from my toddling days. One never quite escapes that, no matter how fiercely a man may rebel against his upbringing.”

  Kilmain raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise.

  “Quite an admission, George. You implored Lucifer to materialize so that he wouldn't? So you could convince yourself that he does not exist?”

  Blaisdell nodded thoughtfully, staring into the fire. Then he pinched the chin of the girl on his lap.

  “What do you say, Sukie? Is there a Devil?”

  Sukie gave a slightly nervous laugh, clearly unsure how to respond.

  “If there is such a one,” she said finally, “he is more likely at work in France nowadays, like the Scottish gentleman said.”

  “A good answer,” commented Kilmain, holding up his own glass for his own attendant. “Here, Lizzie, move your arse – I'm dying of thirst.”

  Kilmain waited for a few moments, but no serving girl appeared. He twisted in his seat and looked round. Lizzie was standing just behind his chair, pitcher of wine in hand, but showed no sign of responding to his order.

  Taking the living statue thing too seriously, Kilmain thought. Silly girl seems to be daydreaming.

  Before he could rebuke her, Lizzie dropped her pitcher, the earthenware vessel shattering on the floor. Wine splashed around Kilmain's shoes, and he leaped up, cursing the girl for her clumsiness. Instead of responding, she started to back away, raising her hands, eyes wide and staring.

  “God preserve us!” said Blaisdell in a small voice. He, too, along with Sukie, was now staring past Kilmain towards the entrance of the room. Kilmain turned, and saw the Devil. Framed in the doorway was a reddish-brown figure, crouching to allow its curved goat horns to pass under the lintel. It was reddish-brown, cloven-footed, shaggy with clumps of black hair. It was the Devil of a thousand medieval pictures and carvings, the Satan of Dante and Milton. Its face was goat-like, smiling evilly, the eyes slits of orange fire. At the end of hugely muscled arms, its hands sported wicked black talons.

  The Devil took a step forward, bringing it closer to the fire, illuminating every warped and obscene detail of its anatomy. The women screamed. Sukie began to mutter to herself, her eyes shut tight. Kilmain caught snatches of the Lord's Prayer. The hideous apparition took another step forward, evidently unhindered by holy phrases.

  Impossible, Kilmain thought, anger rising. A stupid joke. It must be.

  “Did you hire this fellow from the same theater where you got these girls?” he demanded, turning on his host. “You insult me, George. This is crude beyond–”

  Kilmain paused, seeing his host's pale face. Blaisdell looked utterly terrified. A pool of dark fluid was spreading over the fabric of the chair between the lord's hefty thighs.

  If he's feigning fear, he's the finest actor in England.

  “You summoned me. I have come to take you to Hell!”

  The voice was bestial, mocking. Kilmain hesitated, looked again at the monstrous figure that was now just a few strides away, reaching for him. He glanced at a plain wooden box on the mantel above the fireplace, knowing it contained Blaisdell's dueling pistols. He grabbed Lizzie, shoved her towards the nightmarish intruder, then made a dash for the guns.

  ***

  Donald had forgotten to wind his watch, so when he arose to answer a call of nature he could only be sure that it was well after three in the morning. He vaguely recalled climbing the grand stairway to his room, very much the worse for drink. The effects of the port wine were still apparent. He untangled himself from the heavy cotton sheets and flinched slightly as his feet touched the cold, wooden floor. The fire in his bedroom had died down, so that the room was barely visible in the faint glow of coals. He could hear muffled noises from downstairs – shouts, raucous laughter.

  Drunken revelry.

  Donald used the commode and then, rather than go straight back to bed, went to the window. It was a cloudy, rain-swept April night. He could make out nothing but a wedge of light cast from the dining room window onto the lawn. It was clear that his host and probably Kilmain were still carousing. As Donald watched he saw a shadow appear, evidently cast by someone moving close by the great French windows.

  Now, whose shadow is that? They must be very drunk, whoever they are, prancing around like that. Or perhaps Blaisdell is forcing one of his girls to perform? Kilmain said they were actresses or dancers.

  The person casting the shadow seemed to crouch, then leaped with remarkable agility. At the same moment, there was a crash of breaking crockery and an outburst of shouting. More shouting, followed by a scream, presumably that of a woman but Donald was not entirely sure.

  Decadence and debauchery, Donald thought. All the rumors are true. Blaisdell is just another silly lord squandering his inheritance on drinking, whoring, and a little amateurish Satanism.

  Another shadow appeared, this one evidently cast by a man walking backwards, arms raised up in front of him. A smaller figure leaped onto the man's back. There was a yell, another crash, more yells and screams. Donald became concerned.

  Perhaps things are getting out of hand. But what can I do? Other than take notes for another satire on the idle rich?

  He made for the bedroom door but then stopped, gripped by indecision. He imagined himself walking in on a full-blown orgy, clad in his cheap nightshirt, every inch the impoverished scribbler come to gawp at his social betters. As he hesitated, the alarming cacophony from below died away. Donald went to the door and opened it a half-inch, straining to hear. His bedroom opened onto a balcony that in turn looked out over the central atrium of the great house, with the entry to the dining room one floor below. There was no sound. It was pitch black, not a single candle to cast light on the scene.

  “Oh, to hell with the lot of them,” he muttered to himself. Then he started back. The door was being pushed open. In the waning glow of the fire, he could just make out a small, lithe form as it came noiselessly into the room. His unexpected visitor was naked, undeniably feminine in form, but a thick fall of dark hair almost concealed the face. He could just make out a snub nose and a broad, full-lipped mouth.

  “Sukie?” he asked.

  By way of reply, the interloper raised a slender hand and placed her fingers on his lips. Her other hand ran over his chest, down toward his loins. Donald made a feeble effort to retreat, but she pressed herself even closer. Confusion reigned in the young man's mind, not helped by a collision with a bedside table. A pitcher of water fell onto the floor and Donald slipped, landed heavily on the bed. The intruder sprang on top of him. The great mass of hair dangled in his face.

  “This is – this is most improper,” he said feebly.

  In reply, the visitor gave an odd, dry cackle.

  “Most improper. But it's what you want!”

  The voice was rasping, as if the throat repeating h
is words was devoid of moisture. Donald wondered if Sukie had some kind of ailment. She certainly did not sound like a healthy young woman.

  She might have the French pox, he thought. What if I caught syphilis? You go blind and insane!

  Donald had a sudden, terrifying vision of lunatics on display at Bedlam in London, many of them covered in syphilitic sores. No early morning tumble, even with Sukie, was worth that degree of risk. He tried to shove the girl away, but she simply clung to him all the tighter and began to lift his nightshirt. Her strength startled him, scared him a little. Bizarrely he felt the seductress had become an assailant.

  “Get off me, Sukie!” Donald shouted. “I'll have none of you!”

  For a moment, it seemed as if his words had succeeded where physical force had failed. The figure above him became unnaturally still. Then the unpleasant cackling laugh came again.

  “But I'll have some of you!” said the rasping voice.

  Panic seized Donald and, with a huge effort, he managed to free himself. As Sukie lunged at him, he grabbed her by the hair, planning to hold her at bay. But great swathes of hair simply came off in his hand, along with what looked like a layer of scalp.

  “Oh my God!” Donald yelled, trying to retreat, only to fall onto the floor, winding himself.

  With much of her hair gone, the being that leaped onto him could be seen for what it was – a close facsimile of a young woman, one that could pass for human in the dark. The face that pushed into Donald's had the look of a waxen mask, with a rudimentary lump of nose, gaping holes where its eyes should have been. Its mouth was no longer that of a voluptuous young woman but a round, funnel-like protuberance. The sober, rational part of Donald's mind wondered how such a thing could speak at all.

  “What are you?” he screamed, struggling vainly in the monster's grip. He struggled to recall passages from a Scripture concerned with banishing evil spirits. “Are you a demon? I abjure you depart in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ! Begone, foul thing!”

  The weird mouth parts extended, tentacle-like, roaming over his face before settling over his left eye socket. There was a vile sucking noise, and Donald screamed out in pain as blood gushed over his cheek. Then it tore out his other eye. The pain was so excruciating that he felt sure he would pass out, but somehow the agony continued.

  Donald was aware of his inhuman attacker releasing its grip, and put his hands to his face. His fingertips found the empty sockets. He cried out not just in pain but also at the insanity of it all. He howled until he found himself gasping for breath and sobbing, half-choked on his own blood.

  “Yes! It is what you most feared!”

  Donald froze at the words, his terror almost driving the pain from his mind. He felt his grip on sanity start to fray.

  It's still here! Oh Jesus it's going to kill me now. Let it be quick at least, let it be quick.

  But instead of finishing him off, it whispered a few words in his ear. What was left of Donald's rational mind, just before it was submerged in a dark ocean of mental chaos, recognized the phrase as a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy.

  “You will be blind and mad in Bedlam!”

  Chapter 1: A Paranormal Partnership

  “Naturally the foundation will cover all your expenses,” said Ted Gould, as a discreet waiter seated them at a corner table. “We're very keen on this partnership.”

  Matt McKay looked around the restaurant. It was classier than what he was used to, even before you took into account higher British prices. When he glanced at the menu, he felt relieved that Gould's employers were paying. They made small talk, ordered, then got down to business while waiting for the first course.

  “I'm grateful for this opportunity, of course,” said Matt, choosing his words carefully. “But I'm still not clear as why the Romola Foundation wants to team up with a show like ours?”

  Gould, a plump, bald Englishman in his mid-fifties, raised an eyebrow.

  “Don't we both investigate the same phenomena, albeit in different ways?”

  And on very different budgets, Matt thought, glancing at the prices again.

  “True,” he said, “but 'America's Weirdest Places' is an entertainment show. Clue's in the title. Sure, we make a professional product, but it's basically about going to haunted houses and getting some footage that gives people a thrill.”

  “Quite,” returned Gould, taking a sip of mineral water. “But what makes your show different from a dozen others is that you seek out the less obvious, the more bizarre. That derelict funfair in Utah, for instance. Excellent episode. Atmospheric, well-paced – I'm surprised you didn't win some kind of award.”

  “But nothing really happened,” Matt pointed out. “We gave our audience the back-story – in this case, the fatal accident on the roller coaster – and then our psychics experienced stuff. There were noises at night, shadows, like you said, lots of atmospheric shots. But that's it. Don't get me wrong, I loved the show like my own child, but we're not scientists, we're entertainers.”

  “Which is precisely why we scientific investigators need you,” Gould said. “For a long time we've been sniffy about show business, and popular conceptions of the paranormal. And a fat lot of good it's done us! Some of us think the time has come to stop being so poo-faced about it, and get ourselves a much higher profile. The Romola Foundation was set up in 1865, Matt, and still hasn't found conclusive evidence of psychic phenomena.”

  But you've certainly spent a ton of money looking, thought Matt. And I need some of that action.

  “You don't need to persuade me to bring my team over here, Ted,” he said. “But why not use a home-grown outfit? Every country has ghost hunting shows, stuff like that? Especially here – isn't England the most haunted country on earth?”

  Gould's amiable features froze for a split-second before he smiled again and waved away the suggestion.

  “We've looked into it, believe me,” he said, “but none of our British production companies were interested in Malpas Abbey. It's not really on anyone's radar as a haunted house, you see. Nobody has stayed there in decades.”

  Not exactly a lie, Matt thought. But not strictly true, either. You can't kid a kidder. What are you hiding, Ted?

  The waiter returned with fashionably small portions of food on square plates. During the lull in conversation, Matt noticed Gould absentmindedly rubbing his right wrist. He caught a brief glimpse of a white streak before the older man's shirt cuff fell back into place.

  An old scar, and a bad one, Matt thought. Another little mystery. But here I am in one of the most expensive restaurants in London being offered a ton of cash. Am I going to argue?

  “So, Ted,” the American said, picking up an elegant silver fork, “shall we talk dates?”

  ***

  “Seriously?” asked Benson. “People spend their time and money on this – this half-baked nonsense?”

  “All good clean fun,” responded Gould, picking up the remote to stop the recording. “And these are just the edited highlights. The cases in which we have found – well, enough to arouse our interest.”

  Benson, chairman of the Romola Foundation's board, grunted noncommittally. He was a spare, silver-haired man of around seventy, well-preserved and sharp-witted. He and Gould were seated in a small theater at the organization's London headquarters. The lights were dimmed, but they did not sit in darkness. Absolute darkness was never permitted anywhere in the building. The walls of the room were decorated with pictures of paranormal phenomena, all photographs or stills from amateur movies. All had been verified as fakes, mute reminders of the importance of skepticism.

  “I see shadows, flickers of movement, shapes – some suggestive,” he conceded. “But wouldn't we see the same phenomena in any of these absurd shows?”

  Gould shook his head.

  “Not according to our analysts.”

  He began to fast forward, stopped, froze a scene. It had been taken with a night-vision filter, the whole screen was black or garish, fluorescent gre
en. A pretty, fair-haired woman was in the foreground, facing to one side, evidently speaking to someone out of earshot. In the background was a circular aperture, perhaps a drain. Gould fiddled with the remote, zooming in clumsily on the opening. Benson leaned forward.

  “Hard to judge the height,” he murmured. “But that is possibly a child?”

  Gould began to move the clip on, one frame at a time. The shadowy figure in the opening seemed to change shape, unfolding to become taller, more spindly. As it emerged, it moved so quickly that it left blur lines. Then it vanished.

  “No doubt about that, I think,” Gould said flatly. “It's one of them. And it keeps happening. At least three times, with several more possible occurrences. Nothing like this has been seen in any similar series.”

  “And you really can't say which member of the team is triggering the crossover?” asked Benson. “After all, one could cross-reference the personnel on a given episode–”

  “Of course we thought of that,” said Gould, a little testily. “They have had the same core team for two years, made dozens of episodes. It's one of them, but we don't know which.”

  “That woman,” Benson said, referring to a printed sheet. “She's the presenter, Denise Purcell? And there are two others who regularly appear. Both self-proclaimed psychics?”

  Gould nodded.

  “I think at least one member of that team triggers intrusions without realizing it. They're all focused on more conventional ideas – apparitions, poltergeists. Nothing I've seen suggests they are aware of the Interlopers, let alone how dangerous they can be.”

  Benson looked from his subordinate to the screen, then back again.

  “Very well, Edward,” he said. “I will sign off on this one, and keep the board off your back. Dangle your bait as you please. Let's hope that nothing too dangerous takes a bite at it.”

  The informal meeting was adjourned, no records having been kept, as was customary. Officially, Benson was a hands-off chief executive, never intervening in the work of investigators like Gould. In reality, Gould knew that Benson knew everything and watched everyone.