Nightmare Abbey

by David Longhorn

  Gould bent over the tiny figure. The body was face down. He turned it over cautiously with his foot, taser at the ready, but the Interloper did not move. The eyes, now tiny black beads in deep, pale sockets, gazed blankly upward. A yellowish froth had formed around the mouth. Gould looked up at Denny.

  “I think she's dead,”

  “You mean it's dead,” corrected Forster.

  “Yeah,” said Gould, looking down at the body in its incongruous child's outfit. “Yeah, that's what I meant.”

  “I'll get something from the van to wrap it in,” Forster said. “Best keep clear of it, just in case.”

  After he left, Gould sat down and buried his face in his hands.

  “I'm sorry,” said Denny. “It must have been so hard to admit that it wasn't her.”

  Gould looked up, tears streaming down his face.

  “I so wanted to believe,” he said. “Right up to the moment we came through that door. I wanted to see her there. An innocent child.”

  He covered his face again, giving a great, heaving sob.

  “We'll find her,” Denny said firmly, sitting by him and putting an arm around his shoulders. “We'll find them both.”

  Epilogue: The Romola Foundation

  “I hate clearing up, it's so boring,” said Davenport, climbing out of the van and surveying the house with distaste. “You sure the police are finished?”

  “Yeah,” replied Forster. “Property is now back in the hands of our lovely foundation.”

  “Will bricking up that doorway do the job?” asked Davenport, gesturing at a group of builders standing by a truck.

  “That's not the plan,” the older man corrected. “This time they're going to fill the cellar with concrete. Right up to the ceiling.”

  This gave Davenport pause for thought.

  “So the little buggers won't be able to get out, into our world, ever again?”

  Forster gave a weak smile, gestured at the great house. They started to walk up the steps to the palatial front door.

  “Look, son, this is just one site. The foundation's identified dozens around the country, and dozens more overseas. We can't shut them out completely. But it sends a message.”

  Davenport muttered a few colorful versions of what that message might be. Inside they found that the police had removed all the investigators' belongings. The Interloper remains had been dealt with before the police had been called in. The two men went over the house room by room, looking for anything significant, but drew a blank.

  “So,” said Davenport, looking around him. “Is that it? Are we done?”

  “Not quite,” Forster said, leading him back to the cellar entrance. “Just a picture to take. I almost forgot, but you know how Benson likes everything strange documented.”

  In the corridor near the doorway, Forster pointed up at the wall. The message to Brie that had been scratched into the plaster was still legible.

  “Oh, that,” Davenport said, dismissively. “I got a shot of that the first time. And the other one.”

  Forster nodded absently, then frowned.

  “What other one?”

  This time it was the younger man's turn to lead his superior. Just outside the kitchen, there was a similar array of deep scars in the plaster-work, just above head height. The light was poor, and even using a flashlight Forster struggled to make out the words.

  “I reckon it's a threat, kind of,” said Davenport.

  “Or just an observation,” Forster mused, raising his camera to take the image. “Right, let's pack up and get out of this dump.”

  On the way back to headquarters, the two chatted about trivial matters, as always, rather than the grimmer aspects of their unusual work. But that night, when he was back at home with his family, Forster found it hard to focus on his kid's chatter about school or his wife's complaints about her boss. His thoughts kept returning to the enigmatic message scored deep into the fabric of Malpas Abbey.

  THERE ARE WORSE THINGS THAN US

  ***

  “The film from the obsolete camera you recovered has been processed,” said Benson.

  “So I gathered,” replied Gould.

  Benson raised a hand, and the lights dimmed. A low-grade, black and white film flickered on the screen. A group of men in old-fashioned British army uniforms were shown in front of a bricked up doorway.

  “Medical orderlies, I take it?” asked Benson.

  “Yes,” agreed Gould. “Members of the Royal Army Medical Corps. The house was earmarked as an infirmary for wounded officers immediately after World War One.”

  “Hmm,” said Benson. “Hence the desire to put the cellar to use.”

  “For storage space, probably,” said Gould. “An unwise decision.”

  A couple of them raised hammers, knocked a way through. The film then cut to a scene in the cellar of Malpas Abbey, with two of the orderlies horsing around by the altar. A close-up followed, showing one man pulling a funny face next to the carvings on the pale stone.

  “All good clean fun,” observed Benson. “But I'm assuming the entire establishment, at this point, was full of men who had suffered considerable trauma on the Western Front?”

  “Yes,” said Gould. “Each with his personal demons.”

  The film suddenly became jerky as the man who had been fooling around stood up and looked at something out of camera shot. The point of view veered wildly, then came to rest on what looked like a ball of mist, hovering in the air. A dark shape formed inside the sphere, then leaped forward. The picture span, then the camera must have struck the floor and ended up on its side. A struggle was under way, but those involved were out of focus. Then a figure came into view, for a brief moment.

  “They enhanced this image,” said Benson. “Quite graphic.”

  The Interloper was a conventional image of Death, a skeletal figure with a skull-like visage. Much of the detail was lost in a blur of movement, but it was clear that one of the creature's claws was in the act of scooping the innards out of a still-living man. The soldier's face was frozen in a scream of agony.

  “The terrifying death they had escaped in the trenches of Flanders came to claim them in England,” Benson commented. “Almost poetic. But of no real practical value for our research.”

  “No,” agreed Gould, his mouth suddenly dry. “I suppose not. Though …”

  Gould hesitated, glanced at the man in the dark suit.

  “You have one of your theories, perhaps?” asked Benson quietly.

  “We assume they deliberately draw on our emotions and memories,” said Gould carefully. “But what if it's a two-way process? What if our obsessions, nightmares, fantasies, shape their appearance and behavior regardless of what they might want?”

  Benson looked at Gould for a moment, gave a slight nod.

  “And some people would be more influential than others. Your friend Ms. Purcell, for instance, seems to have no personal demons to evoke. But you may be barking up the wrong tree, Gould. Not for the first time.”

  “It's just a hypothesis,” murmured Gould.

  “Quite – and now for something completely different,” Benson said, raising his hand again so that his long fingers were illuminated by the projector beam.

  The black and white image was replaced by modern digital video. Gould saw himself, Denny, Matt, all in a state of confusion as an Interloper bounded down the steps into Blaisdell's temple. There was confused shouting. The field up vision spun, swung upwards as Frankie struggled with the creature that grabbed her from behind, then the second Interloper blocked the view as it leaped at her. There was a whirl of chaotic motion, a screeching sound, then blackness and silence.

  “The transition is, as always, impossible to record with any clarity,” murmured Benson, with a trace of frustration. “Perhaps with specialized equipment.”

  “Quite,” agreed Gould.

  Now the screen showed a bleak, outlandish scene, one Gould recognized from Denny's description. The camera fell to the ground, and
pairs of feet – some human, some not – appeared briefly. There was a howling that suggested a strong wind, plus scuffling and the faint sound of Frankie's voice. Her cries dwindled quickly, then were gone. A couple of seconds ticked by on the digital readout in the corner of the screen. Then the camera was lifted and Denny's face, huge and distorted by proximity, appeared for a moment.

  “The young woman showed great courage and initiative at this juncture,” said Benson. “I agree that she may be an asset. Intriguing that she might be able to block the enemy's psychic powers. Training could help with that. And of course, it is better to have her inside the organization, rather than out in the world telling her story. She is impulsive, though. You'll have to watch that.”

  The viewpoint swung around as Denny panned around the unearthly vista, then settled on a vague object on the horizon. The camera zoomed in, but the peculiar light and the sheer distance meant the image remained blurred.

  “Again,” Benson said, “our people managed to remove much of the noise from one frame and get a clear picture.”

  The still image came up on the screen. Gould gave an involuntary gasp of horror.

  “Despite its size, this object is, our experts think, a living thing rather than a machine. But whatever it is, it is most certainly heading for the gateway,” Benson remarked. “And moving quite fast, considering its size. We must be thankful that it will take a good while to get there. Years, one hopes.”

  “But,” Gould began. “There are so many other gateways!”

  “Indeed,” Benson said. “We must, as usual, hope for the best while we prepare for the worst. These – colossal entities could be emerging all over the world in the very near future. The human race would find it difficult to deal with them given our present state of chronic disorganization.”

  ***

  After parting company with Benson, Gould went to the Knightsbridge Hilton, where Denny had been booked at the foundation's expense. They had used a false name, as the killings of three people and the disappearance of a fourth had embroiled them in a media feeding frenzy. The loss of almost all of its personnel had, ironically, made 'America's Weirdest Hauntings' a ratings success again.

  “What about the cops?” asked Denny, as they sat down for coffee in a quiet corner of the bar. “They thought I was crazy when I started talking about monsters. Eventually I just clammed up and they got some doctor to say I was suffering from PTSD.”

  “Which is why I didn't talk about monsters,” said Gould gently. “Jim and I worked out a version of events that makes it seem – without saying it in so many words – that Frankie is a deranged serial killer, currently on the run.”

  “That's ludicrous!” Denny protested. “How can they be dumb enough to buy that?”

  “Because their dumb theory doesn't involve monsters,” Gould riposted. “Do you want to try telling them the truth again? Or maybe go to our wonderful British newspaper with your story?”

  Denny shrugged.

  “I might have to sell my story. No show, no job.”

  Gould looked around the bar, then leaned closer.

  “The Romola Foundation would like to offer you a job,” he said. “As part of my team of investigators.”

  Denny sat open-mouthed, coffee half-raised to her lips. She put the cup down carefully, then asked, “Does that mean I might get to go after Frankie again?”

  Gould nodded.

  “And you're still hoping to find Lucy,” she went on. “Right?”

  Gould looked out of the window at the skyline of London. It was a pleasant autumn day, sunshine glinting on the capital's tower blocks.

  “I have to hope,” he said. “We both do. And you've proven yourself. More than proved. If there's such a thing as a natural at this game, you're it.”

  Denny paused for a moment, then smiled up at Gould.

  “Okay, you got a deal,” she said, holding out her hand. “Say, did you get anything useful from Frankie's camera? I saw some crazy shit over there.”

  “No – no, we didn't,” said Gould, shaking her hand firmly. “I'm afraid the memory was wholly corrupted. The physics team thinks it was a side-effect of the transition – something to do with quantum entanglement. Or so they tell me.”

  “Oh, crap,” moaned Denny. “Better luck next time, I guess.”

  ***

  In a white, windowless room, Lord George Blaisdell lay strapped to a metal couch. The unusually-shaped frame supported his weight without crushing the organism fastened between his shoulder blades.

  “He is still conscious, Wickes?” asked Benson, observing Blaisdell through a narrow slit in a padded door.

  “Yes, sir,” said Doctor Wickes. “Though he drifts in an out of delirium. His grasp on reality is somewhat fragile.”

  “Not surprising,” Benson said. “And the PD entity? Is it simply a parasite?”

  Wickes shook her head.

  “Definitely not, sir. As far as we can tell, it is symbiotic. We assume it was affixed to his body specifically to allow him to survive for a prolonged period in the PD. Much as we might keep an animal specimen alive in an artificial environment.”

  Benson peered through the slit for a few seconds, then turned to face his chief biologist.

  “In other words, that strange lump of tissue feeds him?”

  “Quite right, sir,” said Wickes, with a slightly nervous smile. “It has altered his biophysical structure so that it can somehow process compounds from the PD into nutrients.”

  “Fascinating,” said Benson, firmly. “But can it be transferred to one of our operatives?”

  Wickes looked more nervous, her eyes wide.

  “Sir, it is part of his body now. We think that removing the symbiote would cause massive metabolic shock, possibly fatal.”

  Benson looked levelly at Wickes until the latter lowered her eyes.

  “Get on with it. And do not use anesthetic. You don't know what effect such chemicals might have on that thing.”

  “But–” Wickes began. “If we kill him?”

  “He's been legally dead for a long time,” Benson replied. “Think of it as a kind of post-mortem.”

  Wickes signaled to a pair of orderlies standing nearby. Then she went to a long table that stood against the wall. Surgical instruments and a box of latex gloves were laid out ready.

  When they opened the door, Blaisdell began to shout and writhe in his bonds.

  “Turn him over, quickly,” ordered Wickes.

  The orderlies rotated the metal frame until the captive's back was facing upwards. Wickes took a deep breath and raised a scalpel. She began to cut away the flesh around the unearthly organism. The brown hemisphere pulsed and quivered as black fluid spurted from severed vessels. Blaisdell screamed.

  “I thought I had escaped from Hell, but I was wrong!”

  ***

  “Classic case of overkill, if you ask me,” said the guard, checking Forster's pass. “Waste of my time. But hey, I'm getting paid.”

  Forster looked the man up and down, then stepped past him to the cell door. He opened the viewing slit and stood peering inside for half a minute. Then he closed the aperture and stood in silence for a few moments.

  “Overkill,” said Forster eventually. “Interesting term. Very applicable in this particular case.”

  The guard looked uncertain as Forster looked him over.

  “If anything,” Forster said, “I think it's a case of underkill to have just one bloke on guard outside this particular door. You know the procedure, right?”

  “Of course, chief,” the guard replied, sounding slightly aggrieved. “If our guest starts getting lively, I report it at once.”

  “You hit the panic button,” corrected Forster. “Grade One alert. Your first priority is to get help down here. Don't try to do anything on your own.”

  The guard nodded, and Forster started to walk away towards the security checkpoint at the end of the corridor.

  “Er, chief,” said the guard.

  Fors
ter stopped and turned, raised an eyebrow at the young man.

  “Yes? Something not clear?”

  The guard shuffled his feet, reddened slightly.

  “It's just,” he said. “Well, it just seems a bit weird. I mean, why's that thing dressed like a little girl?”

  * * *

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