Darkness Demands

  Unless, that is…

  He gazed at the water tumbling from the tunnel mouth as a tingling sense of revelation ran through him. Unless, that is, Herbert Kelly had something else to hide?

  The water surged with such energy it turned to foam. John's heart beat faster as he sensed its absolute power. Tons of the stuff must be driving through there in a matter of seconds. At an animal level he experienced sheer awe at its force.

  It sounded far away now but he could still hear the scratching and scraping as if claws dragged along the underside of the tunnel. He walked down to the stone archway set into the bottom of the house. The mill-race foamed from it then tumbled into the stream before running downhill to feed the village pond.

  The sights and sounds of the water exploding from the wall were hypnotic. He not only found himself gazing at the torrent but leaning toward the stone mouth from where the water exited in such a spectacular, heart quickening display.

  Oddly, in that state, his mind became clear. Dianne Kelly hasn't told you the whole story. Either she doesn't know it all. Or she held back. Herbert Kelly grew more withdrawn, more depressed when the letters stopped. Had a secret love affair ended? One of the women to leave the village had been his mistress? Or had he never been reinstated as schoolmaster? Only he couldn't bear to lose face by admitting he'd been fired.

  His eyes were drawn to the maw of the tunnel. The stream had stopped foaming. Now it became gel-like. A deep green so clear he could see through the water to where stones lined the tunnel. It must be a turbulent water hell in there, with thousands of gallons of water fighting through too-narrow a channel. It's a wonder the sheer force of it didn't rip up the floor of the house.

  The stones blurred through the distorting lens of water. He leaned forward to see deeper into the tunnel, his face nearly touching the yard thick jet of water. Spray tingled his face; draughts generated by the torrent's passing ruffled his hair, tugged his shirt. Its full-blooded roar punched deep into his ears.

  The water hypnotized him, drew him closer. He wondered what it would be like to slip his face inside the cool, green jet…

  He looked into the rock artery that ran through the depths of his home. He saw the regular slabs through the water getting smaller and smaller as they receded into the distance. The liquid turned from green to a swirling darkness that was as enticing as it was awe-inspiring.

  That was the instant it came. A dark shape, sleek as a crocodile, fast as a torpedo, shot from the darkness. A distorted face locked on his, blurred by speed.

  In one convulsive movement he jerked backwards from it. A split second later it burst from the tunnel.

  A long, dark neck, a body pitted with age, frayed serpent skin.

  Water splashed into his eyes, his heart rammed against his chest.

  Then, as he threw himself back, he recognized what it was. A huge old fence post, three hundred pounds of timber at very least, had been drawn by the floodwater under the house. What he took to be a face was only the frost bitten end of it. But it exploded from the millrace tunnel with the ferocity of a bomb. If that thing had struck him in the face it would have smashed his skull to splinters.

  The post had a sting in its tail, too.

  The end of it cleared the tunnel, dragging behind it a mad tangle of barbed wire, coiling into a dozen hangman's nooses. Once more he ducked as a noose of barbed wire threatened to slice off his head. The barbs on one loop raked the side of his head. As the timber post crashed back down into the water John saw a tuft of his hair on the wire.

  "Damn you," he panted as he dropped down onto the grass. "Damn you."

  Only he knew he wasn't damning that piece of water-bloated timber.

  Trembling, he returned to the house. He touched the side of his head. When he looked at his fingers they were tipped with blood.

  Still catching his breath, he went to the bathroom to clean the wound.

  It must have been that balk of timber, scraping its way through the gullet of stone, driven on by the pressure of the water, that created the hellish noise. But how did a post of that size get into the stream? The millpond was fed only by springs from the hillside further up. Either the fence post had lain at the bottom of the lake and the storm had loosened it or someone had dumped the three hundred-pound monster into the stream.

  But who would do a thing like that?

  Baby Bones.

  The answer came automatically.

  He pushed the name aside. The rational part of him could do just that. But there was an older, primeval self buried deep inside his head. One that operated by instinct. Yes, he could laugh at what the woman had told him. But that older self showed him a picture as he might be in the future, of him weeping pitifully against an apple tree in the orchard just as Herbert Kelly had wept all those years ago. Yes, he could ignore it if he chose. Yet the great and dark and terrible picture of him weeping heartbroken tears was there, nonetheless. A resonant omen.

  CHAPTER 21

  Dianne Kelly walked through the broken fence into the vast cemetery known as the Necropolis. She remembered when its lawns were neat, bushes well pruned. Once, brass bands played in the bandstand. Now it reeked of urine.

  She would keep the pledge she'd made. She wouldn't return to Skelbrooke. Yes, her career as a general practitioner here had been long and satisfying. But without the work to divert her, she had come to dwell too much on that dreadful time seventy years ago when her father had seemed to lose his mind with despair. So, this was one last visit. She would pay her respects at the family tomb where her mother had been interred after the leukemia had turned her blood to water.

  Dianne walked on beneath the dark ceiling of trees. It was silent. No one else was in sight. The smell of rain-sodden soil hung thickly in the air. Nettles swayed and danced on either side of her. In the depths of the wood, branches groaned. Overhead, clouds nearer to green than black warned of a coming storm. Already the place oozed deep shadow as daylight faded. The sound of dripping trees became a spectral hiss.

  She didn't want to be here when the rain came, but she'd decided to stand before the family crypt, say her goodbyes. Then it would close a long chapter in her life. She might only have a few years left to her at most. She was determined to spend them looking over the ocean far away from Skelbrooke. And far away from the nameless thing that ran through the earth beneath her feet like a stain.

  Stone angels watched her pass by. She stepped over the shattered head of a cherub. A Jesus leaned over her, so distorted by erosion His face had become a leper's face of holes and rotting eyes.

  John Newton would now be struggling to accept what she had told him. She knew that. He would want to dismiss her idea of a malignant power beneath this very hill. Yet some deep buried instinct wouldn't allow him to reject it out of hand. For the sake of his family he must accept what she had told him. The demands in the letters would be trivial. All he need do was take a little away time from his civilized self and offer up those sacrifices… as his ancestors had done without so much as a quibble for thousands of years. They would have understood. And in a little time so would he. Then the letters would stop. He could go on with his life.

  But don't ignore them, John Newton. Don't ignore them. Otherwise things will happen that'll eat into you for the rest of your life.

  Dianne Kelly made her way into the Vale of Tears; its grim stone walls rising up until only a narrow ribbon of greenish sky remained above. Shadows were cold-liquid like. Damp found its way fast through her skin into her old bones. She scanned the names above the iron doors that sealed the crypts-BYERS, REDWAY, MORCHANT, LEBERVILLE…

  The Vale Of Tears had become a playground for children, just as the rest of the graveyard had. Broken glass littered the ground; it flickered with spectral lights like so many eyes staring up at her as she passed. Walls covered with graffiti: names, curses, statements of love and hate. A child's bike had been broken against a wall. Some way ahead up the ramp to the cliff top was the Bowen grave, but she didn't
have time to see it now, not that she wanted to. She would always feel a skin-crawling revulsion whenever she set eyes on it.

  Passing along the narrow man-made gullies from where tree roots hung like dead tentacles, she scanned the names above the doors once more-SNEYMAN, PARKES-LOWE, SPURLOCK. She wasn't looking for Kelly but for her mother's maiden name. A moment later she saw it. HAYLING. Her eyes swept down from the carved block above the lintel. The iron door of the crypt lay open.

  The wretches… couldn't they leave anything alone?

  This had happened before to other crypts. Vandals had broken in. Often they smashed open coffins out of ghoulish curiosity. Skulls wound up under some adolescent's bed as grisly trophies, no doubt. Experiencing sadness as much as anything she entered the vault. Darkness sucked her in, like a snake swallowing an egg.

  The coffins, she saw to her relief, were untouched. Stacked on shelves, they were still draped in what remained of sheets-one or two bore the skeletons of floral tributes that were more than a century old. Here she was in the presence of her ancestors. Prosperous businessmen and once elegantly beautiful women.

  Perhaps, even with her eighty-four years, she might have the strength to close the crypt door to keep out the rats and vandals?

  But a moment later she realized she wouldn't have to. For the door swung shut with the ringing sound of a titanic funeral bell. That was the moment, too, when she knew that she wouldn't be saying goodbye to Skelbrooke after all.

  CHAPTER 22

  1

  "I did warn you."

  "And you were right. This place is a swamp."

  "How was it?"

  "The show? Well, let's say my dad enjoyed it."

  "Enough said. Watch out for the puddle."

  Miranda held out her hand. Paul took it and helped her step over a pool of water that stretched across the cemetery path.

  Well, he thought, it's here at last: Sunday evening. He'd counted the minutes away. Now Miranda was close, her Spanish eyes darting sexily around his face. Her chestnut hair fell in thick coils down her back. God, she looks good. There's a perfume in her hair… the sway of her hips… Jesus…

  "How was the hotel?"

  "OK." She smiled at him, amused. And when she spoke again he realized she'd heard enough small talk. "Paul. Did you bring the you-know-whats?"

  He smiled back, his heart beating faster. "Yes, I've got the you-know-whats." He patted his back pocket.

  "We are talking about the same thing? Rubbers? Durex? Condoms? Sheaths?"

  "Yes. Definitely here."

  "Good." Grinning she led the way along the avenue of crypts. He sensed her rising excitement as she rapped on the doors with her knuckles. "Rise and shine. It's time to come out and play!" She tapped the iron doors again before running lightly ahead of him, her hair swinging from side-to-side.

  He laughed. "You'll get the shock of your life if they knock back from the other side."

  "Who cares! Let them come to the party!"

  She rapped on a door; it chimed like a bell. Now in the depths of the shadows she was a flitting shadow herself, as light as a ghost, her eyes flashing with an eerie light.

  Overhead, trees loomed over the walls, all but sealing them in and blocking what little light filtered through the heavy clouds.

  At one point she stopped at a door. Ventilation holes had been set into the door at around shoulder height. They were large enough to allow you to insert your little finger, although Paul wouldn't have cared to do that. His imagination only too quickly supplied the sensation of dead teeth clamping around his finger at the other side of the door.

  Miranda put her mouth to the one of the holes and called, "Great Grandma, Great Grandpa, it's time to pull on your dancing shoes and come outside." She knocked on the metal door. The sound went booming into the depths of the vault, then the echo came like the sound of hysterical shouting. She put her eye to the ventilation hole. "That's it, Great Grandma, kick off the lid and come out here. I want you to meet my boyfriend." She shot him a wild grin, her teeth flashing like neon in the gloom. "Take a look, Paul." She invited him to put his eye to the hole. "The family are dying to meet you."

  Paul marveled. "My God, Miranda, what are you on?"

  "Quick, Grandma's pressing her ear to the other side of the hole. Come here and whisper a few words into her head bone."

  He laughed. Then his eyes strayed to the lintel above the door where a name had been carved.

  BLOOM.

  His eyes widened. "This really is your family grave?"

  "Well, tomb or crypt would be a more accurate description. But yes, there's a vault in there full of dead Blooms. Boxes and boxes of them."

  "You've been in there?"

  "No. Once when I was little I was so curious that I came up here with a flashlight. I shone it through one hole while I looked through the other hole."

  "What did you see?"

  "Oh, awful… this big, watery eye looking back at me."

  Her face was so serious that he did a double take. Then she laughed and grabbed his arm. "Idiot," she said happily, squeezing him so her breast pressed against his elbow. "You swallowed that one, didn't you?"

  "Hook, line and sinker."

  "Come on," she pulled his arm. "I've missed you. I want to make up for lost time, don't you?"

  "I was just thinking the same thing."

  They made their way through the narrow alleyways, with their iron doors that sealed the dead from the living. Darkness oozed thickly around them; dusk was early tonight. The earth beneath their feet smelt damp, mingling with that, spiky scents of nettles and hemlock. When a light breeze touched the trees, unsettling them into swirls of muttering whispers, water would drip down. Fingers without skin tapped on coffin lids. At least, that's what it sounded like to Paul. Fingers tapping.

  He shook his head… this cemetery had a habit of leaking into your skin to fool around with your brain. He caught up with Miranda, who danced lightly ahead of him, elfin like, and somehow otherworldly.

  He ran, leaping over the puddles. At the corner of one alley he saw rainwater had coursed down here like a stream to leave a smooth layer of silt across the path, right up to one of the doors. Floodwater had even run into the crypt, perhaps stirring a few old bones in the process.

  With care he avoided the fresh deposit of earth, choosing the opposite side of the path where it was firmer and where he'd seen Miranda skip lightly across.

  As he edged by the expanse of mud he saw a set of footprints.

  "Hey, Miranda," he called. "Look at this."

  "Look at what?"

  "There's some footprints… they lead into one of the crypts but they don't come back out again." He looked at the door, implacably shut against the outside world, sealing tight whatever decayed within. Above the door was a name plaque: HAYLING.

  "Miranda. Someone's gone into the crypt, but they never came out."

  "Likely story, Paul."

  Surprised, he looked up. She was already on top of the man-made cliff looking down at him; she was smiling. "Are we going to have some time alone today or what?"

  He looked down at the footprints-they were small, lady-like ones- and they did appear to lead into the crypt. Only now the door was shut.

  He took a step forward, his foot sinking with a squish into moist dirt. In the door were ventilation holes. Curiosity drew him to them. He couldn't resist just one peek through a hole into the crypt.

  Breeze stirred the trees above, raising a whispering sound while water droplets fell around him, making him think of fingers tapping on wood faster and faster.

  "Paul…" Miranda's voice was deliciously teasing. "Pau… orrrl…"

  Gently he tapped a knuckle on the door. The echo came back so sharply he wondered for a moment if someone inside the crypt had given the door a loud answering knock.

  He listened. A dry whispery silence. Nothing more.

  From above Miranda's voice came teasingly again, but this time with a hungry edge. "Paul. Oh, Pau
l? Miranda's so cold and lonely."

  With a shake of his head he said under his breath, "OK, you dirty rotten vampires. Stay put, Paul Newton's got business to attend to."

  With that he turned, jumped across to firmer ground, and walked to where Miranda stood waiting for him.

  As he jumped his heel must have caught the tomb door because it boomed behind with a thunderous sound.

  2

  "And you say you were cut by the barbed wire? Don't move… there, that should do it."

  "I was in the orchard; there was a loose strand of barbed wire in the hedge."

  "Does it sting?"

  "Not much."

  "What were you doing prowling about in the bushes anyway?"

  "Sam was in there, going crazy. I thought he'd got hold of a hedgehog or something."

  "So, you wound up the injured hero, hmm?"

  "I'll live."

  Smiling, Val shook her head at the dog that sat there, his tail swishing back and forth across the carpet. He'd got the grinning look on his face. Sam knows the truth, John told himself. He knows I nearly had my head sliced off when the fence post burst out like a torpedo. He knows we had a visit from a stranger, too, with a dark tale to tell. But, thank God, dogs don't speakie da' English. Val won't be the wiser. He can hide this from her.

  But why hide it? Why not tell her everything as she dabs antiseptic cream on my head? But…

  But what? She'd worry. Yes. She would. A trouble shared isn't a trouble halved. It's trouble just spread a bit further, troubling people that don't need to be troubled.

  He felt a sudden heart-warming burst of love for his wife. She'd certainly gone through a whole potty full of shit when he first tried to cut it as a writer. When manuscripts came bouncing back in the mail with rejection slips that were so damn depressing he had to reach for the whisky bottle. Times were tough five years ago. They'd had to sell the car to keep the roof over their heads. Even when his first books hit the stores they paid so damn little. That old saying really was true: Crime doesn't pay.