Darkness Demands

  John looked up from the file. A vibrating rug of moths pressed against the window, straining to get through the glass to the light.

  I'm walking in Kelly's shoes now, he told himself. The letter has arrived demanding I leave Elizabeth in the cemetery at midnight on Saturday. That's just two days away.

  Do I ignore this?

  Do I take Elizabeth away?

  Come on, Newton: think. Think!

  What the hell do I do?

  CHAPTER 31

  1

  The night was hell. John slept in short nightmare haunted snatches. His mind seemed intent on recapping the last few days. He dreamt of Elizabeth cycling down the lane where she'd fall to gash her chin. But in this dream version of events a dark phantom shape pursued her before seizing her and throwing her to the ground. He dreamt of letters being borne into the garden by shadows. Then he was standing by Jess Bowen's grave surrounded by a million red balls that became a million staring eyes. The weeping statue leered at him with a goblin face.

  He'd woken, panting in the airless bedroom; hair matted against his head in a sopping cap. Outside, an owl hooted. A fox gave a snapping bark like a demon laughing out on the lawn.

  At last he slid away into restless, churning sleep. The nightmares returned; he was back in the Necropolis. The ground curled up round him in waves; tombstones became teeth ready to grind his bones to a milky paste. And behind it all; behind every tombstone, behind every sinister cherub, behind every rotted Christ, he sensed the dark unchanging intelligence that had sent out its insidious demands for the last five thousand years. The fear it generated in men and women in the village became a vast, wet wound from which it sucked with all the gluttonous hunger of a vampire.

  Moments later his mind broke through into consciousness again. He lay twisting the sheet in his hands, thinking about the letter that demanded he leave Elizabeth in the Necropolis. How long would it take to get flights to Australia or Thailand or Chile? Any damn place provided it was far enough away from Skelbrooke and whatever sucked on the wound that bled a bright red terror.

  2

  "You were late getting to bed last night," Val said on the Friday morning.

  "I read the documents in the briefcase."

  "Anything of use?"

  "There might be."

  The conversation over breakfast was tight. Val repeatedly eyed him as if another head had sprung out of the side of his neck. He guessed she was still perplexed, if not downright alarmed, by the way he'd attacked the briefcase with an axe. But he had to know what was inside.

  And now you do know. Kelly received letters just like yours.

  Paul had left early for school, his face still dark and thunderous. Elizabeth had made her bed. Now she walked the dog around the meadow on his leash.

  "It's going to be a hot one today," Val said, striving to be conversational.

  With the letter preying on his mind he was in no mood for small talk; he nodded, however.

  "John, is there something troubling you?"

  "Nothing out of the ordinary," he lied, then immediately wondered why he shouldn't tell her the truth.

  In case you have to leave with Elizabeth in a hurry, he told himself. He looked at Val, his lips pressed together as if holding back what he really wanted to say. I love you, Val. But I can't bring myself to tell you what I know. That there's something out there we can't understand. And that something has demanded that I hand over our daughter. At best you'd laugh in my face; at worst you'd have me committed. I need to be free to act in our family's best interests. Good God, I might even have to flee the country. The surge of love for his wife grew so intense he had to look away.

  Minutes later Val drove out through the gates with Elizabeth in the passenger seat bound for school. Now John sat in the house with only his worries for company.

  The temperature climbed fast. The sun came crunching through the windows like some Martian heat-ray. Even closing the blinds didn't help. With the heat oppressing him on the outside and pure dread chilling him from within, he spread the documents from Herbert Kelly's briefcase onto the desk.

  This time he opened the file marked The Skelbrooke Mystery. On flimsy paper was what might have been a chapter of a book. Again he was acutely conscious of the fact that Herbert Kelly might have typed these pages in this very room. More than once he looked back, half expecting to see a tall figure standing there. John dragged the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand then began to read.

  THE SKELBROOKE PHANTOM

  by HERBERT C. KELLY

  A coroner's report of 1787 records matter-of-factly that 'George Spurlock poisoned himself on account of him seeing the face of Baby Bones looking at him through the parlor window glass.' Delving deeper into church records and other archive material, we find earlier references to a shadowy figure known as Baby Bones. Although more ancient documents refer to the character with variations of the name, such as 'Baby Bones', 'Bonnie Bones' or 'Jack-Of-Bones'. A Norman manorial indenture of 1190 names an evil spirit 'that sorely troubled aldermen, yeomen and peasant alike' as 'Father Bones'.

  Like many English villages Skelbrooke attracted the attention of supernatural entities. What is so unusual is that whereas the dragon, wyrm, hobgoblin, knucker, cockatrice and other fabulous beasts of legend dwindled into obscurity in neighboring villages, the myth of Baby Bones never lost its grip in Skelbrooke. At intervals of between fifty and eighty years it would issue demands of tithes or payments from certain villagers chosen at random. How it delivered these demands is rather mysterious in its own right.

  Legends tell that a child or 'an idiot' would vanish from the village, only to return within days talking 'at first in tongues' then issuing demands for beer and food in a 'voice that wasn't his own'. Baby Bones required that loaves, cakes, and flagons of beer be left on the splendidly named Crackling Hill, which is now the site of the large cemetery known as the Necropolis.

  John paused. Kelly had written a background to the Baby Bones myth. He guessed from its reader-friendly style it was intended for publication in his regular newspaper column; also the lightness of tone suggested that it was written before Kelly received the letters. He read on.

  Failure to comply with the demands that came via the mediumistic children or village idiots resulted in the village suffering months of ill fortune. Letters written by the parish priest in the fourteenth century lamented 'a grievous conflagration that reduc'd the village households by half and claim'd the eldest son of the feudal Lord Geoffrey Thomas D'Montaine.' On most occasions, it must be stressed, Skelbrooke met the demands with good humor in an ancient festival that greatly predates, yet anticipates, the modern Halloween 'trick or treat.'

  After a while, Baby Bones began to issue its demands via letters delivered during the witching hour. These, written in an archaic hand are always anonymous, always request some petty trifle such as cake or chocolate, yet are concluded with a threat if the demands are not met. However, on occasion our local neighborhood phantom would revert to employing a human messenger. The last recorded instance was in 1850 when an orphan child by the name of Jess Bowen returned after apparently 'wandering off into the woods for some long days'. True to form, the young child marched into the village speaking nonsense. Then one night he made his rounds, knocking on a door here a window there, before demanding that the householder leave a freshly killed goose on Crackling Hill. The voice that came from the child's mouth held such a deep timbre 'as the bass notes of a great cathedral organ' it struck terror into all that heard it. However, upon the boy knocking at the door of Benjamin Greensmith of Skelbrooke's Water Mill events took a brutal turn.

  On hearing the deep voice thundering its demand from the lips of the half-starved orphan child Greensmith seized a shovel and struck the boy a 'frightful blow' to the head, killing him instantly.

  In a spirit of rebellion the villagers refused 'pay their dues' to Baby Bones: not a single goose was left on Crackling Hill. Within twenty-four 'hours, however, Greensmith
's infant daughter had drowned in the Water Mill pond. The village priest fell from his horse and lay paralyzed until the day he died. A month later an epidemic of cholera struck Skelbrooke (but not touching any neighboring village or town). By Christmas forty-three of its inhabitants had died and were buried in pits filled with burning lime at the crossroads. Benjamin Greensmith left Skelbrooke on New Year's Day, 1851, an emotionally broken and financially bankrupt man. He would die a year to the day after he killed the orphan boy by swallowing acid.

  In order to make amends, little Jess Bowen was exhumed from a pauper's grave and reburied at the village's expense in the Necropolis. The grave was adorned with a formidable granite slab and a rather sentimental statue of a weeping boy. But this charitable act begs the question, were the villagers 'closing the stable door after the horse had bolted?'

  Even today the myth of Baby Bones endures as a children's spook story to be told at night round a cracklingfire when the moon rides high and the owl hoots. But, with the exception of the youngest child, who believes that dark forces can reach out, demand 'treats' from us, then, if we should ignore the demands, punish us with 'bad luck?'

  The last paragraph had been crossed out, and in the margin a single fiercely scribbled word: Wrong!

  So, Herbert Kelly learned the hard way, too. Like the doomed Benjamin Greensmith in 1850, who'd killed the orphan boy, Jess Bowen. Now the ghosts of these former residents of the Water Mill who'd received the sinister demands were beginning to line up behind the present owner, John Newton.

  Perspiration stuck his hands to the paper. He needed a drink like crazy, but he knew he had to go through the files from beginning to end. All this made a terrible sense now. But a bleak foreboding hung over him. As if a storm was building over the house that would soon break with devastating results.

  Inside the study the temperature rose as the sun climbed higher, subjecting Skelbrooke to its naked heat.

  John read the seventy-year-old files, searching, he hoped, for an answer to his own dilemma.

  Much of the files consisted of typewritten notes (clearly written in a hurry: John imagined Kelly furiously hammering at the typewriter keys; sometimes with a force so great that the typeface had punched right through the paper, leaving holes through which daylight passed); the notes revealed Kelly's sudden obsession for researching superstition. They echoed John's own notes of just a day ago. Likewise, Kelly devoted pages on how to protect yourself from ill luck. John scanned the list:

  Planting holly bushes.

  Burying a cockerel in the foundations of a house.

  Throwing salt over your left shoulder into the eyes of the devil.

  Cold iron is a powerful defense against witches and demons, particularly in the form of horseshoes.

  Good God. Herbert Kelly had been laboring to find a weapon to use against whatever force sent the letters! He'd also made sure that his work would be preserved so that people who came after him could pick up where he left off.

  The overwhelming conclusion John reached was that Kelly had run out of time. He'd tried to discover some supernatural protection for his family, and perhaps Skelbrooke in general, but he'd failed. Beaten by the ticking clock.

  He must have packed up his notes into a variety of bags before handing them to people he could trust to preserve them. Ten-year-old Stan Price had been one such person. Now Stan had passed Kelly's notes to John to continue the work.

  As John flicked through a bulky file a piece of paper slipped out, a pencil drawing made by a child. At the top of the picture stood a house. The perspectives and proportions were skewed but he recognized it as the Water Mill in which he now sat. The distinctive roof shape was there, while a series of straggling lines depicted the millstream running beneath the house itself. In the foreground were four figures. The tallest wore a hat, the next wore a long skirt, the third had pigtails, and the fourth was the smallest, holding a doll. In a child's hand beneath the figures were the words PLEASE LORD, PROTECT OUR HOME AND OUR FAMILY. AMEN. Then a drawing of a sad face with tears forming pear shapes on the cheeks. A note on the reverse of the drawing ran:

  I write this in haste. Mummy and Dianne. I will miss you very much, but Daddy says we must leave at this very moment. If we do not bad things will happen to our family and our neighbors. Please hug Teddy for me. I love you all. Mother, I always tried to be a good girl and make my bed every morning and keep the sink clean. I am crying now. Daddy promises we are leaving for a finer place.

  Mary Kelly, aged nine.

  To try and ease some of the sting of leaving in secret, Herbert Kelly had suggested that Mary write a farewell letter to her mother and sister. She had, only for some reason he'd never posted the letter to the family he'd left behind in Skelbrooke. Now here it was: in the hands of the wrong person, seventy years too late.

  John glanced at his watch. It was now noon, Friday. The latest letter demanded that he leave Elizabeth in the graveyard at midnight on Saturday.

  That didn't give him long. It didn't give him long at all.

  3

  Stan Price sat in the shade of a tree.

  Robert Gregory glared at him from across the lawn. Why wouldn't the old man die? This heat alone should be enough to kill him. But no, Stan Price sat lost in his senile day dreams, smiling to himself-actually smiling, damnnit! Gregory hated everything about his father-in-law. The old man hands that were liver spotted claws, the ridiculous straw hat, that scrawny turkey neck.

  Robert Gregory hoed the soil, yet all the time his eyes burned into the man. He was still furious about how Stan had laughed at him yesterday. It was all over those stupid letters that had been left in the garden. Clearly they were a wind-up by some kids. The letters had been addressed to Robert personally, but they'd deliberately misspelt his name in a juvenile attempt to bug him.

  Dear Robert Greg'ry,

  I should wish yew put me a pound of chock latt on the grief stowne of Jess Bowen…

  Yeah, and pigs might fly. OK, so the letters had been mildly irritating, but it was the old man's reaction to them, the way he'd laughed and laughed, that had boiled the blood in his veins.

  No, it would be Robert Gregory who'd have the last laugh. I've got plans for you, my dear old Dad, just you wait and see.

  All he needed was luck, lots of lovely luck, to be on his side.

  Robert watched a butterfly settle on a leaf, its powder blue wings trembling in the sun. With a surge of savage excitement he plunged the hoe blade down at the insect, cutting it neatly in two.

  CHAPTER 32

  John walked the dog.

  He intended going only as far as the village pond. But like he'd been drawn there by invisible wires he found himself walking up to the Necropolis.

  The sun beat down, cracking the soil into the pattern of reptile scales. Big bloated cemetery flies sat on path. Trees were motionless. No one was about. Nothing moved. The houses in the village were sealed boxes. It was a world holding its breath, waiting to see what happened next. In his pocket was the latest letter. He knew it by heart. Its words went round his head like an evil chant:

  No soul should exist alone…

  And I, like all people, desire companionship…

  Therefore, I will take little Elizabeth Newt'n away…

  Yew will leave her in the graveyard…

  By the sepulchre of Posthumous Ellerby…

  Where was the grave of Posthumous Ellerby?

  Hell, why should he want to know? It wasn't as if he was going to find it, then what? Chain his nine-year-old daughter to it as midnight approached?

  Yeah, smelly old Baby Bones… in your dreams.

  As he crossed the grass to the gap in the broken fence Sam suddenly stopped, then lay down on his stomach his head lifted up, watching John as he entered the cemetery.

  John looked at the dog. "You're not coming in, are you, boy?"

  The dog watched him, his black fur glossy as polished coal in the sun, his tongue hanging down as he panted.

  "
But it's not too hot in here, is it?" John gave a grim smile. "It's too cold. Way too cold." As he stepped over the threshold into the Necropolis a shiver ran through him, and for a second he did feel cold. Uncannily cold.

  "You stay here, boy. I won't be long." The dog remained alert, his ears up sharp. He reminded John of the sacred black jackal Anubis that guarded the tomb of Tutankhamen. If only Sam did have the power to guard their home; to keep away the bad things that circled with all the dark ferocity of sharks circling a sinking ship.

  "Wait for me, boy." He flashed a grin that weirdly felt wild and dangerous. "But come running if I howl."

  Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the shoulder high weeds that swamped the cemetery in a green ocean. From it sprang thousands of tiny black islands-the stones of the dead. He walked up the hill, stepping over broken vodka bottles, syringes, a blooded tampon that had been torn out in the passion of the moment.

  From his waist up it was hot as hell. But it was cold at his feet, where the grass held in the shade, and a little of the night. A rotted face peered at him from above the grass, the gouged eyes locked onto his. Erosion had made a meal of the stone angel. Disfiguring it. Reworking the face into something that oozed sourness. Frost had taken away its wings, too.

  Moments later he entered the shadowed world of the Vale Of Tears. Doors of cold iron ran ahead of him at either side of the passageway. He walked faster. The tomb walls nearly met overhead. In fact, he'd swear they were closer than the first time he came here. All he could see now was a narrow blue cut of sky. Tree roots that sprang from the roofs of the vaults snaked above him, while all the time the smell of old coffin leaked through holes in the iron doors to worm its way into his nose, then into his throat, lodging there as tightly as a fishbone.