Darkness Demands

  Far away a dog howled. Sam, maybe, mourning the disappearance of his master into this world of rotten wood and moldering bone.

  He turned through the maze at random. Straight ahead stood a tomb that was larger than the rest. Moss covered the walls in a greenish goblin fur. This time twin iron doors held fast the dead inside. Above the doors two words were cut deep into the stone.

  POSTHUMOUS ELLERBY

  "Oh, Christ," John murmured. "Why did I have to see that?"

  I don't have to know where Ellerby's tomb is. There's no need at all. But a voice inside his head disagreed: You must know where to bring little Elizabeth tomorrow night… when you leave her here. She will be the companion of the demon forever and ever. Amen.

  "No, she will not," he grunted, as he toiled through the airless world of the tomb complex. "Even if I have to take her to Canada, too. I'll not abandon her here."

  Panting, sopping with perspiration, he ran up through the gully in the cliff. Soon he found himself standing before the tomb of Jess Bowen, the orphan boy whose skull was shattered on the doorstep of the Water Mill. Little Jess Bowen, who'd returned from the woods to speak with the deep, rumbling voice of a man.

  The grave still bore traces of beer. The red balls were here, untouched; along with chocolate bars, melted into shit-brown pools in the dirt.

  John glared down at the statue of the crying boy.

  Then it became too much. Like Herbert Kelly before him, who'd wept into the trunk of the apple tree, and Greensmith, who'd shattered the head of the orphan boy, a wild emotion fuelled by fear and bitter frustration exploded inside John Newton.

  With his left foot he stamped hard into the face of the crying boy. The stone shattered beneath his heel, sending fragments skittering across the gravestone.

  Panting, John hissed, "You've met your match this time. I'm not going to give you what you want." Anger seared a fiery path right through him from head to toe. "I'm going to fight you… just you wait and see."

  CHAPTER 33

  Later that Friday afternoon the Newton family returned home one by one. The dog greeted each one, wagging his tail, making as much fuss as the heat allowed.

  If you stood on the lawn, listening, you could hear the onslaught of the sun cracking the earth beneath your feet.

  John worked on until evening, reading every book and website on folklore and superstition he could find. After that he returned to Kelly's typewritten notes. Kelly had searched for a weapon of sorts to fight whatever had sent the demanding letters. Now John aimed to finish the job. By six Val tried to cajole him into taking a cold drink in the garden, and with the words becoming spinning black dots before his tired eyes he did need a break.

  "You're going at the new book hard," she told him as they sat in the shade of a tree with a cold beer apiece.

  "I made a flying start," he replied. "I wanted to keep the momentum going."

  "Well, you should see the black rings under your eyes, John. Take it easy, OK?"

  They sat for a while. Even talking in this heat required physical effort. Paul lay in the shade near where the millrace disappeared under the house. Elizabeth was the only one braving the direct glare of the sun. In shorts and T-shirt she practiced tapping a tennis ball into the air with a racquet. The sound of ball against catgut echoed like a hollow-sounding heartbeat.

  John's mind gravitated back to the letter. He couldn't think of anything else now but finding some kind of solution. Naturally he could not obey the demand this time and leave Elizabeth in the cemetery tomorrow night. But to refuse would immediately invite retribution. Just what that retribution might be he just didn't know. But it would come, he knew that. He'd been given a taste of it before when he ignored the first letter and Elizabeth had inexplicably fallen from her bike. Just a couple hours ago in a fit of rage he'd kicked the crying boy statue to pieces. No doubt about it. He'd sent a powerful signal to the demonic force known as Baby Bones that he, John Newton, was no longer going to yield to its demands.

  Already he felt uneasy, however. Even with thirty hours to the deadline he wondered if he'd triggered some early response. He found himself looking round the garden, then at the sky.

  What are you expecting, John? A plane falling out of the great wide blue yonder to crush the house? But misfortune's coming, Johnny bay. It's coming soon. You can feel it, can't you? It's clotting the air. You can even breathe it into your lungs. A formless dread that clings to your skin like slime.

  You shouldn't have wrecked the grave of the little orphan boy, lying there in the ground with his skull all broken like a dropped egg.

  You shouldn't have desecrated the statue.

  That's like sending a big fat e-mail to that smudge of darkness there in the heart of the hill that oozes its poison all over the village. You told it plain that it's not getting its paws on your daughter. That it can go to hell. I'd wager no one's rejected its evil little letters as firmly as that before.

  The sweat rolled into John's eyes. It burned where it touched like acid. All he could see were blurred greens of trees, and the dissolving outline of Elizabeth as she played with the ball.

  So, how're you going to defeat the thing, John? What's it going to take? A cross of iron planted up on the cemetery? Or maybe a sack full of salt-isn't that a sure way to kick the devil's ass?

  He took a mouth full of beer, but found it hard to swallow. His throat muscles were knotting with tension. Perspiration still burned his own eyes. He could barely see a damn thing. And the heat squeezed his lungs so hard it was all he could do to draw breath.

  "I'm going back to work on the book," he said suddenly. "I've a lot to do."

  "John, can't you just take it easy for this evening?"

  "I can't." He found himself snapping the words. Val looked stung.

  "Sorry, Val, it's something that can't wait."

  He returned to the house. He'd reached the top of the stairs when the telephone rang. Before he could reach it the ringing stopped; someone had answered the extension in the kitchen.

  Paul's voice shimmered along the walls. The tone stopped John in mid-step. His son's voice rose in surprise, even astonishment.

  "Miranda!" he heard his son exclaim. "Where are you? I thought that… No, no. Okay, I'm listening."

  John didn't mean to eavesdrop but as he began to climb the stairs he heard Paul's surprised voice. "Let me get this straight. Your mother received a letter that said what?" A pause. "But that's insane… it must be from some nut."

  A letter? John stopped and listened hard. Paul said something he couldn't make out. Then his voice rose as if he'd just heard something that astounded him. "So, because of that your mother sent you to London? When will you be back?" Another pause then Paul said, "Miranda, if there's some weirdo sending letters then your mother should call the police."

  The blood tingled in John's veins.

  So he wasn't alone. That's why Miranda Bloom had left home. Mrs. Bloom had received the same sinister letters. Only she'd chosen to send her daughter on an extended trip to London. Hopefully out of harm's way until it blew over. But did it work like that? Look what happened to Keith Haslem. Maybe you had to cross a whole ocean to escape its malign influence.

  At that moment John decided to book two airline tickets as soon as he possibly could. This time tomorrow he and Elizabeth could be on the other side of the world. If it had worked for Kelly and daughter Mary, then it would work for John and Elizabeth Newton. Crossing that volume of saltwater did break the thing's hold.

  "Dad, what are you doing?"

  Paul stood at the bottom of the stairs glaring up at him. His face had a dark, angry look to it. "Did you hear enough of my telephone call? Or do you want a tape so you don't miss anything?"

  Stung, John said, "I wasn't listening… at least not deliberately."

  "Oh, you just happened to overhear as you stood there on the stairs? Dad, I could see your reflection in the oven door. You were gulping down every single word."

  "Paul. I'm so
rry. I didn't mean… Paul?" He ran downstairs as his son walked away. "Paul, listen. This is important. Was that Miranda?"

  "You're not wrong, Sherlock."

  "Paul, wait a minute. Am I right in thinking that Miranda hasn't really run away from home but she's staying in London?"

  "Right, and her mother made her."

  "And this is to do with some letter that Mrs. Bloom received? Did she say-"

  "Dad. Her mother made her go-she wanted Miranda to stop seeing me."

  "But did Miranda say that?"

  "It doesn't take a genius to figure it. All this about some fucking letter arriving in the fucking dead of night is a crappy excuse to get Miranda away from Skelbrooke."

  Paul seethed with anger. John could see it in the way his son walked, fists clenched. He followed Paul through the back door.

  Val sat under the tree while Elizabeth still played ball beside the stream. The heat was incredible.

  "Paul. Did Miranda tell you what was in the letter?"

  "No, Dad." He turned and glared right into John's eyes. "Don't you get it? There probably isn't even a fucking stupid letter."

  "John, I'm sorry you're angry. This has got to be a shitty-"

  "You're damn right it's shitty. But all you can do is bang on about it, Dad. What's in the letter, Paul? What does it say? Did it come in a purple envelope, Paul?"

  "Paul-"

  "Paul, Paul, Paul." His son mimicked him cruelly, squinting his eyes. "I'm a famous writer, Paul. I want to scoop out your brains and put them in my shitty book, Paul." His voice rose to a yell. "Just leave me alone, Dad! It's none of your business. Got that? None of your friggin' business!"

  Elizabeth looked round startled by the shout. The ball she'd been bouncing clipped the edge of the racquet and shot across the lawn. She saw it would roll into the stream. Obviously mindful she'd already lost a ball that way, she raced after it as fast as she could, her bare feet blurring at an incredible speed as she ran downhill to reach the ball before the water carried it under the house.

  Val realized what would happen next. John did, too. "Leave it, Elizabeth. I'll get it… Elizabeth!"

  In the Necropolis hill something dark was grinning there. John saw it in his mind's eye as he watched with horror as his daughter tried to stop suddenly at the water's edge. She was too fast now. On bare feet she skidded across the grass. With a burst of spray she hit the water.

  In seconds the stream carried her down to the house. Even though it hadn't rained for days the flow of water was still remorseless.

  Crying out, thrashing her arms and legs* she tried to stand. And she would have been able to stand easily with the water coming barely to her waist if the current hadn't been so strong-so uncannily strong.

  "You bastard." The words escaped John's lips; directed at whatever lurked beneath the Necropolis, but it was Paul who turned round with an expression of shocked amazement.

  "It's not my fault," Paul retorted. "She slipped!"

  The look on his son's face as he glared back contained nothing less than hatred.

  By now Elizabeth had been carried to within twenty yards of where the water disappeared with a rumble into the stone throat that ran beneath the house.

  "Dad…" she cried. "Dad, I can't get out!"

  John ran toward the stream. Paul was closer. With an athletic leap Paul jumped into the stream between Elizabeth and the tunnel entrance.

  Now all he had to do was stand there and catch her. The width of the stream was no more than five feet. In theory it would be hard for her to slip by his long arms.

  But then there was another factor in this.

  An ancient driving power that made demands. That had the power to punish anyone that refused those demands.

  And it's all your fault, John Newton.

  Dispelling the irrational accusation from his mind, he ran forward, aiming to catch Elizabeth if she was swept past John. With her hair matted across her face he saw her try to swim, her T-shirt inflating around her in a soggy mass. At that moment she cannoned into Paul. He slipped backwards, but still managed to grab her sopping T-shirt with one hand while reaching out to steady himself against the bank with the other. Muscles stood out like cable in his arm as he raised his sister from the water. Then twisted round to hand her over to John. By this time Val had reached them and together they lifted Elizabeth out onto dry ground.

  Paul saw that his sister was shaken by the fall. He gave her a reassuring smile. "That was a close one, Lizzer." He grinned. "At least you won't have to wash behind your ears tonight."

  The second Elizabeth was out of his hands his center of gravity shifted, his feet seemed to slide forward from under him and he fell flat on his back into the stream with a tremendous splash that doused both banks.

  Here, the water was no deeper. But by the time Paul tried to stand the current had carried him to where the stream bed had been floored with stone slabs the size of gravestones. The stones were bright green with weed, and the water was fast but shallow, no deeper than a foot or so.

  "Paul, stand up," Val shouted. She'd noticed he was being carried toward the maw of the tunnel. Beyond that was the dark throat of the millrace.

  "Paul, stand up!" Elizabeth echoed her mother's cry. "Stand up!"

  He tried but the weed was slippier than glass. At one point he even sat bolt upright, yet still the force of the current carried him across the slabs.

  John watched. A cold dread of the inevitable flooded his stomach.

  When Paul tried to roll himself to one side of the stream the water seemed to bulge upward to push him back to its center.

  John raced for the mouth of the tunnel. Rather than compound problems by running into the water himself, he realized the best option lay in reaching down to Paul from the side of the stream, then grab him as he passed. The only place he could be sure of reaching him was the very mouth of the tunnel. There, the banks had been enclosed in stone block-work, so at least the sides wouldn't crumble beneath him as he reached out to his son.

  John reached the mouth of the millrace. Behind him both Val and Elizabeth were shouting to Paul to hang onto a branch or simply get to his feet. But the current was swifter here as banks narrowed, forcing the water to flow faster so it would power the mill.

  John leaned over the stream, hearing the echo of water as it vanished under the house. There in utter darkness it dashed itself against stone pillars and raced downward under arches to God knows where before surging out the other side. If Paul should be swept under there…

  "Paul!" he yelled, holding out his hand. "Get my arm!"

  Water, accelerated by the narrowing channel, swept Paul faster. Even so, Paul raised an arm, his eyes locked on John's, and John saw an implicit trust there he hadn't seen since his son had been a little boy.

  There was no problem in gripping Paul's arm.

  The problem was the speed his one hundred and sixty-pound son was travelling. John felt himself spun round then dragged toward the lip of stone that projected from the edge of the tunnel. The jutting stonework rammed into his chest just below his armpit.

  He'd braced himself for a jolt. But he hadn't braced himself against the blast of white-hot agony that raced through his body. He'd never known pain like it. The fist of stone felt as if it had crunched right through his rib cage. Pain radiated outward across his chest and down his arm.

  Grunting, he held onto his son's lean forearm. In turn, Paul's fingers closed round John's wrist to grimly hang on. John looked down. With the exception of one arm the millrace tunnel had swallowed Paul's entire body. Dimly he was aware of Val running forward to help. But there wasn't enough space on the bank here for her to grip Paul. All she could do was put her arms round John's chest and pull.

  He cried out in agony the instant she tugged.

  "John? What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," he shouted over the water's roar. "Just keep pulling. We need to get him out… the force of the water will tear him to pieces under there."

  Bitin
g down, he tried to blot out the pain. The pain wouldn't quit. He must have cracked his ribs. It felt like hot iron nails were being hammered into the upper-part of his chest. When he tried to tug Paul back the pain traveled deeper into his arm. He nearly vomited at the intensity of it.

  "Keep pulling," he gasped. "Keep pulling."

  Then something seemed to reach up from under the house. He felt a tremendous tug on his arm.

  When he looked down at the hand that had held his son's wrist nothing but water lay in its grip now.

  CHAPTER 34

  "Paul's gone."

  "What?"

  He looked up at Val as the sound of the water drummed in his ear. For a second he didn't even realize he was the one who'd spoken the words. "Paul's gone," he repeated. As John straightened pain shot through his chest. Breathing in, he winced. A good two or three ribs must have snapped from the force of the blow. But he couldn't let that stop him now.

  "We've got to get him out," he said. "There's all kind of debris down there. If it traps him underwater…"

  Val ran around the house. He followed. Ghost faced, Elizabeth tried to keep up. It was the dog who reached the other side of the house first. He stood on the banks of the stream and howled a banshee howl.

  He and Val reached the outlet together. John stared down, willing his son to reappear, sputtering, sodden, but ready to make a joke of it all.

  They waited five seconds, ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

  Paul didn't appear.

  "Oh, dear God," John breathed. "He's trapped."

  "Will Paul be all right, Dad?" Elizabeth's eyes glittered on the outfall of water that emerged in a viscous core as if squeezed from a tube. "I wish I could change places with him. I'm smaller. I'd be all right… Dad?"

  "Val! Wait here in case he comes through… you might have to help him out if he's hurt."

  For a moment John considered tearing round to the back of the house then following his son into the roaring darkness. But God only knew what old timber posts, branches, tangles of barbed wire already lay in the millrace like animal traps. Getting himself trapped wouldn't help Paul one bit. Instead, he ran to the living room, threw himself on his knees, and looked down through the observation glass into the dark pit of the millrace. All he could see were flecks of white foam amongst the swirl and twist of deep shadows. He scrambled across the floor to switch on the millrace lights. A second later he was back at the glass, leaning forward on both hands, staring down into the now dazzling splash of light that illuminated the observation chamber. He grimaced as the pain from his busted ribs ricocheted through his entire being.