A Cry From Beyond (33 page)

“I
shouldn’t have said anything,” he said.

“Well,
you did, so you may as well give me the bad news.”

“If you
insist, but you won’t like it.”

“Try
me.”

“They’re
supposedly birds of ill omen. It’s said that they predict the
future, particularly when it comes to death. They’re allegedly
messengers of death and are closely associated with...”

“Come on,
say it.”

“With the
devil, they’re closely associated with the devil.”

I
swallowed hard. “Thanks for sharing that with me, Dave.” I was
suddenly aware that the torch wavered in my hand. “Is there
anything else I should know?”

The
laboured silence told me there was.

“Let’s
have it mister.”

“Generally speaking,” he relented, “birds are said to be
messengers of departed souls. There are those who believe that the
souls themselves return to guide those about to die.”

I grunted
disapproval. “Do you have any more cheery information?”

“Sorry
John, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You’re
doing more than that,” I said, “you’re scaring the living daylights
out of me.”

“It
really wasn’t my intention. It’s only folklore, when all’s said and
done.”

“I’m not
so sure.”

“What
makes you say that?”

I decided
to tell him about my own personal experiences relating to birds
since arriving at High Bank.

“And they
can be so brazen,” I said.

“Brazen?
In what way,” David asked.

“They’ll
think nothing of staring in through the window and repeatedly
tapping their beaks against the glass. It’s as if they’re
deliberately out to torment me.”

“Oh
dear,” David said.

“What
now,” I asked, sensing more bad news. “What’s the significance,
best tell me.”

“A bird
tapping on the outside of a window is supposed to signify death,”
David said bluntly.

“I
thought you were a sceptic when it came to the
supernatural.”

He failed
to reply. I let the subject drop and we continued on in stony
silence.

After
about another fifty yards David said, “Hold up a
moment.”

I stopped
and turned. “What’s the matter?”

“Didn’t
you hear it?”

“Hear
what?”

He placed
a finger to his lips, indicating I should keep quiet. We stood
perfectly still and listened. Seconds passed, and then we both
heard it. Back the way we came: the ominous sound of a door
creaking open. We simply stood there, unable to move.

“What do
we do?” David asked in a tremulous whisper.

“Have you
still got the hammer?”

He
nodded.

“Then we
continue onwards, use it if you have to, it’s all we can
do.”

“I can’t
believe we didn’t bring along two torches.”

I shone
the flashlight back down the passage, but saw nothing other than
slate walls and an arched roof, shrouded in semi
darkness.

The sound
of creaking came again.

“I really
don’t like this,” David said unsteadily.

“Let’s
carry on and hope to God we eventually come upon a way out of this
hell hole.”

So that’s
what we did, we carried on walking whilst hoping we’d find an
escape route, and when the temperature dropped still further and a
truly unwholesome breeze drifted from the section of tunnel we’d
just left, we quickened our pace, instinctively knowing that
whatever had caused the creaking was responsible for the other two
events.

“I’m
scared,” David finally admitted as we continued the thankless
journey, the slope of the tunnel now rising, growing gradually
steeper.

“Stay
with it,” I encouraged.

The
tunnel straightened out. As I trained the flashlight’s beam dead
ahead I made out what appeared to be steps leading up, which I took
to be a reasonably encouraging sign.

“Forget
“Journey to the Centre of the Earth”,” David said upon seeing them,
“This is more like a bloody Indiana Jones movie!”

“The
creaking back there,” I said, pausing. “Any ideas what caused
it?”

“It was
that old door moving,” David said with certainty, “What else could
it have been?”

“I agree.
But who or what managed to force a door open that was to all
intents and purposes, immovable?”

David
didn’t reply. I guess he was too busy considering the implications
of my words

We looked
back the way we’d come. Everything was perfectly still and as
silent as the grave. No movement, no creaking, no nothing. However,
the peacefulness of our surroundings did nothing to lessen our
unease, for the temperature had dipped again and the odious breeze
that’d suddenly blown up, incredible though it seemed, was now
strong enough to ruffle our hair and clothing. Just as it had on
the night Madam Lee conducted the séance at the cottage, I thought
uneasily, when the formidable Coogan was taken. So why hadn’t my
friend Mike gone the same way, I now wondered. There was no doubt
in my mind that something had stalked him. Then, quite suddenly, it
came to me. Why the hell hadn’t I twigged it before?! Light, or
rather the absence of it, was the key, for light was very much the
common denominator in all of this. It’d played an integral part in
every single disappearance. At the party when Mary-Louise had
vanished and on the respective nights Terry and Des had been taken.
It was the same story with Coogan’s disappearance. During the
séance, the lights had failed. Had my presence contributed to all
this, I wondered. Did I fulfil the role of some kind of mediumistic
vessel? If so, who or what controlled the process? Melinda, Kayla?
I refused to accept they were behind the disappearances. I saw them
as victims rather than perpetrators.

My heart
pounded with the sudden realisation that the flashlight might be
the only thing stopping David from going the same way as the
others.

“Are you
all right?” David’s quavering voice. He sounded as scared as I
felt.

“As well
as can be expected under the circumstances,” I replied.

And then,
my worst fears were almost realised, as the beam of the flashlight
flickered uncertainly. The damn batteries were running low. Christ,
not now, not down here.

Back the
way we came, shadows shifted within the dim light provided by the
now ailing torch.

I thought
I saw something move down there, just for a second, but managed to
convince myself it was imagined. The strengthening breeze however
and the stale odour that accompanied it, was undeniably
real.

“Let’s
go,” I said turning and heading for the steps.

And that
was the moment the wind increased and the foul odour turned to a
vile stench. It was also when the flashlight finally called it a
day and the tunnel was plunged into thick impenetrable darkness.
And from within that black void something unholy could suddenly be
heard flying rapidly through the air, screeching insanely at the
top of its lungs, drawing closer and closer.

“What the
hell is that?” David shrieked.

“I-I’ve
no idea,” I said unable to keep my voice steady, “but I don’t
intend hanging around to find out. Come on, let’s go!” I grabbed
his arm and ran blindly for the steps, stumbling drunkenly as I
went. Whatever stalked us was closing in fast! We quickened our
pace. And then, catastrophe, David fell.

“My
ankle,” he groaned. “I think I’ve broken my bloody
ankle!”

I reached
for him in the darkness, found his shaking hand, and
pulled.

“Get up,
Dave; you’ve got to get up!”

“I
Can’t!”

“You
must!”

Around us
the wind howled, and the horrible avian sounding screeches
increased dramatically in volume.

“Get the
fuck up!” I repeated, sensing intense danger.

“C-Can’t,” David groaned, “I’ve told you, my ankle’s
bust!”

And then,
without warning, he screamed, a terrible gut wrenching sound that
momentarily eclipsed the infernal screeching. I tried desperately
to retain hold of his hand knowing I was his only chance of
survival, but whatever was out there in the darkness was too
powerful to resist. He was ripped from my grasp like a leaf torn
from a tree. One final tortured scream, and he was gone.

Within
seconds, the howling wind and monstrous avian cries diminished
until the tunnel was silent once more. The stench that’d filled the
air also receded, to be replaced by something altogether different,
and strangely familiar. It was in fact a scent that pulled me back
in time to my childhood, a scent that was profoundly reassuring,
although its exact association evaded me frustratingly. As was the
case with Melinda’s daughter, Kayla, here was one more connection
with a past I’d long since buried deep within my psyche.

My
thoughts returned to David. Hands cupped to my mouth I repeatedly
called out his name, hoping by some miracle he would reply. Deep
down however, I already accepted he was beyond help. He’d gone the
same way as all the other abductees. How many were there now? I
couldn’t think: too many. I continued to stare blindly into the
darkness, overwhelmed by a tremendous sense of guilt, feeling
ultimately responsible for his abduction.

Seconds
passed. I somehow managed to clear my mind and set about
concentrating my efforts on my own plight. Reaching up, my fingers
brushed the cold, damp surface of the tunnel roof. I took a little
time to consider where I might be in relation to High Bank and the
chapel. Certain in my own mind that the tunnel I presently occupied
followed a ley line, I was equally confident there were others,
interconnecting, which travelled along similar paths, forming an
esoteric network to include the folly, the Manor House and the
crofter’s cottage: possibly even Ashley Church, the objective being
to harness spiritual power to further the twisted ambitions of its
architect, the late Lord Ebenezer Grimshaw. And what of that dark
and sinister energy now: did it feed a different entity: did it
perhaps nourish whatever haunted High Bank? I could only
guess.

I peered
nervously into the darkness in the direction of where I believed
the ascending steps to be. Where would they take me, I wondered
ruefully, to the surface and freedom, or to a dead end? There was
only one way to find out.

Behind me
a sudden scraping and creaking drifted eerily from the darkness
some way off in the distance. I spun round, my heart pounding. What
now? Would the insane screeching start again? Would the sound of
some hideous thing in flight begin to fill my ears?

And then,
quite suddenly, the sounds stopped. I concluded they were the
result of a door being forced shut against its will. The heavy old
door at the end of the tunnel that perhaps led into another; which
traced the ley line to High Bank Cottage. All roads lead to High
Bank I thought dismally. My mind was working overtime, trying to
fit pieces of the jigsaw together as I endeavoured to solve the
mystery. I sensed I was close, so very close.

I turned
once more to face the steps, or where I guessed the steps to be and
felt my way gingerly along the tunnel. The walls were damp, in
places slime ridden. Unable to see, I arrived at the first step
unprepared and ended up falling heavily.

I cried
out more in frustration than pain.

Remaining
on my hands and knees I crawled forward, climbing each ascending
step cautiously. My breathing was steady and measured. I’d stopped
shaking. My thoughts were rational. I seemed to be coping
reasonably well under the circumstances. In fact I was coping
exceptionally well. But I was scared, so very scared. I shut my
eyes, inhaled deeply and tried to make my mind a blank. That’s
better, I told myself. Now, focus. Concentrate on climbing to the
top of the steps. That’s all you’ve got to do. Keep calm, remain
rational and climb to the top of the fucking steps.

But what
if they lead nowhere, a doubting inner voice asked.

Don’t be
ridiculous, another side of my rational answered. Why on earth
would someone take the time and trouble to build steps that led
nowhere?

For a
joke, that’s why. You got to remember Johnny boy, the crack pot who
built this place was not your normal run of the mill dude.
Grimshaw! This was all down to him. Lord fucking Grimshaw, lord of
the manor, landowner, landlord, philanthropist, chief architect of
High Bank, the crofter’s cottage, the chapel, the folly, Manor farm
and all the interconnecting tunnels that followed the ley lines,
upon which those structures were built and oh yeah, head fucking
Satanist, devil worshipper and slayer of innocent woman and
children to boot. Or so the theory went...

And then,
with his death, the disappearances stopped: only to start again
when Martin Willis took up residence at High Bank.

Was it
possible Willis became possessed by the corrupting soul of old man
Grimshaw?