The Dark Boatman: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos (6 page)

“I need some carbon sticks and paper. You can get both in the village. There’s a little shop there near the square and I’m sure they’ll have them.”

“I’ll go right away. I need some more cigarettes anyway.”

The day was sunny and warm but with a cooling breeze which made walking pleasant. I located the shop without difficulty, and taking my purchases to the counter, the middle-aged owner totted them up.

“You’re a stranger in these parts,” he said conversationally. “Are you living in the Village?”

“No. I’m staying with my aunt, Amelia Dexter.”

“Miss Dexter.” There was a note of astonishment in his voice. “I never knew she had any relations.”

Since the man seemed disposed to talk, there being no one else in the shop, I asked, “Did you know her manservant?”

“Jenkins? Certainly I knew him. He often came into the village for things. Your aunt used to come in once or twice, but I haven’t seen her for some time.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

The man scratched his chin pensively. He seemed a little reluctant to reply. Then, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, he said, “It was a real funny business. Happened a few years ago. A couple of farmers spotted him not far from the cemetery. Must’ve been some time after midnight, from what I’ve heard. He was wandering around in the pouring rain, completely out of his mind. God alone knows what happened to him.

“They took him to Doctor Willoughby, who had him committed to some asylum. Either he’s dead now, or still there. Far as I know, they never got a sensible word out of him.”

For a moment, something cold and clammy brushed along my spine. Then it was gone. “Something must have frightened him,” I said.

“No doubt about that,” the owner affirmed. “But whatever it was, no one will ever know.” He glanced down at the articles I had bought. “You interested in drawing?”

I shook my head. “These are for my aunt She’s taking up collecting rubbings from the church.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste,” he said thoughtfully. “But it seems an odd pastime for a lady of her age. Wish her luck from me.”

Aunt Amelia was sitting, sunning herself in the garden, when I got back. She took the paper and carbon sticks, then said, “I think I’ll go to the church this afternoon. The weather seems to be holding and there’ll be no one there. I won’t disturb anyone and no one will disturb me. The vicar can be a little fussy about these things, you know.”’

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you engaging in your hobby,” I replied.

“Still, I’d rather he knew nothing about it for the moment.” She glanced up as she spoke, and I had the impression that her statement was a veiled warning to me not to mention it to anyone.

While she sat on the lawn, I went into the garden shed, took out a pair of shears, and proceeded to prune the back hedge at the rear of the house. The job took me the best part of two hours, sweeping up the cuttings and depositing them in one comer.

When I returned, her chair was still there, but empty. I decided she had already gone to the church, and went inside to make myself something to eat. I knew when she set her mind on something, she would go through with it to the bitter end and brook no interference.

It was growing dark when she came back. Sitting in the front room, I heard the door open and she came in, carrying the rolls of paper under one arm. For some reason, she seemed irritable.

Placing the rubbings on the table, she lit two more candles, for there was no electricity in the house, then unrolled a couple, placing two paperweights at each end to hold them flat.

“Tell me,” she said harshly. “What do you make of them?”

I studied the rubbings in the candlelight. I knew little of these things but, sensing her mood, I said, “They seem excellent. Are all of these from the church?”

“Most are around the walls which makes it very difficult. I have to hold the paper with one hand and it’s not easy to prevent it slipping, but I think I’ve got them right. It’s these others, the important ones, where I had the greatest difficulty.”

While speaking, she had pulled two further sheets of paper from those she had made.

“There are old tombs in the church, you know, beneath the aisle. Those are the ones I wanted to be perfect. But they kept moving!”

I stared at her I knew she was extremely meticulous in everything she did, that everything had to be just right, but I could not understand what she was getting at.

“They kept moving?” I asked finally.

“The brass plates, of course,” she snapped.

“But surely brass plates on the floor don’t move,” I said. “What would cause them to do that?”

“Don’t patronize me, James.” Her voice suddenly took on a brittle edge. “I have absolutely no idea of the cause, but those plates kept moving whenever I tried to make my rubbing.”

Trying to calm her, I said, “Perhaps if I was to come with you, we could try to find out what’s happening. Some of these very old buildings suffer from subsidence and—”

“Subsidence, of course. Why didn’t I think of that? The church is in a dreadful state, hasn’t been repaired for years. I’m surprised it hasn’t collapsed into a ruin years ago.”

I looked again at the rubbings. Certainly the two she had indicated were less distinct than the others. It was barely possible to make out the details.

In my own mind, I knew that whatever had been the cause, subsidence was out of the question. That church had stood for almost two millennia, and its foundations were as solid as rock. It was clear, however, that as far as she was concerned, the subject was closed. Gathering up the rubbings, she rolled them up carefully and placed them in a large cupboard.

Remembering the events of the previous night, I deliberately remained awake after going to bed. My aunt’s bedroom was just along the corridor and I was sure I would hear her if she went out again. By the time one o’clock came and there had been no sound, I decided she was probably asleep but then, just as I was preparing to relax, a faint sound reached me.

There was the soft click of a door opening. Instantly, I opened my door, just in time to glimpse her white-clad figure moving down the stairs. Pausing at the top of the stairs, I waited until I heard the front door close, then ran to the porch and out into the open. She was there, some fifty yards away, slipping through the gate. Wherever she was going, whatever she meant to do, this time I was going to be there.

By the time I reached the gate leading into the churchyard, she was nowhere to be seen. Then a sudden movement caught my attention. She was standing in the shadow of a massive yew on the far side of the churchyard.

It was difficult to see her clearly since she was almost hidden by the intervening headstones, but she appeared to be talking to herself—or was she speaking to whoever lay within the earth?

I went no further. I knew I would be intruding upon something either very personal—or upon something far more terrible, and at that moment I had no wish to find out which of those surmises was correct.

Going back to my room, I undressed and tried to get some sleep. Aunt Amelia had still not returned.

I felt oddly drained and lethargic the next day. What little sleep I’d had during the night had been sporadic and unrefreshing. Nevertheless, I knew I had to do something, otherwise I would find myself dwelling upon things I didn’t want to think about.

I decided to paint the gutters around the front of the house while my aunt went over the rubbings she had made the previous day. Finding a long ladder against the side of the shed, I located a couple of tins of paint and a large brush, and made myself busy for the whole of the morning.

It was while I was cleaning my hands with turpentine that I noticed the door in the corner that I dimly recalled led down into the cellar. I looked around for the key, which I remembered having been hung on a high nail beside the door. The nail was still there, rusty now, but there was no sign of the key. Trying the door, I found it to be securely locked. The key might have been lost, and I was relying on memories of twenty years earlier, but something about its absence disturbed me.

Going into the front room, I asked Aunt Amelia about it, but she merely replied that it must have gone missing a long time before. Certainly she could not recall seeing it for several years.

“There’s nothing down there anyway,” she added. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing really,” I replied. “I just thought I’d tidy it up for you and get rid of anything you no longer need.”

“No need to bother your head about that. You’ll be better occupied getting the exterior of the house done before winter comes.”

That evening, it began to rain, a steady downpour that continued for the next three days. My aunt fretted continually at not being able to go along to the church and continue with her hobby, flitting restlessly about the house, peering out of the windows to check on the weather.

Then, on the fourth day, two things happened which were to bring the horror to a head. The weather cleared suddenly. The sun blazed from a cloudless blue sky, and Aunt Amelia announced her intention of making further rubbings of the brass plates set in the stone pavings inside the church.

It was also the morning when, hunting among some old tins at the back of the garden shed, I discovered the large, rusty key for which I had been searching. Slipping it into my pocket, I went into the house.

Aunt Amelia was already dressed for going out and, recalling our earlier discussion, I said I would accompany her, just to see for myself what happened when she made her rubbings of the plates over the tombs.

I half expected her to make some protest but she merely said, “Come if you like, James. Then you can see for yourself.”

Together, we walked through the churchyard to the church. It was cool and dim inside, the rows of pews standing empty on either side.

“Now where are those plates?” I asked as we paused in the doorway.

“Over here.” She led the way towards the altar, then stopped and pointed at her feet.

There were, indeed, two plaques set in the stone floor. The lettering on both was barely legible. The passage of innumerable feet had worn them almost smooth. Going down on my hands and knees, I ran my fingers over the plates. Despite the way they had been effaced by time, I reckoned the lettering should have shown up more clearly on the rubbings that my aunt had made several days before.

I felt a little strange, kneeling there, knowing that directly beneath me were the bones of Sir Roger and Lady Elwyn de Courtney, buried there in the middle of the sixteenth century. Scrambling to my feet, I sat down on one of the pews.

“Are you all right, James?” Aunt Amelia asked concernedly. “You do look a little queer.”

“I’m fine,” I replied. “It’s just the chill in here after the heat outside.”

“Then you just sit there while I get on with my work.” She had brought a small cushion with her and placing it carefully on the stone, she sank down onto her knees, spreading the sheet of paper over the brass.

A sudden, muttered exclamation from my aunt brought my attention to her. I saw the look of exasperated consternation on her face as she straightened abruptly from her work. The rubbing was half-finished.

“What is it?” I asked, keeping my voice down.

“It’s just the same as before,” she complained. “Just when I think I have it, everything starts moving.”

If my aunt had been any other type of person; I would have thought she was imagining things. As it was, she threw down her carbon stick with an angry motion and gestured me down beside her.

“There—feel it,” She commanded

To please her, I placed my right hand on top of the paper where it covered the brass plate. I could feel nothing out of the ordinary and opened my mouth to say so. But then, picking up the carbon stick she began moving it lightly across the paper. Almost at once, I felt the plate beneath my hand begin to shake. With a faint cry, I snatched my hand away.

“There, what did I tell you?” she said triumphantly. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”

“I felt something,” I admitted.

“Like a shaking beneath the paving.”

“Something like that.” I felt a little tremor of fear pass through me. What the hell was going on? I did not believe in spirits or any other ghostly phenomenon. Yet I had distinctly that movement beneath my hand.

Straightening up, I said harshly, “I don’t think you should go on with this, Aunt Amelia. Forget this little hobby for the time being.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anything stop me. If they don’t like what I’m doing, that’s just too bad.”

I did not try to stop her. I just stood there, shivering for a few moments, knowing there was something unnatural going on but not knowing what it was. All I knew was that I had no wish to remain in that old church. She was still on her hands and knees, rubbing away viciously, as I turned and left.

I knew she would remain there for some hours once she went into one of her moods of perverse obstinacy. Accordingly, I decided to check on the cellar in her absence.

Lighting a candle, I unlocked the cellar door and pulled it open. It was clear no one had been down there for a long time and I descended the steps slowly; holding the candle in front of me.