Darkness Demands Part 25

John didn't interrupt. He sat back, allowing the old woman to tell her story as she needed to tell it. Outside it was warm, if overcast. Clouds piled layer upon layer until the sky wasn't just dark but had become a deep reptilian green. As it grew darker still, the floodwaters running along the channel to the house darkened with the sky. John Newton's mood mirrored the morbid weather. To him the stream had taken on the ugly aspect of fluid discharging from some vast necrotic ulcer. One that rotted in the once beautiful face of this little rural village.

As he listened to the calm voice he grew colder and colder. But it was nothing to do with the temperature. The story was taking him to a dark place-a place he was afraid to visita "I was born in this house eighty-four years ago. My father, Herbert Kelly, was head-teacher at Skelbrooke School. He was tall, slim, had a sharply trimmed beard, and wherever he went he wore a Panama hat. You could see him walking across the fields from miles away. That white hat of his was a beacon. And he had a good heart, John. He believed every child had a spark of greatness in them and he loved the village where he lived. Many a night he would sit at the typewriter, working on his newspaper column, Aspects of Skelbrooke, where he wrote about local characters and trumpeted the achievements of ordinary people who lived here. And he loved his family. He made time to be with us, and to listen to what we had to say. He often said that his children taught him far more than he taught them. He adored my mother, Beatrice-you know, she was the first woman to graduate from Leeds University with a civil engineering degreea Oh. I'm making this sound so rosy, aren't I? Happy families 1930's style. When ice-cream tasted like ice-cream; when you got more bang for your buck." She smiled. "In retrospect it does seem like that. I remember playing in the lake. I'd paddle in the water with my little sister, Mary. We'd catch fish with a string and worm. The sun always seemed to shine. b.u.t.terflies of every color you could think of flew through the orchard. We had a lovely big brown dog called Teddy. We ate well; we were so healthy we glowed. Then one morning in October my father told me he was going to pick mushrooms from the meadow. He put on his Panama hat, picked up the basket and left the house. He was back two minutes later. He didn't have any mushrooms but he was carrying a piece of paper. He was smiling and saying that it was a funny way to send a letter. That's the last time I can remember him smiling in such a genuine and carefree way.

"Anyway. He laid the paper down on the table." Her eyes grew faraway. She was replaying the memory before her mind's eye. Every detail as clear as the day it happened. John pictured a scholarly looking man, smoothing down the letter with his hands. The big brown dog would be wagging its tail, wondering what all the excitement was about. The two girls would be cl.u.s.tering round to see the paper. A grandfather clock would tick in the corner while on the stove a stew would be simmering in a pan the size of a baby's bath.

She continued, "First of all he asked us which one had been playing the joke. Of course Mary and I didn't have a clue what he was talking about. Then he read the letter to us." The old woman closed her eyes, reciting from memory. "Dear Mister Kelly, I should wish yew put me a pound of chock latt on the grief stowne of Jess Bowen by the Sabbath night. Yew will be sorry if yew do not. Naturally he thought it was a prank. In fact he was amused by the inventiveness of what he guessed was one of his pupils trying to get their hands on a bar of chocolate. My father put the letter away. He ignored it. The Sabbath came and went. A few days later I climbed over the fence to the field. I was in a hurry, coming home from school. My cousins were coming from Leeds and I wanted to change into a new dress. Anyway, as I climbed the fence I swore someone caught hold of my foot and tipped me over it. I came down with such a b.u.mp. My head split open from my right eyebrow to my left temple." She touched her forehead where a scar ran across the wrinkled skin. "Good grief what a mess. My father was convinced I'd been hit by an axe. I finished the evening on the sofa looking like an Egyptian mummy with bandages swathed all around here." She made a circling motion round her entire head.

John thought about Elizabeth. The fall from the bikea her throat's been cuta The words from his initial reaction swam round his head. After returning from the hospital Elizabeth sat on the observation gla.s.s, her head festooned in bandages.

Water in the millrace boomed, sending tremors up through the stone floor.

Dianne Kelly had fallen silent for a moment, too, her fingers once more going to the scar that must have once been a raw and agonizing slash. "Poor Dad. He was beside himself with frighta" She took a breath before continuing matter-of-factly. "My father commented on the letter in his Aspects Of Skelbrooke column, buta and he remarked about it to us at the time, no-one in the village mentioned the mystery letter, even though they chatted to my father about other incidents in his column. We didn't know then that an outbreak of such letters was one of those 'subjects' not to be discussed. Like madness in the family or if an uncle had died of syphilis. Local people clamed up tight about it. So, life went on in the Kelly family. Dad taught his students. Mother worked on her civil engineering papers. Mary and I went to school, and we played in the meadow in the evenings." She paused as a rumble sounded through the house. It was one of those sounds that are so deep they are felt rather than heard. Straightaway John realized it wasn't thunder. It sounded as if a solid object was being dragged through the millrace tunnel, sc.r.a.ping against the stone walls, buffeting against joists and pillars. The sc.r.a.ping sound came again. Claws sc.r.a.ping against stoneworka John closed off the thought. He turned to Dianne. "Then more letters came?"

"Yes. One that demanded porter-that's an old-fashioned name for-"

"Beer. Yes." He nodded toward the letters on the coffee table. "I got one of those, too."

"And other people were receiving the letters. Although the rest of the village kept their mouths shut tight. But I found out from Stan Price that his father had received one, then a second."

"Stan's father ignored them, too?"

"Yes. A week after receiving the second Mrs. Price fell from a train and was killed."

"But it was an accident?"

"Let's say it appeared to be an accident. But with hindsighta" She didn't complete the sentence. From the tunnel beneath the house the scratching grew louder. Demanding attention. With an effort she drew her gaze from the observation window to look John in the eye. "My father ignored the second letter as well. A week later the school governors summoned him to a meeting. They suspended him from his teaching dutiesa he never told us why. He was a proud man. What they did wounded him more than words can say." Her eyes rolled down to the letters as if fingers had somehow gripped her eyeb.a.l.l.s and twisted them down to stare at the letters against her will. John saw she hated them.

"The mood in the house became terrible," she said. "From sunlight and happiness to a dark, depressing place. Hardly anyone spoke. But, like a disease, this gloom spread through the village. People started to leave. Oh, they never said they were leaving because of the lettersa only suddenly families were taking trips to the coast, or visiting friends. But they left in a hurry. Which of course was foolhardy, because you can't run from this thing. It follows you. Then when it finds you it cuts you down."

"I don't understand. What followed them?"

"Not a person. Let's say that bad luck followed them. Very bad luck at that. The Markham family went all the way to France, but they were badly injured when the hotel elevator they were in suddenly plunged three floors into the bas.e.m.e.nt. Ill luck picked up their scent and followed thema it happened to others, too. Mr. Ventor's youngest boy drowned in a ditchwater just eight inches deep. No one knew how it happened. And although the Ventors might not have known the exact circ.u.mstances of the death, they knew full well what caused it."

"You mean they ignored the letters that arrived just like these?"

"Yes. These came in the dead of night, didn't they? Weighted down with a piece of gravestone?"

John nodded as Dianne Kelly continued, "Today I saw Mrs. Booth from the house at the end. She told me about Keith Haslem."

"I saw him leaving in the village, too." John gave a humorless smile. "In fact he was in such a hurry he nearly ran me down."

"He received the letters, I imagine?"

"I found burnt paper in the bird bath. He'd obviously set fire to them, then he'd run for it."

"Foolish man." She looked at John. "You haven't heard what happened to him?"

"No, the last I saw of Keith he was tearing out of here like something was chasing him."

"Something did." She shook her head. "From what I gather, Keith Haslem stayed in a motel a good way from here. He was taking a shower when he suffered a stroke. Apparently, he was also badly scalded."

"He's alive?"

"But in something of a mess, I hear. He spent a long time in the hot water before he was discovered. He's going to need extensive skin grafts."

"Dear G.o.d," John whispered. The sc.r.a.ping noises grew louder, more frenzied beneath his feet. Something wanted out. He shivered.

"And it was no coincidence that poor Stan Price was struck down. And I use the phrase deliberately. Something sensed he was trying to warn me about its return. It directed that lightning bolt at the house as an a.s.sa.s.sin might direct a bullet from a gun."

"What happened to your father?"

"Three weeks after the first letter arrived came the third one. Asking-no demanding would be a better word-demanding that a red ball be left at the grave of Jess Bowen."

"Your father still ignored the letter?"

"No. This time natural instinct over-rode his usual rational self. You must remember he was still in a state of depression after being suspended from his duties. As well as depression, perhaps, desperation came to the fore. He didn't show me the letter, John. I never saw it, but I overheard him talking to mother about it. He kept repeating that a red ball that must be left at the grave. One morning I saw him leave the house with a red ball. Later I visited the cemetery with Stan Price. Anda" The smile that twitched her mouth was grim. "Red b.a.l.l.s. Dozens of red b.a.l.l.s all cl.u.s.tered round the headstone." Her voice grew stronger, and she laid so much emphasis on every syllable it was as if she pushed rock solid words through her lips: "John Newton, believe me. When the letters come with their demands do not ignore them. You obey. You obey them to the word."

The sc.r.a.ping and scratching came again from the tunnel beneath the house. Talons rakingfurrows through the stone, clawing in fury. Something raging at the two for daring to speak about the lettersa John fought the image from his mind. No, that was to be sucked into a pit of superst.i.tiona what next? Slit the throat of a lamb? Daub its blood on the stupid, sobbing statue at the Bowen's grave?

KREEEEEE!.

The scream came up through the floor. A huge object must have been forced along the tunnel by the pressure of floodwater. John resisted the impulse to look through the observation gla.s.s to see what was pa.s.sing beneath the house. He gave Dianne a colorless smile. "The stream's in flooda debris's being flushed through."

She didn't give the impression of agreeing or disagreeing. Instead she merely said. "I've heard the sound before, John."

Now he knew he had to hear the end of Dianne's story. "After the letter demanding the red balla that was the end of it?"

"That was the end of the letters. At least my father didn't admit that any more had arrived. He'd given what the letter writer had demanded. A day later the school governors announced he was re-instated. Buta" She shook her head. "Life wasn't the same. I think something had broken in my father's heart. He became very quiet, very unhappy. Once I saw him in the orchard. He was weeping."

"The letters had stopped arriving in the village?"

"I believe so. Everything returned to normal. But one morning I awoke to find my father and sister gone."

"Gone?"

"Vanished. My father had packed a case with his and Mary's clothes without mother or I knowing. Then the pair of them crept out in the middle of the night anda" She shrugged. Her eyes were dull with pain, recalling that morning seven decades ago.

John said, "I don't understand. The letters had stopped; why should your father leave like that?"

"I think the whole incident had poisoned my parents marriage. My father's orderly, twentieth century world had been turned upside down. I believe he decided to make a clean break."

"It's not unusual for a husband to leave home. But isn't it unusual for the husband to take one of the children with him?"

Again Dianne gave a little shrug. "Mary was his favorite. Perhaps leaving his youngest daughter behind was too much to bear."

"Where did they go?"

"We heard nothing for three days. Then a letter arrived from Liverpool. It was from my father, clearly it was his handwriting. It simply said he and Mary were leaving for a new life overseas. A little later we received a telegram from Canada. One terse sentence, stating Father and Mary were well; that Canada was beautiful and G.o.d Bless." Her voice had taken on a bitter edge. "That was the last we heard of him and Mary."

"You believe he really went to Canada?"

"Yes, I do. I guess he remarried as well. Of course that would be bigamous, but by then he'd have adopted a new ident.i.ty and probably had begun teaching again." She sighed. "In my imagination I picture him living in a wooden house, painted a nice gleaming white. He listens to his opera on the radio. His new life continues nicely. He doesn't forget us but his memories grow dim. And he grows older. Mary marries. She has children. And although my father must have died years ago his grandchildren are still alive and well with families of their own in Toronto or Calgary or wherever. He'd even taken a photograph with him, one of us all together-mother, Mary, the dog and myself. We're standing by the front door of the housea my sister holding a doll I made her froma but that isn't important. Not any more."

John saw a bitter well of rejection in the old woman. She masked it well. But he imagined she asked herself time and time again: why had her father deserted them? Why had he chosen to take eight-year-old Mary-not Dianne?

John spoke with a real sympathy, "I'm sorry. It must be painful to talk about it."

"It is. Time will fade your clothes and the color of your hair but it doesn't fade memories like that." Her eyes glittered. "You know, John, you can't begin to feel how angry I feel. We were such a happy family. Then all those ties torn apart just like that." She clicked her fingers. "My mother died ten years later of a broken heart, I'm sure. She's buried in the old Necropolis, up in the Vale of Tearsa isn't that a romantic name for what in effect is a dumping ground for our dead?" She finished her tea. The sc.r.a.ping sound continued beneath the floor. Every so often it became frenzied as if something fought its way to the surface. She chose to ignore it.

"So, there you have it, John," she told him. "Periodically, like an epidemic of some vile disease, Skelbrooke suffers an outbreak of these letters. They make trivial demands for chocolate, beer and children's toys. The repercussions, however, if you choose to ignore the demands are anything but trivial. Stan Price lost his mother. Our family disintegrated. Today Keith Haslem lies paralyzed in a hospital bed."

"But seventy years separate the letters your father received and the ones that arrived just a few days ago." John picked up one of the letters. "Are you telling me that the same person wrote them? Whoever it is must be a hundred years old."

"John?" She sounded surprised as if he'd misunderstood some fundamental fact about the whole matter. "John. No human being wrote these letters."

"Then what did? Are you telling me it was a ghost?" Something like a grin appeared on his face, but it was closer to a spasm, a reflex action over which he had no control. "I don't believe in ghosts, Dianne."

"No, neither do I."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"I don't understand either, John. None of us can. We can only feel. Do you follow? We feel what's happening at the level of animal instinct. Deep, deep down here." She pressed a hand to her heart. "These letters appear in cycles of every seventy years or so. They make their demands. The foolish ignore the demands then suffer the consequences. Those who are wise obey. As I said before it only requires the recipient of the letter to offer up some sacrifice of chocolate, beer, something trivial. In return they are spared heartache."

"But you're telling me that some supernatural force is creating these letters, then somehow delivering them? All in return for confectionery and beer. It strikes me-"

"John-"

He found himself angrily spitting out the words, "It strikes me you have some idiot demons round here."

"John-"

Down in the millrace the furious scratching soared to a crescendo.

G.o.d dammitt, it wanted outa "John, please. It is difficult to explain," she said calmly despite the noise. "No, I'll go further than that. It is impossible to explain. Any more than you could explain the scientific cause of an eclipse or an earthquake to a Stone Age man. All I can suggest is suspend your disbelief for a moment, so we can use our imagination."

"But I-"

"No, bear with me. Darwin formulated the theory of evolution at an early age. It came to him in a flash of inspiration. But before he could go public he had to find proof to support his hypothesis. So he spent years collecting evidence for his theory to make it credible to the scientific community. Now, over the last seventy years I've thought long and hard about these letters, and about the ill fortune that befell not just the Kelly family but others who chose to ignore them. But like Darwin when he couldn't immediately prove his theory of evolution, I can't prove what I tell you now. Call it an exercise in imagination, John. But at that animal instinct level I believe, given a split hair or two, it is near as d.a.m.nitt true."

The demonic scratching and sc.r.a.ping continued as she spoke-dark music to her words. She said, "I have a medical degree, I trained as a doctor to become one of society's warriors, if you will allow the conceit, to fight disease. And it is a strange battleground I can tell you. I have seen things that simply refuse to be explained by science. I have spoken to a healthy man in the street on a Sat.u.r.day and have signed his death certificate on the Sunday. Killed by a virus that we can't even name. Maybe it had lain dormant in the dust of his attic for three hundred years. Maybe it floated down through the atmosphere from outer s.p.a.ce. Who knows? On the other hand I've seen a child close to death with cancer, one who's had the last rites because our drugs and radiotherapy don't work anymore. I've even had the child's death certificate ready in my bag, but instead of being called to a dead child I find one that is rallying, whose eyes are brighter, who can ask for a drink of water. Then a month later I've seen the same child playing in the park. What has happened there?" Her voice was earnest, the words rapid, almost hypnotic.

"Remission?"

"Yes, we give it a scientific name: remission. But the bottom line is we don't understand what happened. Something, whether it's the child's guardian angel, Almighty G.o.d, or some natural biological defense system, has acted. The cancer withers; the patient recovers. And I, and the whole d.a.m.ned medical profession, haven't a clue what has really happened. All we do know is that the cancer has had its backside kicked." She knitted her fingers together. "Now. Five thousand years ago men and women watched the sun rise into the sky. They didn't know what was happening, so to somehow ease the pain of their ignorance they invented stories about G.o.ds riding a fiery horse through the sky by day, then stabling it at night. Believe me, John, there is something in Skelbrooke. A something no one can understand or even name. But it is here. It's more deeply rooted into the earth than those trees across there. In fact, It is probably older than the bedrock on which the village stands. In my imagination I see it living under the Necropolis hill. Maybe it can harness what remains of those thousands of dead minds for its own purposes. Who knows? But I see it there in my mind's eye: way, way underground, buried far below the deepest coffin. A formless ma.s.s of purple light that has grown like a cancer, spreading its roots out through the earth and into the foundations of our homes. For reasons best known to itself it forms letters-perhaps out of thin air for all we know. They arrive at night, they make demands. If the demands aren't met it has the power to turn lives into a living h.e.l.l. Or it can even snuff them out completely."

"You mean it's some old G.o.d that still demands its tribute in sacrifice?"

"I wouldn't pretend that I know that much. Only that there is some essence or ent.i.ty that has the power to demand gifts from us, and can inflict punishment if we ignore it."

"But why such trivial demands? Chocolate? Beer?"

"Perhaps what it demands isn't important. It might only crave that we acknowledge its power. Like a humble soldier saluting a general or an employee calling the boss 'Sir.' The gift might merely be a symbolic gesture that we recognize this thing's power over us."

He considered for a moment. "Does this thing have any connection with Baby Bones?"

"Baby Bones?" She gave a weak smile. "I haven't heard the name for a while. That's what local children call it. I've often wondered how the name originated. Whether it was simply invented by a child or if it derived from something else. After all, there are the remains of a five thousand-year-old settlement down by the village pond. I dare say this sinister little thing exerted its influence even then, and those Stone Age men and women had a name for it that might have even sounded like Baby Bones to our ears. Only the name became corrupted down through the centuries. Just as the Egyptian name for Set became corrupted to Satan." She looked at her watch. "Five o'clock. Is that the time? I must be away, otherwise I'll miss my train."

"Can I give you a lift to the station?"

"That's very generous, but no. I'm going to have a last look around the village." She sounded tired. "I don't intend coming back here. Too many memories. And these days they have a way of intruding on reality." She nodded toward the window. "When I look out now I can still see Mary on the garden swing, and the dog chasing b.u.t.terflies." She glanced out and John saw her shiver. "And I can see my father up there in the orcharda with his head pressed to the tree, hiding his face the way he did when-oh, dear, John. There I go again." A tear formed in her eye. "Too many memories, young man. And they get harder to bear the older I get, so-" She took a breath. "So, last year I bought an apartment on a cliff-top with a lovely view of the sea. And that's where I'll stay until they carry me out."

"Thank you for coming all this way. And for telling me-"

"Telling you what, John? That an evil spirit lives under the Necropolis? That it writes menacing letters?" She shot him an appraising look. "Do you believe me, John?" A grim smile stretched her thin, old mouth. "No, don't answer that. You'll find some diplomatic answer for the old womana but deep down you believe me, even though you'd deny it a hundred times. At least this week you will. But next week, who knows?"

Beneath the floor the sc.r.a.ping reached a wild frenzy. "If it is true, Dianne." He spoke carefully. "What do you suggest I do about the letters?"

The grim smile widened. "Well, for the sake of argument pretend what I have said is true. Then I suggest you do exactly as the letters ask. Meet their demands. If the letter asks for a shiny red ball then leave a shiny red ball on the Bowen grave. If it demands a new pair of shoes leave those too. Don't worry, John. The letters never ask for very much, our demon of the graveyard has modest tastes, but whatever you do, don't ignore the letters. The repercussions will be terrible. Trust me on that, John." She stood up. "And soon the letters will stop. Oh, they'll return again in seventy years, but you won't have to worry about that, will you?" She picked up her purse. "Thank you for the tea, young man. I'll say goodbye now." Before leaving she looked down at the letters. He realized she'd never once touched them. She nodded. "Same handwriting, too. Goodbye, John. Good luck."

A moment later she walked through the garden gate then turned left down the lane. He stood on the path to watch her go. She never looked back at her former home. And a few seconds later she had vanished from sight.

CHAPTER 20.

What John Newton did next nearly cost him his life.

After watching Dianne Kelly walk away down the hill he turned back toward the house. The old woman had certainly given him something to think about. His reason rebelled at the idea of something-a demon, or spirit, or some malign intelligence under the hill-that had the power to create those letters from thin air then drop them into gardens. That was a difficult concept to swallow. But then some strange stuff was going down in Skelbrooke. Villagers had become withdrawn. Keith Haslem had fled as if he'd had Lucifer himself on his heels.

Okay, so Kelly received a number of mystery letters seventy years ago. And now similar mystery letters had arrived. They would be easy enough to forge, wouldn't they? He gazed at where the stream poured from the tunnel beneath the house. h.e.l.l, he should have been smarter. He should have asked the old lady if she still had the original letters addressed to her father. Also suspicion had begun to nag. Why did such an apparently loving father suddenly run out on the family after the letters stopped arriving? Sure, the man had been stunned by the suspension from his teaching job for heaven knows what reason. But he'd been reinstated. Surely Kelly knew that he was over the worst? That life would soon return to sunshine and roses.

Unless, that isa 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 sc.r.a.ping 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 h.e.l.l 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.