A Cry From Beyond (31 page)

I raised
my eyebrows and looked heavenwards thinking what a lucky escape I’d
had.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I ate a
light chicken salad that evening, washed down with a half bottle of
chardonnay. Then I adjourned to the attic room, where I idly
strummed a guitar whilst debating what to do next.

Inform
the police about the danger presented by the cottage? Tell them I
was haunted by a woman and a child seeking to avenge their deaths
and the deaths of others, and that the child carried her mother’s
still borne sibling around like it was a treasured doll? And that
the cottage or something in the cottage had claimed yet another
victim, a fact thus far kept secret. And what about High Bank’s
sinister connections to the outlying buildings, commissioned by a
long dead member of the landed gentry, that included the creepy
chapel with a secret chamber, and the haunted folly with its
history of witchcraft, all of which were connected by ley
lines.

And so it
went on, a seemingly endless series of weird and wonderful
incidents and spectacles that when combined, suggested something
was very, very wrong in the neighbourhood, but to try to
rationalise it before members of the police force would be sheer
foolhardiness.

In the
attic room, sitting in front of my lap top, I typed the words “ley
lines” into the Google search engine and started to research. It
turned out that Jenny’s summary of the subject had been pretty
accurate. What she neglected to mention however, was that tunnels
were occasionally discovered beneath ley lines, constructed by
those who believed the energy emitted by them could be harnessed
beneath ground and stored for their benefit. My mind started
working overtime. Where did the tunnel, (it had to be a tunnel),
lead that was constructed beneath the chapel? My thoughts were
interrupted by the sound of my mobile ringing out down in the
living room. I hurried downstairs to answer it, hoping it was
Michelle.

“What’s
going on John?”

It was
Mike. He sounded tense.

“If you
must know,” I said, “lots, but nothing I can make any real sense
of.”

“Is there
any news on your friend, Des?”

“No: it
appears he’s left the building Mike and something tells me he isn’t
ever coming back.”

“What
about the others?”

“Same
story I’m afraid.”

“Ye Gods:
what an almighty mess!”

“Tell me
about it why don’t you.”

“And the
police; are they investigating?”

“They’ve
searched the cottage and the surrounding area and I have to keep in
close contact, let them know my movements.”

“They
suspect you?!” He sounded horrified.

“Who else
is there to suspect? It’s a matter of common denomination. Think
about it for a moment. I am the only individual whose presence has
coincided with every disappearance. But they can’t pin anything on
me because I’m innocent. They’re as frustrated as me.” Though not
nearly as scared, I almost added. “They’re holding my passport
until further notice,” I said as an afterthought.

“You’re
kidding me!”

I told
him about Ridgecroft.

“Have
they charged you with anything?”

“Not
yet.”

“So it’s
touring the EU or nothing. What a fucking pickle!”

“Don’t be
like that. It won’t be forever.”

“Have you
got yourself a lawyer?”

“I don’t
need one. I haven’t done anything.”

Mike
sighed and changed the subject.

“How are
the new songs coming along?”

I decided
to play the honesty card.

“They’re
not.”

“Tell the
record company that and you’re history.”

I sighted
recent events for my writer’s block.

“If you
want my advice,” Mike responded, “Get away from that damn cottage
as soon as humanly possible.”

“I can’t
leave, not yet,” I said automatically and it felt like someone else
had spoken. I suddenly thought about the chapel and the discovery
I’d made there. I felt compelled to return, discover exactly where
the underground chamber led, and what its purpose was, but I didn’t
want to do it alone. Hell no, I was going to need help. Mike was no
use. Wild horses couldn’t drag him back to High Bank. Then I
thought about David. Now he was a different kettle of
fish.

“Mike,
I’ll talk to you later,” I said, bringing the conversation to a
premature close. I rang off and dialled David’s home number. He
answered on the third ring.

“Dave,
it’s John,” I said relieved to hear his voice.

“I
intended ringing you later,” he replied. “See if you’re bearing up
okay following your little fracas with Robocop. Besides, I’m
getting bored out of my skull. Jenny’s away on a teaching course
until the end of the week, I’m starting to go stir crazy sitting
around doing nothing; fancy a pint?”

“Good
idea. I need to talk to you.” I hadn’t told him about my visit to
the chapel and what I had discovered there.

“Christ
John,” he said, mildly exasperated, “what now?”

“I’ll
explain when I see you.” An idea suddenly popped into my head.
“Hey, listen, why not come over to High Bank; stay over if you care
to”.

“That’s
not a bad idea,” he agreed. And then: “On second thoughts I think
I’ll give the stay over a miss if you don’t mind and get a taxi
home. No offence John, but I don’t want to risk ending up vanishing
off the face of the earth like Terry and the others.”

“I take
your point. See you in a while: Oh: and Dave.”

“What
now?”

“Do you
have such a thing as a heavy duty flashlight?”

“Yes;
why?”

“Bring it
with you. And wear sturdy boots and an anorak too.”

“I
thought I was coming over to get pleasantly sloshed; not to go on a
hiking expedition.”

I laughed
weakly. The strain was starting to tell. I was feeling lightheaded
and physically exhausted. It’d been an eventful few
days.

“I’ll be
over within the hour,” David finished.

I hung up
the phone and happened to glance in the direction of the fireplace
and caught sight of a couple of the sexton beetles that co-habited
the cottage. Seemed Roy was unsuccessful in evicting the little
buggers. Death beetles, I mused and half wondered again where they
came from. They appeared as mysteriously as wood lice. They seemed
to pop up out of thin air. An outer wall stood behind the inglenook
fireplace and the potbelly that occupied it. Above was the master
bedroom and below, well, there was the dreaded cellar.

Lennon
entered the sitting room just them. He ambled over to the potbelly
and slumped down, resting his head on his paws, whilst observing me
out of the corner of his eye.

“What
goes on here?” I asked him.

He
responded with a tired grunt and closed his eyes. Recent events had
taken their toll on him too, it seemed. Outside it had begun to
snow again and the flakes were sticking. They drifted lazily from
the heavens, coming to rest on the ground and buildings forming an
instant white carpet. Once again I wondered if I should have
followed Gentleshaw’s advice and purchased snow chains.

I roused
myself and set about preparing for the evening ahead, dressing in
warm clothing, into the pockets of which I placed a small flask
filled with whisky, a fresh pack of cigarettes, matches and a big
claw hammer.

When
David arrived it was dark and snow fell heavily. He was naturally
curious to know what entertainment I had in mind for the night
ahead. When I mentioned my idea about visiting the chapel, he was
surprised and just a little apprehensive, more so when I informed
him of my earlier experience there.

“Jenny
would go bananas if she knew what we intended doing,” he said. “By
the way, you look like death.”

“Best not
mention that word around here.” I tried to smile, but it didn’t
work.

“Yeah...
right. So what’s the game plan?”

I handed
him a can of beer, popped the ring on my own and said, “We see for
ourselves what’s inside that underground chamber in the
chapel.”

“What do
you think is in there?”

“I have
absolutely no idea. Maybe nothing, but it’ll nevertheless be
interesting to see where it leads.”

David
looked far from convinced. “If you say so, buddy.”

I elected
to leave Lennon at home on this occasion, deciding he’d been
through enough and was deserving of some rest. We left the cottage,
David and I, bracing ourselves against the night chill and headed
across the back garden. We passed by the gazebo where I’d first
seen Melinda, climbed over the waist high fence that helped form
High Bank’s boundary and entered the copse that would eventually
lead us into the field where the chapel stood.

As we
emerged from the trees, we both happened to glance over to the
right. In the middle distance, standing behind a row of impossibly
tall conifers stood the old manor house, the one I’d visited in my
dream, (had it really been a dream or had I sleepwalked? I still
couldn’t be sure), and where I’d witnessed the farmyard activity,
followed by the heated exchange in the farmhouse itself between
Melinda and her father...and where I later discovered the
photograph of Melinda and her family and witnessed her father’s
body hanging limply in the stairwell. The place stood in perfect
darkness, the downfall of snow forming the only movement
thereabouts.

We walked
in silence for a short time, both of us I dare say, wondering what
surprises the night held. David was the first to speak.

“Are the
cops still keeping in close contact?”

“They
phone or visit most days,” I said, proffering him the flask, which
he took and swigged from and then handed back.

“What do
they think?”

“They
don’t have a bloody clue,” I said. “At least I don’t think they do.
They’ve put a missing persons report on the three they know about.
I’m surprised the national Press haven’t taken up camping outside
my front door by now.”

“What do
you think happened?” David asked; his breath vaporous against the
icy air.

“They’ve
been abducted,” I said simply, “By what, remains to be
discovered?”

“I don’t
believe in the supernatural,” David said bluntly,” I humour Jenny,
but it’s bullshit as far as I’m concerned.” He paused, frowning.
“And yet...”

He either
wouldn’t, or couldn’t finish the sentence and I thought better than
to prompt him. We both of us knew something deeply disturbing and
unexplainable was afoot and that speculation would be pretty much
pointless. We needed proof of what really lay behind the
disappearances. Halfway across the field, I stopped and asked to
use the flashlight. David duly handed it to me and I shone it
around the immediate area. A thin layer of snow covered the ground
by now, and with snow still falling it was impossible to make out
what I was looking for, which was the area of ground where Lennon
had dug.

I looked
over at the chapel, then turned and peered through the snow and
distant trees to where High Bank’s internal lights shone. It struck
me that the two buildings were perfectly aligned to one another.
But what did that prove? Something bothered me about this stuff,
but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Then, right out of the
blue, it hit me. Ashley Church, I recalled, was also aligned to
High Bank. High Bank, I suddenly realised was aligned to the
crofter’s cottage and the chapel, and now that I thought about it,
those latter buildings were aligned to the folly no
less.

Lennon, I
now reasoned, had sensed this and tried to show me in the only way
he knew how, by digging. As for Melinda, the day she’d appeared
outside the chapel and later outside High Bank, was she also trying
to clue me up. It’s said that Ley lines can be good or bad,
depending on their geometry and what had occurred historically upon
the land they occupied. My guess was something bad, very bad had
occurred in this little corner of England in times gone by, and
that whatever it was, its legacy was hell bent on haunting the
present.

I glanced
over at David, ashen faced in the reflected torchlight. He looked
anxious, no, more than that, he looked afraid.

“What is
it?” he asked and shuddered involuntarily. He adjusted his beanie,
then his specs, pulled up his coat collar and looked towards the
chapel.

“Do you
feel it?” I asked.

He
frowned, seeming at a loss.

“The
pull, do you feel the pull?”

He stared
blankly, but I nevertheless sensed the remark registered with him
in a way he was unable to explain.

“Each
time I’ve walked this field,” I said, “I’ve automatically trodden
the exact same path, so has Lennon.” I glanced down at the ground
and it was my turn to shudder.