Sker House (30 page)

Chapter 32:

Tunnels

Dale tentatively descended down the rickety wooden ladder into the bowels of the house. The cold, damp air closed in around his limbs and torso like icy fingers. He used only one hand to grip the rungs, holding the precious oil lantern in the other. The going was slow, but the last thing he wanted to do was fall and break his neck. When he reached the ground, Dale stepped off the ladder onto the floor.

Thank God!

Immediately, the lamp's encased flame flickered as if being attacked by a gust of wind. He held his breath until the flame righted itself.

“Dale?” Lucy called from above. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, think so,” he replied, surveying his surroundings. Even with the lamp, picking out detail was difficult. At first he thought the cellar had a carpeted floor, it felt so soft underfoot. Then he stooped to examine it more closely and found the stone floor was simply thick with dust. It must be a quarter-inch deep. As he inspected the floor near his feet he noticed something, and held the lamp over the spot. It was an impression in the dust. A clear outline of a footprint. A large work boot, by the looks. It looked so fresh it could have been made just minutes earlier.

The missing builder.

Dale peered into the gloom as far as the light would reach, and confirmed he was alone. The flickering light revealed another impression in the dust, just in front of the first. And then another. Now his eyes were becoming accustomed to the semi-darkness, he could see what looked like a line of footprints leading toward the far wall and disappearing into a cluster of shadows too stubborn to be dissipated by the lamp.

Part of him felt compelled to follow the tracks, but another part was hesitant. Something was wrong. He studied the scene, turning full circle a couple of times. He looked up to see silhouettes of Lucy, Machen, Rolly, Ruth and Izzy all bathed in candlelight and framed in the rectangle cut into the ceiling. Then it came to him. There was only one set of footprints. As far as he could tell, the rest of the floor was untouched, the dust unmolested.

But that was impossible. There should at be at least one more set of prints returning to the door, otherwise how did the builder get out of the room? Assuming the prints were his, of course. He could have back-tracked, placing his feet carefully where previous footprints lay, but why would he bother?

Unless he didn't get out.

An icy shiver ran through Dale's body. It was cold in the cellar. Colder than upstairs. But it was more than that. The exposed skin on his face and neck crawled as if covered in cobwebs.

“Dale? What are you doing?” Lucy called.

“There's a trail of footprints down here.”

“Where do they go?”

“I can't tell. But I think there's only one set.”

There was a brief murmur of conversation, then Lucy said, “Wait for us, we're coming down.”

Moments later she was standing on one side of Dale and Rolly was on the other, the three of them standing in a semi circle around the first footprint. After a quick discussion, they all drew the same conclusion. There was only one set of tracks.

“So what's over there?” asked Lucy, pointing in the direction the prints led.

“Let's go see,” Dale replied, trying to sound calmer than he felt.

The tracks terminated against the far wall. Here there were multiple prints and the dust severely disturbed, as if somebody had stopped here and shuffled back and forth a few times. Dale took a step back and scratched his head.

What the hell? Where did they go?

He placed a hand on the wall to verify its existence, finding only a damp, solid stone surface. He moved his hand along, cringing as his skin slid through a slimy film covering the wall. Despite his probing, there didn't seem to be any tell-tale knobs anywhere.

“What now?” said Lucy.

“I don't know. Any advice or suggestions would be more than welcome.”

“Well, whoever made these footprints couldn't have walked through a concrete wall.”

“Maybe the fairies spirited them away, eh, Rolly?” Dale meant it as a joke to alleviate the growing tension, but the moment the words left his mouth he regretted it. Then he became aware of a draught around his lower legs. Bending over, he lowered the oil lamp to illuminate the area immediately in front of them and saw what looked like a small opening just above ground level. Fresh air tainted with the acrid smell of the sea and a cold breeze drifted through it.

“Is that a tunnel?” Old Rolly asked.

“Seems that way,” Dale replied. “How far underground are we?”

“Let's see,” said the old man. “Right now we are in the cellar, probably eight or ten feet below ground level. From here it depends which trajectory that tunnel takes. It could stay on the same course or it could plummet straight down.”

“Well lets find out, shall we?” Lucy stooped to look through the gap.

“Not so fast,” Rolly said, we don't know what's in there.”

“You think this could be the vortex thingy?” Dale asked.

“Possibly. Or this could merely be the path
leading
to the vortex.”

“What's a vortex?” asked Lucy puzzled.

“We think there may be some kind of doorway between worlds around here somewhere. That could be the cause of all the paranormal phenomena. Isn't that right, Rolly?”

“Something like that. If you open up a portal between dimensions that enables the spirit world to interact with ours, wouldn't you want to keep it from prying eyes? Especially the way things were around the time it was built. Anybody who didn't toe the line was only ever one step away from being executed. We think the renegade monks who first built this place excavated a network of tunnels as a means of avoiding detection by the authorities. And maybe it was down in those tunnels a few of them began dabbling in things they shouldn't have.”

“That's probably why Sker House has a dark cloud hanging over it,” elaborated Dale. “All the tragedy and everything else that happens here is linked to that vortex, or portal.”

“So, we can close it and restore harmony to the universe?” Lucy seemed to be taking it all very well, almost as if she battled supernatural forces on a daily basis.

“That's the theory,” said Rolly. “If we can find the thing, then figure out how to close it.”

“What a fabulous way to spend a weekend. You certainly know how to show a girl a good time, Dale Morgan. Just wait until I tell the girls about this. This will definitely put the time Dannii Braithwaite is supposed to have sucked off the entire five-aside football team at a house party into perspective.”

Rolly and Dale looked at each other. Any other time that statement would be enough to spark a dozen debates, but tonight there were more important things on the agenda. With a shrug the old man knelt on the floor and examined the area around the opening, holding the candle between his face and the wall. Apparently satisfied, he stood and stepped back. “It's a tunnel alright. There are probably dozens of them underneath Sker, all criss-crossing and bisecting each other. Most were hiding places or escape routes, but some were dead end's intended to trap intruders. It was built like an underground maze. On top of that, there were store rooms and, word has it, sacrificial chambers. The rogue monks didn't practice human sacrifice. At least, not that I'm aware of. It was just animals.”

“Oh, that's okay then,” Lucy said in a
could-this-really-get-any-worse
tone. “So that's what we are looking for now? A sacrificial chamber in an underground maze?”

“I'm not entirely sure. But now we've gotten this far, I think we'll know what we are looking for when we find it. All tunnels have to lead somewhere.”

“Very helpful,” said Lucy. Dale noted that even in times of extreme stress she couldn't keep that brutal sarcastic streak under control. To his credit Rolly either didn't pick up on he remark or was so used to the acerbic verbal lashings of the fairer sex that he had built up a tolerance.

Dale dropped to his knees and held the oil lamp at the opening. By its light they could see the sides of the tunnel had been painstakingly carved out of the earth with what appeared to be consummate skill and craftsmanship. “Maybe Machen should have called in whoever made these tunnels to carry out the refurbishments here.”

“Sadly, I suspect whoever fashioned these tunnels passed into the Great Beyond long ago,” said Rolly. “Certainly appears to be some high-quality work, though.”

“I guess now we know what those monks did with their time when they weren't busy praying and stuff,” Lucy said. “Do you think its safe?”

There was an awkward pause. Then Rolly said, “Considering how long these tunnels have been here, you'd have to be damn unlucky if one collapsed on you in the comparatively short time we'd be in there. Keep in mind though that we don't have any phones or electricity to call for help, so if anything does happen, whoever happens to be in there will be on their own.”

Dale suspected that some small overlooked part of his brain was aware of the possibility that something may go wrong, but the rest of him chose not to acknowledge it. There really wasn't much option. Somebody had to go exploring and once again, he was the most eligible candidate. The tunnel didn't exactly look inviting. It would be cold, dark, damp and probably crawling with vermin and insects, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse. Unless the width diminished, it looked easily big enough to crawl through. Quickly, if he needed to. And the oil-lamp would provide more than enough light. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I'd better get going.”

But Lucy threw an arm across his chest. “Wait,” she said. “What if this whole tunnel system is one big booby trap? And that's why the builder never came out?”

Dale hadn't thought of that. And he was glad. “Why would someone go to all that trouble?”

“Because they were pissed off monks with a lot to hide.”

“You know, it wouldn't surprise me if they utilized the close proximity of the sea in their defences,” Old Rolly said. “Resourceful chaps, those monks. Maybe the reason the smell of salt water is so strong around here is because some of these tunnels flood with the tide. You'd have to know which tunnels would be safe at any given time.” He whistled through his teeth in what sounded like deep admiration. “They were in hiding, remember. Hunted. Persecuted by the state. They weren't just fighting for their lives, but for their faith, their history, everything.”

“This is beginning to turn into an Indiana Jones movie,” said Lucy, who seemed increasingly unimpressed with all the problem-solving.

“In that case, I hope it doesn't turn into the Last Crusade,” said Dale.

“Why? Does the hero die in that one? I haven't seen it,” said Lucy, feigning interest.

“No. It was just shit.”

Chapter 33:

Underground

As he crawled through the tunnel holding the oil lamp awkwardly out in front of him, Dale's elbows and knees sank into the sodden earth where narrow furrows had been worn. The tunnel must have transported a lot of human traffic over the years. From the era of the monks through Isaac Williams and his wreckers, and now to the present day. He paused to take a breather, trying to ignore the dampness seeping into his clothes, and tested the wall with a hand. The sides of the cavity were uniform and fashioned almost smooth, the earth compacted so much that it was almost stone-like. Wooden support splints had been placed every few metres, making the tunnel look like a miniature mine shaft. A few metres in, he encountered the first junction where it split into two paths of roughly equal dimensions.

Which way?

They had anticipated such an eventuality, and covered all the bases. Nobody wanted Dale to get lost, least of all him. There were concerns that the vibrations made by too much verbal communication could cause a cave-in, so a length of string they found discarded in the sub-cellar was tied around Dale's right ankle and now trailed behind him. That way, if anything did happen Lucy and Rolly would at least know where he was. It was agreed that if he made a turn he would tug sharply on the string once for left and twice for right, and if he ran into any kind of trouble he would tug repeatedly. Lucy held the spool, paying out the string and waiting for a signal. When the string ran out, she was to tug on it. That would be Dale's cue to come back. This was, after all, just a reconnaissance exercise.

He paused to think. He didn't think he'd travelled very far. He was probably still somewhere beneath the house. He couldn't be certain but judging by where he thought he was, the left path would lead to the sea and the right in the direction of the fields. He remembered reading somewhere that when confronted with this kind of dilemma, most of the time right-handed people chose the right-handed option and vice versa, simply because the dominant part of their brain told them to. Dale didn't want to be governed by anything, not even his own brain, so he checked the string was still secure around his ankle and gave a single sharp tug before continuing down the left tunnel. It wasn't until later that he realised the significance of taking the left path.

No sooner had he negotiated the turn, a sudden wave of claustrophobia hit him, robbing him of his breath, his orientation and his composure in one fell swoop. He stopped and rolled on to his side, breathing hard and fighting to regain control. It felt like he was suffocating. Drowning. He remembered the dream he'd had, and became convinced it was a premonition. The walls were closing in around him. Then he became aware of sounds. Grunts, voices, faraway moans. They seemed to fade in and out of clarity and rise and fall in volume.

That doesn't mean anything
, the logical part of his brain protested.
You're in a tunnel, sound carries. What you can hear is probably coming from two miles away.

No. Something had changed. He felt different. Nervously, he contorted his body and shone the oil-lamp behind him. As far as the limited light would enable him to see, he was still alone. As he turned, back his arm dragged against the wall and dislodged a chunk of mud which dropped to the floor with a soft thud. His heart skipped a beat.