Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (13 page)

In disbelief, the driver whirled around to see the bird drop the keys in the vicar's hands and, shouting at the top of his lungs, raced back to stop them.

‘Make haste! Make haste!’ the raven shrieked, perched upon the wing mirror, watching Peter fumbling with the remote.

Flustered, the Reverend glanced down the road at the man charging towards them and, in his consternation, the keys fell to the ground.

‘Idiot!’ Thought yelled. ‘Simpleton! Oaf!’

Peter hastily retrieved them and the headlights flashed as he pressed the button to release the locks.

‘Hoy!’ the driver bawled. ‘Stop! Police! Police!’

His heart pounding, the vicar yanked open the door and threw himself inside.

‘No, you don't!’ bellowed the owner as he ran up to the car, seized hold of the door frame and lunged within to haul the petrified vicar out.

At once Thought flew at him, raking his talons through the man's flesh and pecking fiercely at his hands. The driver let go of Peter and thrashed his arms to fend off the attacking bird, as the violence of Thought's onslaught propelled him back across the road.

With a final, savage nip upon the man's cheek, the raven abandoned him and flew into the car screeching wildly.

‘Go! Now! Now!’

Peter thrust the key in the ignition and turned it sharply.

The vehicle spluttered into life.

‘The door!’ Thought squawked. ‘Close it! Close it!’

The vicar looked to his left and saw the owner of the hatchback come lumbering back, his face now streaked with blood. Frightened, Peter reached out and the car rocked with the force of the door as he heaved it shut and locked it.

Immediately the driver began thumping upon the windscreen and banging his fists upon the bonnet.

‘What do I do?’ Peter cried.

‘We must away!’ Thought commanded, hopping up and down upon the head-rest of the passenger seat. ‘Before the glass is broken.’

With an apologetic wave to the true owner, Peter put his foot down and the car roared. Crunching the bumper of the vehicle in front, there came a screech of tyres and a scraping of metal against metal until, lurching, it shot from the parking space. The owner leapt back as his hatchback went tearing around the corner and disappeared behind the trees of the park.

His hands locked tightly about the steering wheel, Peter Galloway stared out of the windscreen at the main road ahead, sweat pouring off his face.

‘Well done,’ the raven congratulated him. ‘Art thou certain thou wert never a footpad or cutpurse before now? The mantle suits thee well.’

‘I've never done anything like this before,’ the vicar proclaimed, wrenching his eyes from the road. ‘Joyriding! What would they have said at the youth centre?’

Thought chuckled dryly. ‘Peace,’ he said, ‘dost thou not know a jest when it is uttered? Nay, be not aggrieved by this act, for it is the first step towards the great gladness that is to come.’

Peter swallowed and reminded himself of that fact. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘So, where exactly are we going?’

‘Didst thou not listen to our Lord?’ the raven asked mildly. ‘To a place most sacred in this verdant land—to Ynnis Witrin, the blessed isle of Avalon.’

The car kangarooed as the Reverend Galloway lost his concentration and he sighed with unparalleled joy—‘Now, I understand,’ he uttered. ‘I know the legend. So it really is buried there. Oh, yes, what better testament to The Passion can there be? I can't believe it—it's fabulous!’

Thought said nothing and let the vicar avow his happiness. They were far from their destination and there was still much to be done.

Yet even as the maroon hatchback scooted off into the night, in the small town of Glastonbury, the terrors which the raven's Master had rekindled there were to find their numbers increased by a new recruit.

At the Humphries’ Bed and Breakfast, Lauren's stepmother twisted in sweat-soaked bedsheets, groaning and complaining in her sleep. Turning fitfully upon the pillow, the woman's face was waxy and pricked with perspiration, and the breaths which wheezed over her swollen tongue were shallow and laboured.

Gulping at the cool air, she rolled on to her back and her eyes suddenly snapped open.

Like large spots of ink, her pupils stared up at the ceiling and, massaging her painful throat, she pulled the coverlet further up the bed. In spite of the sweat which poured down her face, Sheila was shivering and she leaned across to the slumbering figure at her side.

‘Guy,’ she uttered with a choking cough. ‘Wake up, Guy!’

Lauren's father made no movement so she nudged him anxiously.

‘Guy!’ she spluttered. ‘I'm... I... I think you'd better call... call the doctor!’

Still no answer. The man remained fast asleep and Sheila shook him with what little strength she could muster.

‘Guy!’ she pleaded.

It was no use. Nothing she could do would rouse him and, weakened by her exertions, she collapsed back on to the pillows, panting and spent.

Dim was the moonlight which seeped into the room, but it was bright enough to spread across the floor and shine its pallid glow over the wall against which the bed stood.

Gasping and straining for breath, Sheila's swimming eyes roved blearily around, until gradually they focused upon the patterned cloth of the object which hung upon the bedhead.

There was the crow doll she had placed there earlier that evening in the hope of attaining a good night's rest. As she heaved her aching ribs up and down, she found the contradiction infuriating.

The eyes which were sewn upon either side of the yellow beak appeared to gleam in the chill moonlight and Sheila sobbed as her fever caused her to imagine that the effigy was moving.

The checked material of the doll's dress stirred as if blown by a draught and, jutting from the neatly sewn sleeves, the twiggy fingers flexed slowly.

Sheila moaned, shakily reaching out for the bedside lamp to dispel these delirious illusions but, before her finger found the switch, she froze and stared in horror.

It was not her imagination, it
was
moving—the doll was alive.

On the plain calico apron, the stitches which formed the word “HLOKK” glimmered and a ruby light shone through the thread until the letters burned fiercely.

Hanging upon its cord, the doll twitched and jerked into life. Beneath the small straw hat, the bird's fabric head turned until the bead eyes were staring down at Sheila and the twigs clattered together as it squirmed to unhook itself from the bedpost.

‘No!’ the woman cried, throwing the blankets from her and leaping out of bed. ‘Guy! Help me! Help! Lauren!’

Too late, she fled for the door but the doll had worked itself free and, with supernatural force, launched itself at her.

Her hands scrabbling at the door handle, Sheila screamed when the nightmare creature leapt on to the back of her head. Her anguished voice grew shrill and wild with terror as the twigs tangled in her hair and the fiery letters scorched into her scalp.

‘No!’ she yelled, writhing and twisting like a rabbit caught in a snare. ‘Lauren! Get it off! Get it off!’

Through her hair the doll's fingers stretched, snaking and growing about the woman's head and neck as it clung with vicious strength and, though she tried to tear it from her, there was no escape.

Shrieking, Sheila collapsed against the door. The sprouting, flourishing twigs wrapped about her and she was lost in a well of deep, crackling shadow.

*

In the adjoining room, Lauren was startled awake by her stepmother's cries and snapped on the light as she dragged herself out of bed.

‘Dad? Sheila?’ she called, hurrying from her room—a hundred drastic possibilities flashing into her mind.

‘What's going on? What's happened?’

On to the landing she ran and pushed at the door but it refused to budge, as if something heavy was lying against it. The girl pounded upon it with her fists.

‘Let me in!’ she demanded. ‘Dad! Dad!’

The frightened wails were subsiding now, but within the main bedroom there came a series of frantic bumps and crashes, and the door shivered in its frame as something smashed into it.

Fearfully, Lauren stepped back and, to her consternation, she heard a low, hideous, dry voice begin to croak and scream.

‘What's in there?’ she breathed in despair. ‘Dad! Sheila! What is it? Answer me!’

Standing there upon the landing as the ghastly, bestial voice continued to snap and squawk on the other side of the door, Lauren felt horribly alone and helpless.

She desperately wanted to race downstairs and phone the police but that would mean abandoning her father and stepmother to whatever was in there. All she knew was that it certainly wasn't human and, feeling wretched and afraid, she waited as the seconds dragged by until the voice finally grew more faint.

Then there was silence.

*

Her plump face buried in her fists, Lauren gingerly moved closer to the door, pressing her ear to the wood.

The only sound she could hear was the dull, rapid beat of her own blood in her eardrums. Whatever had uttered that repugnant voice was either deliberately being quiet, or its mouth was otherwise preoccupied.

Filled with this horrific, sickening thought and dreading the grisly sight she might encounter, Lauren gave the door a ferocious kick.

‘Dad!’ she cried when the barrier shuddered open and the girl tore inside, heedless of her own safety.

Lauren stumbled to a halt as she viewed the scene before her. Upon the bed lay her father, yet she could see quite plainly that he was only sleeping and although the relief at this discovery coursed through her tense limbs, she could see no sign of Sheila.

A bitterly cold draught rilled the bedroom and Lauren shivered in the large T-shirt she used as pyjamas, as she crossed to where her father lay and shook him gently.

‘Dad?’ she murmured. ‘Wake up, please, Dad!’

Yet the man merely snored in reply and she pulled away, her face creasing with concern.

‘Sheila?’ she called miserably. ‘Sheila?’

Lauren caught her breath and rubbed the goose-flesh which had prickled over her arms. The window had been thrust open and the net curtains were rippling with the breeze.

Nervously, she walked over and peered outside, fearing to see a broken body sprawled upon the gravel below. But no—the drive was empty.

Casting her eyes back to her unconscious father, Lauren wondered what she ought to do. What had happened here? Where was Sheila? She couldn't have jumped down from the window without hurting herself, and what had made that hideous caterwauling?

It was then that she discovered, gouged into the wooden sill, four deep claw marks. As she stepped nearer to examine them, something soft brushed against her toes.

Lauren cried out and jumped back in case the unseen creature bit her. Then, staring down, she shook her head.

Lying upon the carpet was an immense, jet black feather.

Crouching on the floor, the girl flicked it warily then picked it up and held it in the moonlight.

The feather was nearly as long as her arm, and there was a quality about it which made Lauren screw up her face in a distasteful grimace. Whatever creature this quill belonged to was like nothing she had ever seen and her skin crawled even to touch it.

Throwing it out of the window, she wiped her fingers and frowned. What was she to do? Had Sheila been snatched by some demonic, nocturnal bird of prey? The whole notion was preposterous—yet there was the feather and it would account for the terrible shrieks that had awoken her.

Only the prone, slumbering figure of her father prevented her from running to fetch help. There was more to this than she could ever explain—if she waited until daylight the situation might appear less unnatural and a more down-to-earth answer could possibly be found.

Reaching for the window, Lauren prepared to close it, then checked herself and returned instead to her own room.

There, with her knees tucked underneath her chin, she sat upon her bed and began to wait for the dawn.

*

At the edge of the Somerset wood, where
Eden's Bus
remained parked upon the verge, the two dogs who slept in a large box beneath the dilapidated coach
pricked up their ears and started to whimper.

Within the old, rusted vehicle, the five travellers were sleeping peacefully—a small nightlight had burned low and its waning flame cast a trembling glow over its shadowy interior.

Snug inside his sleeping bag, Owen grunted and turned groggily on to his side as the labrador's whine became a frightened yowl underneath the floor and the Jack Russell yapped with terror.

Rubbing his eyes, the man sat up and a rush of icy fear washed over him as he listened to the petrified dogs outside.

‘Not again,’ he muttered, clambering out of the bag.

Behind a draped curtain a woman's voice asked in a drowsy whisper, ‘What's the matter with them now? Get them to keep quiet will you?’

Owen pulled on his jeans. ‘They won't listen to me,’ he said. ‘Can't you feel it, Rhon? There's something awful out there. The poor brutes are scared witless.’