Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (14 page)

Rhonda's sleepy face appeared beneath the curtain. ‘Well, bring them inside then,’ she told him. ‘But keep them down your end of the bus, I don't want to be slobbered on all night.’

‘What's going on?’ Luke's voice complained.

‘Go back to sleep,’ Rhonda said tetchily. ‘You'll wake the others.’

Hopping over the sleeping bag, Owen moved towards the door and pulled it open.

‘Come on!’ he called. ‘Get in here.’

Yet the dogs refused to budge from their shelter beneath the coach and howled all the more.

Owen jumped on to the grass and knelt upon on all fours to shine a torch under the vehicle.

The eyes of the two dogs flared bright green and yellow as the light beam blazed upon them, and the man was dismayed to see that their mouths were speckled with white froth and that they were shivering uncontrollably.

‘Hey,’ he said warmly. ‘It's all right boys. Old Owen's here now. Come on, lads—it's lovely an’ toasty in the bus.’

Neither animal moved, their pitiful eyes stared woefully up at him but they were too paralysed with fear to leave the sanctuary of their box.

Owen frowned and rose. ‘Suit yourselves,’ he murmured, returning to the door and hurrying back inside to find Rhonda waiting for him.

‘Where are they?’ she asked.

‘Wouldn't come in,’ the man shrugged. ‘Should see their faces though, Rhon, awful they are.’

Rhonda hugged herself. ‘We should've listened to Aidan and left,’ she said.

‘I know,’ Owen answered.

At that moment the dogs ceased their yammering and Rhonda swallowed nervously. ‘What can that mean?’ she breathed.

Owen didn't know what to say, but then they heard a different, more disturbing sound and they stared at each other in dread.

High above, echoing across the sky there came a horrible, frantic clamouring.

‘What on earth..?’ Rhonda whispered. ‘Birds..?’

‘Doesn't sound like any flock I ever heard.’

Lit by the wavering flame of the nightlight, Rhonda's face turned pale and she listened in mounting horror as the foul noise grew gradually louder.

‘Mad geese perhaps?’ she suggested trying to sound light-hearted but not succeeding.

‘No,’ Owen said softly, ‘more like a demented mob, rioting through the darkness.’

‘Those are not animal voices, Owen.’

‘Nor are they human,’ came his ominous reply.

‘It's getting closer.’

‘What is that racket?’ called Luke's voice abruptly.

Rhonda turned to see her husband come blundering through the curtain scratching his head and yawning stupidly.

‘Quiet!’ she hissed, afraid that his loud voice might attract the attention of whatever was flying overhead.

Above the surrounding wood, the shrill screeching continued to draw nearer and the last vestige of Luke's sleepiness vanished completely.

'I don't like it,’ he said lunging for the driver's seat. ‘We've got to get out of here, right now.’

‘No!’ Owen cried, dragging him back. ‘You'll only draw attention to us—let them fly past!’

Rhonda ran to the window and pressed her cheek flat against the glass as she peered up into the star-flecked night.

‘I can't see anything,’ she said. ‘But they're definitely getting closer, just listen to it now.’

‘They must be directly overhead,’ Owen whispered. ‘Stay quiet.’

Rhonda and Luke nodded. The raucous sound was unbearably loud and they held each other's hands desperately as the wild, blaring shrieks reverberated above the trees.

In fearful silence, Patrick.and Dot came blundering from their bunks and gazed at their friends with ashen faces.

Owen stared back, then his expression changed to one of panic.

‘The light!’ he blurted. ‘Put it out!’

Rhonda whirled around and ran to the shelf where the dwindling nightlight was still burning and hastily extinguished the flame.

In the darkness which engulfed them, they heard the dogs yelp in terror and through the windows they saw them bolt from beneath the coach and flee into the nearby wood.

‘Why did they do that?’ Dot wept. ‘Patrick, what's out there?’

Before anyone could answer, the shrieking suddenly erupted all around them and they clapped their hands to their ears as the very air shook from the clangorous din of the unearthly, piercing screams.

‘Stop it!’ Dot bawled, dropping to the floor and crawling into a corner.

Then, abruptly, the bus quivered and the roof buckled as a great weight came crashing on top of it—followed by another and another.

Violently the vehicle shuddered as more of the unseen creatures landed upon it—their terrible croaking voices crowing and screeching.

‘Save us!’ Rhonda prayed, glancing fearfully up at the battered and dented ceiling.

Seized by powerful, malevolent forces, the coach suddenly lurched beneath the impact of a tremendous blow. The travellers within were hurled against the side, floundering into the windows and tearing down the partitioning curtains in their battle for balance.

From the shelves and out of the cupboards whose doors were flung open, all the ornaments, mugs and plates went careering after shattering and smashing upon the floor. Suspended from hooks, the pans clanged and crashed together like tuneless cymbals as they swung madly, striking Luke across the temple when he stumbled by.

‘Make it stop!’ Dot yelled hysterically. ‘Make it stop! Make it stop!’

With an almighty crunching of metal, a third pounding judder rocked the coach and for Dot it was too much. Before Patrick could stop her, she leapt up and pelted for the door screaming at the top of her voice.

‘Let me out!’ she hollered. ‘We'll all die in here! We'll die!’

Even as she tore the door open, strong hands gripped her and Owen twisted her around to push her back with the others.

‘Listen to me!’ he shouted. ‘God knows what's up there but you won't last five seconds if you...’

His voice was suddenly lost and the others could only watch in mortified despair as, through the open door and reaching down from above, a great repulsive talon came stretching.

Before Owen could turn to face it, the black scale-covered claw flashed out and drove deep into his shoulder, puncturing the flesh and hooking deep inside his ribs.

Howling in pain, yet struggling for all he was worth, the man was dragged outside and, when his wide tormented eyes glared upwards to view the creatures upon the roof, he let out a final, soul tearing scream.

Inside the coach, Dot shrank against Patrick, screwing up her face. The others, stricken into silence and inaction, could only watch as their friend was hauled upward, his legs kicking and flailing past the windows until they disappeared above and the glass was spattered with a crimson rain.

‘Owen...’ Rhonda mouthed. ‘Dear God, no... Owen! OWEN!’

Yet her grief was shortlived; for, in that terrible instant, the roof splintered and through the perforated metal, a dozen of the vicious, iron-hard talons came stabbing, curving in to grip and grasp.

Luke snatched up a stick, ramming it upwards at the nearest claw, savagely beating it with all his fear-fuelled strength.

Immediately Rhonda and Patrick joined him, using anything they could find as weapons—pans, brooms, bottles.

‘They'll not come in!’ Luke raged.

But the talons of the unseen enemy were strong and the creatures above ignored their fervent attempts, speaking to each other in harsh, repellent squawks.

Trembling all over, Rhonda threw down the broom handle she had taken for a weapon and slowly shook her head.

‘You're wasting your time,’ she murmured flatly.

Luke turned on her. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Help us—we have to keep them out!’

The woman held up her hand for them to stop. ‘They don't want to get in,’ she. stated in a parched whisper. ‘If they did, they'd have done it by now.’

‘What then?’ Dot asked, cringing against the bunk. ‘You saw what happened to Owen.’

Suddenly the coach buckled and a creaking groan rifled along its rusting bodywork.

Rhonda rushed to the window and stared outside as the vehicle rattled and strained. ‘No, please,’ she uttered.

‘What now?’ Patrick asked.

She did not need to answer, for as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew.

With a dreadful teetering roll and a sickening pitch to the front which sent them reeling once more, the coach was lifted off the ground and the stunned travellers saw the trees beyond the windows fall away.

Above them, mingled with the strident clamour of the ghastly voices, they could hear the steady beat of great wings, whilst below the ground dropped sharply.

Up from the grassy verge
Eden's Bus
was
plucked, up into the cold wintry air, rising steeply with each downward sweep of powerful primary feathers. To the tops of the trees the unwieldy vehicle was lifted, until it soared above the roof of the bare, leafless wood and beyond.

Higher the dark, winged shapes hoisted it, their grotesque forms obliterating the stars, whilst the heavens rang with their awful screeching.

‘This isn't happening, right?’ Dot mewled, staring down at the shrinking landscape beneath them. ‘It's just utterly impossible.’

The wood appeared tiny now, like a clump of withered flowers in a garden border, and the meandering network of roads seemed like the shimmering trails left by slugs.

Rhonda glanced across the night, to where a curiously shaped hill reared in the far distance, and the woman smiled in spite of her fear to think it would be one of the last sights she would ever see.

Then it happened.

Above them the shrill cacophony of shrieks and squawks changed into a vile skirling laughter that was filled with scorn and hatred.

The flight had come to an end.

The curved talons were withdrawn from the roof and the coach toppled downward, turning over in the rushing air as it plunged and plummeted through the night.

*

For a moment, the Somerset wood knew peace. High above, the stridulous laughter had grown silent and the black winged shapes veered across the sky, not bothering to view the evil they had done.

Then, with a thunderous crash, the coach came ripping through the tree tops and with a deafening roar it pounded into the ground.

A dull boom rent the night as the petrol tank exploded and, before long, most of the wood was ablaze.

Before either his brother or father were awake, Neil Chapman stole out of the caretaker's apartment and crept through the various galleries and collections towards the main entrance hail and the staircase.

The Wyrd Museum was silent as a tomb and the sound of his footsteps chimed off the polished floors as he roamed through the ancient building. The doom laden words of the self-proclaimed ghost hunter he had met the previous evening had troubled him all night.

Climbing the first step, the boy noticed that a section of the panelled wall was missing and, in the dank space beyond, he could see a flight of stone stairs descending into darkness.

Neil wavered, wondering whether to go exploring, but he guessed that Miss Ursula Webster was bound to be down there and she would not appreciate his inquisitiveness.

Tapping the bannister with his fingers, he resolved to complete what he had set out to do that morning and hurried to the first floor.

Into the room which had once housed The Separate Collection he went and began looking inside the chests and boxes.

Presently, he found what he searched for—the contents of the cabinet which had held Ted for over fifty years, and a sad smile passed over Neil's face as he removed each item and studied them carefully.

There was a stirrup pump and bucket, a handbell, a shovel, yellowing leaflets and ration books, a gasmask and a pile of old comics and film magazines.

‘Wherever you are Ted... or Angelo,’ the boy murmured, ‘I hope you found peace.’

Taking a deep breath, he shoved his hands in his pockets then kicked a broken piece of wood across the floor and decided to return downstairs. Another day of school beckoned and he was already dressed in his uniform.

Yet as he ambled back towards The Egyptian Suite, a movement caught his eye and he spun on his heel excitedly.

‘Ted?’ he cried. ‘Is that you? How did you get back?’

Running over to a large tea-chest he looked inside, then straightened his back in astonishment.

Quivering and jerking, as though tugged by an invisible thread, the damaged stuffed raven which Miss Veronica had wept over was struggling upon its back—feebly waving one wing and kicking its legs in the air.

Neil stared at the thing in wonderment. The bird had regenerated itself, yet the creature was still impaired—only one eye had reformed while the other remained a sunken knot of withered skin. Upon its flat head the feathers had not yet grown and so it continued to look moth-eaten and bald, and the right wing hung limp and broken at its side.

Opening the black, feather-fringed beak, the raven let out a plaintive cheep, then shook its head. The lower part of its jaw gave a faint click and locked open so that it was stuck in a painful looking yet silent howl.