The journey to St. Harold’s takes less than five minutes. We pass several cars, but no dirt bikes.
Outside the window, the clouds look fit to burst torrents of sheet rain. The last of the day’s sun has seemingly departed on a sabbatical and at nearly seven o’clock; it feels unseasonably and unreasonably damp, and bitterly cold.
All I can think about is what happens next?
I try and prepare myself mentally. I know that I am going to die. I feel the weight of this hanging so chest-crushingly over me. I have spent every morsel of every second willing myself not to ask Astra to turn the car around and to drive back to the cottage.
Oh, you are so aware that you are mortal. At this moment, my every thought is focused on bending every possible loop-hole and opportunity to prolong my survival: Flight over fight.
But, truth be told; do I really want to live? I wish for death; I wish for life.
I wipe my brow and look at my hand as the sweat feels funny. My palm is dark with blood again.
Why am I bleeding again?
I remember the Reverend preaching to us about the last moments of Jesus and how he sweated blood in the Garden of Gethsemane when close to his own death – an actual medical condition as AKM pointed out. Sailors have sweated blood when they are certain they’re going to drown. The Reverend has a fascination with blood; bloodied tongues, bloodied brows; pushing people down the stairs.
‘Shelly, are you okay? What’s wrong with your forehead?’
I nod. I can’t even speak. I’m so consumed with anguish.
As St. Harold’s looms into view, I’m wondering which patch of the graveyard they’ll reserve for me. I have my bag with the book in it. I need to steal some moments just to look for help and guidance, but I’m out of time. The silence is broken by a puzzled Mrs Dawson.
‘That’s strange!’
I’m transfixed on the steeple up ahead.
She pulls up outside the cemetery and stops. There’s one car parked outside the front. The big double gates are open to allow the rest of the bell-ringers through.
Astra is muttering to herself, as she pulls onto the gravel track that leads to the main entrance. We drive along slowly, the single, front wheel of her Robin Reliant, juddering over the raised grass in the centre of the track. I look at the stained glass. No lights are on inside.
Two or three cars are parked up near the entrance of St. Harold’s and the big wooden door to the church is wide open, but no light prevails from the inside. It just looks like a bottomless, endlessly dark chasm in there.
Astra stops and looks over her shoulders towards the front of the churchyard.
I finally ask, ‘What’s happening?’ In the hope that her answer might help me prepare better for what lies ahead.
‘Well,’ she pauses, looking at the entrance, ‘I don’t know why they’ve all parked here, and why the main gates are open and why the hell the lights aren’t on?’
She takes out her mobile and checks a text message. ‘Yeah, definitely says get here for seven.’
‘Who’s it from?’
Astra looks at me admonishingly, knowing full well that I already know the answer.
‘The Rev, Shelly. The Rev.’
‘When did he send it?’
Astra pauses. I see a moment of hesitation and self-doubt flash across her face.
‘This afternoon – a couple of hours ago.’ She strokes her pointy chin whilst slowing the car to a halt directly outside the triangular porch of the Church.
‘Well, there’s cars here.’ she starts and just as she’s about to continue, one of the Church bells above us bursts into life.
‘And, there’s somebody here at least by the sounds of things; must be... the Rev.’ She chides.
‘How can he ring with no lights on?’
‘There’s an old emergency supply box up there, he must have taken up some old lamps.’
‘It sounds like the automatic bell. Can’t you call him?’
But, Astra already has her phone to her ears. A low rumble of thunder shudders overhead in unison with the methodical chiming of the single bell. I don’t like this one bit. She puts the phone down and mutters about the lack of reception.
‘Looks like the entrance light isn’t working; good job I know where he hides the candles. They’ll get us both upstairs safely. Still want to come in with me?’
I don’t fancy being on my own and I don’t like the thought of Astra going up there by herself either.
We open our car doors in tandem and move into the porch out of the rain.
‘Don’t you have a torch?’
‘Ha Ha – watch this.’
Astra reaches up into a little alcove set into the stone in a shadowy part of the entrance.
‘Want one?’
She holds two large candles and passes me one without waiting for a reply. She’s also retrieved a lighter and uses it to light them both.
We turn and walk into the darkness of the church itself. Once inside, Astra checks along the cold stone masonry, seeking out, and finding the power supply box. I take her candle and hold it aloft to cast light on her endeavours, as she tries to prise apart its plastic aperture.
Even the lifeless, single toll of the bell above, doesn’t bring a sense of comforting presence in this place.
The sombre blackness of the church is suitably eerie and I listen out for voices - for Whispers; breathing out their hate-filled chorus. It is the perfect place for anybody to spring out.
The dim hall lights turn on for a few seconds, and then go off again. She tries the trip-switch again and this time the lights stay on. I feel some relief.
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘It’s this storm. It keeps knocking them out.’
‘Will they stay on?’
‘I doubt it and I can’t get the tower’s stairwell lights working at all. Looks like it’s candle light all the way until we reach the top.’
‘Who’s up there ringing?’
I know I have already asked this and Astra glowers at me this time.
‘Shelly, you are making me uncomfortable. Look, there’s a few cars here. We’re early. The press will be along to cover this. A Bobby or two will pop along. Gone up there and made a start, that’s all. There’s Henry’s car and that’s Tasmin’s. Most of the cars are parked up. Now, are you coming with me or not?’
I have no comeback. There’s agitation in her voice. So, now it looks, for all intents and purposes, that both of us are indeed going to the top of the steeple.
We approach the old wooden door at the base of the tower and Astra turns the bulbous, black knocker to the left. A torrent of air blasts out causing the candles to flicker. It feels like nobody’s been here in a very long time, and we just opened the door to some ancient tomb. We ascend the narrow, clockwise steps in the direction of the belfry, the light from the hall fading below. The bell above sounds louder now. I climb up behind her, adjusting myself to the gradient for the first few steps. Then, I remember my bag.
‘Damn it.’
‘You okay?’
‘I’ll just nip back to get my bag from the car.’
‘Why on earth do you need that? You’ll break your neck trying to walk up here with a candle in one hand and your bag in the other.’
It’s a good point, especially with broken straps, but I’d rather not be without.
I quickly devise a plan to nip back into the church hall and have the briefest of looks at the book before storing it under a pew.
‘It’s important. Won’t be long, I’ll catch you up.’
Astra never locks her car door.
I head back down, placing my candle by the entrance, and move swiftly out of the Church towards the Robin Reliant. I feel the change underfoot from flagstone to gravel as I step away from the building. My feet displace cavalcades of miniscule pebbles as I crunch along. I look around, conscious that even with my senses firing, there’s no way of treading carefully over gravel; anyone would hear me c
oming. I glide as quickly as I can around the front bonnet as rain lashes my face.
The graveyard has darkened considerably. I imagine witches soaring high above me cackling between cracks of thunder. I see my mangled bag through the window. I open the door, as the bell high at the top of the church tower stops sounding.
I pause and look up...and listen.
Has Astra got to the top? Have her fellow bell ringers stopped to greet her?
On the car seat in front of me, my bell gently chimes in my bag. It’s rhythmic like a heartbeat.
Trouble is brewing. I look around.
I can just about see the spot where Evelyn’s grave lays. It’s a little distance away, but I can still make out the small Stone Angel presiding over it. To my left, I see the old stately tomb where the white statue of the Virgin Mary resides, continually praying for its occupants in death. Seemingly, nothing, or nobody else here. This is weird.
I hastily reach for my bag and tug. It snags against the handbrake, ripping the zip apart. The bell tumbles out first, closely followed by the book. It falls open on the seat.
Writing pours forth onto the page instantly, from the invisible quill of its ghostly writer.
‘Here comes the candle to light you to bed, Here comes the chopper to chop off your head...’
Time’s up!
There’s a crashing noise in the Church behind me.
I cower and freeze rigid, expecting some rabid axe-murderer to come flying out, slicing off my head. I stare at the open book, bracing myself – the last thing I’ll ever see is a bloody nursery rhyme.
Exactly the same image, from the previous night, forms on the opposing page.
But, there’s extra.
Somebody - with a man’s large hands - unfastening a rope. Somebody else walking up some stairs holding a...candle.
This warning isn’t for me.
Astra.
Grabbing the book and the bell alone, I turn and sprint inside.
People think that I’m quite a bright girl, but I have been so pre-occupied with Mary, Mary Quite Contrary and the final terrifying image of Miriam, I have forgotten the book’s previous illustrations.
I reach the entrance to St. Harold’s. I halt and place the bell under my arm, while scooping up the candle with my right hand. I know somebody else is in here.
The lights inside have snapped back off. It’s very dark. My candle partly illuminates the way ahead.
I stand just inside the church.
A torch shines directly on the door to the belfry from somewhere inside the Nave. It bobs up and down. It’s getting closer.
I turn my candle towards the altar.
A man dressed in religious vestments bounds towards the belfry door. Even with impeded vision in this darkness, I still make out the large blade in his left hand. He scurries straight up to the belfry door, turning briefly to look at me.
The Reverend Sean Llewellyn points the knife and screams directly at me.
‘If you come an inch closer, I’ll put you to an end.’
He jabs it at me and then charges up the stairwell.
I flinch.
What...the...?
I have to help Astra.
I bound towards the entrance to the tower and am brought to a complete halt. I’m desperate to bolt up, but the gradient is too steep and treacherous with my baggage. The large candle illuminates only a few steps at a time.
It all makes sense – They were male hands untying the thick rope in the nursery rhyme – the kind of thick rope you would only find in a bell tower.
Here comes the chopper to chop off your head.
Ahead of me, the Reverend flies up to kill My Aunty. He’s going to stab her in his own Church.
‘Angel, please...’
I shout at the book as I clumsily ascend. The bell chimes urgently under my arm, squawking, like a rooster being throttled.
I hear the sound of wood cracking and a thud somewhere above. I’m getting closer – to what: The end?
I have great difficulty in balancing and my jelly-legs aren’t helping. I crash into the steps letting go of everything in an attempt to arrest a neck-breaking fall. The candle crashes into a step and then plummets, as does the bell. Both clatter and crack against cool stone on their stricken descent. I fall on the book and smother it; the only thing I can rescue.
I try standing, using the cold stone wall for support. In this dark vacuum it is easy to picture a man untying a rope. There’s another large cracking sound as dim light appears somewhere above me. I’m nearly there. I ascend, panting heavily, eventually rounding the final corner to see the door to the bell tower broken open.
Slightly ahead, the Reverend stands with his back to me, staring straight at Astra, the giant blade shaking in his left hand. I complete my final steps and creep up behind him. Astra is clutching hold of a belfry rope. She is wide-eyed and I motion her not to speak.
With my heart thudding out of my chest, I creep up behind the crazed Vicar. Astra stares directly at him. The Reverend drops the knife on floor and it clatters away to his right as I raise my thick book high above me – the only weapon I have – and bring it down over the back of his head.
His piercing shout of ‘Stoppppp!’ is winded out of him as he falls to his knees and Astra releases the rope she has already pulled so far down.
There’s a huge rumble above us.
The wooden ceiling splits and part of the stone tower to the right cracks apart sending huge chunks of stone crashing over the floor. Astra stands still, frozen with fear, clutching the loose rope again, this time for support, as something else gives above.
I launch into the tower, smashing into her, sending both of us toppling into the far wall, as one of the enormous Church Bells crashes through the ceiling, smashing onto the wooden floor with an ear-shattering roar.
It bounces once, the weight of the floor absorbing the first impact, as the whole tower shakes. Dust billows around us as the deafening bell spins on its edge like a marionette – round and round - vibrating violently, before grinding to a halt.
Astra and I clutch hold of one another, the remnants of its chime pulsating through us.
Behind the bell, the Reverend rises, the knife back in his hand. He coughs and stares through the dusty haze towards us. He wipes his hand and steps around the bell as the whole tower begins to creak. I cling to Astra; I think this is it! He looms above us. I barely have time to think about saving my Aunty from being crushed.
Suddenly, the tower sways violently as thunder crashes overhead.
The Reverend drops the knife.
‘Quickly!’ he implores earnestly, ‘Give me yer hand.’
Astra bundles me upwards. What is she doing? I have no choice. The Vicar grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.
‘He’s sabotaged this place. He wants people killed here so that it can be shut down. We must hurry!’ His Scottish accent is thick and urgent.
A huge crack appears beneath our feet as the whole tower shifts a foot to the right. Pieces of the wooden floor around the huge bell begin to push upwards struggling to support its weight.
‘This Bell is a tonne in weight. We’ve got t’ get out of here before it crashes through.’
We charge towards the steps, the Minister stooping to retrieve the knife.
‘Somebody locked me in.’ I hear Astra’s voice, although it sounds muffled. I’ve been deafened slightly by all the noise.
‘I know. I tried prising the door open with this rusty blade, it’s the sharpest thing we have in the Church.’ The Reverend yells back.
We get to the top of the spiralling stone stair case and start to descend. There’s so much dust, that the torch he’s brought out of his vestments, can’t pierce through the gloom. We’re all coughing.
What is going on?
The Book! I’ve left the book.
I try to push against Astra, but the force of gravity is on her side and I’m buoyed downwards step by step.
/> ‘Careful!’ barks the Reverend.
‘The bell rope had been tampered with. I heard ringing. Where are the other bell-ringers?’ Astra splutters.
The whole stairwell shakes as a low steady rumble commences above.
‘It was the automatic hourly ring; it had been set to go off repeatedly. I don’t know where the parishioners went. They were here fifteen minutes ago! After I got changed in the vestry, they’d gone.... I asked them t’ wait in the nave, but presumed they’d all gone upstairs when I heard the bell ringing. I went up t’ meet you all for the warm-up.’
We reach the bottom and fly out through the entrance as quickly as we can. Inside the Church, stained glass windows start to shatter and the pews rock from side to side. I break away from the group as I catch sight of the candle rolled on its side.
‘Shelly, what are you doing?’
Where’s my bell? It must be here somewhere; the candle is close to the tower entrance. It must be here somewhere, but it’s not. I feel large, strong hands grab me from behind and I’m yanked backwards out of the building.
Astra attempts to get in her car.
‘No time!’ screeches the Reverend.
Astra peers over her shoulder as the top part of the Belfry starts to collapse inwards.
She pushes herself forwards away from the car and runs with us towards the cemetery gates. We stop at Mary’s tomb, each of us turning in terror, as the main part of the Belfry implodes, throwing ancient stone and the other bells outwards. One lands on the car behind Astra’s, crushing it. Another hurtles out, colliding with an ancient tree. Another falls, bounces, and then flattens several gravestones.
Then, half of the tower falls away and the rest of the stained glass windows and their frames shatter. A huge plume of black dust pushes out of the entrance as the cars parked adjacent teeter from side to side. Part of the roof of the Church falls away as lightning peels overhead. We are still moving backwards albeit slowly, stunned in disbelief. Copious amounts of suffocating dust, billows up into the air around us. The building screams and dies in ear-piercing agony. The splitting and cracking of the fatally afflicted edifice continues for several agonising seconds as we stand watching in utter shock.
Nobody can say a word. We just stand there in the rain.
Less than half the Church remains upright. There are low rumbles and distorted screeching as this thousand year old chapel continues its death throes.
The Minister shakes his head slowly and cups his face in his hands.
Astra is shaking uncontrollably.
I am too.
I look back at St. Harold’s as it continues to snap and grind; its agony subsiding.
And then, almost indiscernible in the chaos, I hear it:
A shrill and inhuman crescendo, not from the building – from the trees high above us.
The pitch is sharp, higher at the beginning and low at the end.
A giant shadow flies from its lofty position in the direction of the mortally wounded Church. It dips in and disappears into the ruins. For a few seconds, I’m transfixed. The creature was huge, like something prehistoric.
‘Did you see that?’ Astra is pointing and shouting.
Seconds pass.
There’s one more, chilling, high-pitched cry from somewhere within a ruined transept and then suddenly, it’s there again, rising slowly into the sky, with something rectangular in its beak – I already know what this thing is and I know what it is carrying.
This is urgent.
I turn to the Reverend.
‘Why did you scream at me in the entrance to the church?’
Sean Llewellyn snaps out of his reverie, taking a few moments for the question to register.
‘Shelly, I was shouting behind ye. I was warning your br…’
Smash.
The Reverend drops to my right, his head hitting the gravel track with a sickening crunch.
I swivel round to see Elvis standing with his arm around Astra’s throat. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He’s clutching my bell, but his is not a victorious look - It’s one of undiluted evil.
I hear a thud behind me, and part-turn, indecisive about which direction to look and from where the greater danger will present itself.
I choose to look at a shadow that has landed behind a tree a little further back.
I have to act quickly, and so I do something young teenage girls don’t tend to do: I charge at my older, stronger brother.
I don’t know which part of him to aim a punch or kick at, so I opt for trying to prise his arms from Astra. There’s a tussle as my two arms are marginally stronger than his one-armed throat-lock. He tries to hang on, but releases our Aunt, before smacking me over the head with the bell. I fall to my knees, right next to the prostrate Vicar who is groaning, but motionless.
Astra coughs, and then starts yelling in the direction of the church. I wipe my forehead with my hand, there’s more blood. I’m not sure if it’s from the blow that I have just received.
Someway behind, shadows cast themselves on a tall man. In the half-light, I can make out his square jaw, and strong, chiselled features. Astra starts screaming in his direction.
‘Winston. Is that you? Winston help us…’
I fall onto my palms and look closer, fully expectant to see the bulky frame of our Head teacher.
Somebody large and imperious strides into view, but it’s not Winston Jessobs.
Mr Walker, my English teacher and Head of Year, grinds to a halt, assessing the situation.
‘Winst…J – John…help! We’re being attacked.’
He stares at Elvis and then, with a look of wild, deathly thunder, charges straight at my brother. He grabs him in a bear hug, and I know that not even Elvis, pumped up with venomous-adrenalin, is a match for this formidable giant.
He swings him one hundred and eighty degrees and releases him, causing my brother to fly backwards staggering to maintain his footing along the gravel.
As the Reverend turns over onto his back and attempts to sit up, Mr Walker lifts up his arms in the direction of Elvis.
‘So very, very good.’
Elvis’ sneer...
…turns to a smile.
‘You have earned a special place in the grand scheme. I am so very, very pleased with your contribution.’
The Reverend attempts to stand, but my English teacher strides up to him, placing the sole of his foot on his forehead, thrusting him face down.
There’s a scraping sound from further back as my book is cajoled in his direction, moving along the ground by itself towards him, as if it’s a desperate fish being wrestled out of the river by an invisible line.
‘Here, to me, Son.’
Elvis throws him the bell. John Walker catches it, even though it is thrashing wildly.
Astra shouts disbelievingly.
‘Oh, John, how could you? What do you think you’re…?’ He voice is catches in her throat.
Smiling at her with malevolence, he looks straight into my aunt’s eyes. From behind him, two thick, dark wings unfurl themselves.
They spread out at least three metres in each direction. He strides towards me and stares at me without speaking: A tall man, with dark satanic wings.
From his reduced position, the Reverend tries shouting through gasps. ‘What on earth are you thinking? …blackmailing…me…is one thing…but murder.’
He flips himself over onto his side and sees John Walker’s wings.
He stops talking.
John Walker stands imposingly above me, his eyes piercing into mine.
Elvis stands still, watching the drama unfold with acute satisfaction, as Sean Llewellyn attempts to clamber to his feet, pointing at my teacher…or whatever the hell he is.
‘John, what…are you? You have what you want, but you have blood on your hands; dragging up my past and spreading it across the Island is one thing, but, this is....is....far beyond. What are you? Is this some kind of a sick joke?’
/>
He’s completely lost for a suitable ending. Meanwhile, my assailant towers over me impassively.
In stunned silence, I realise: Both Dezza and I were wrong!
The news article Dezza saw on the Head’s desk – in the office he’d taken over from my English teacher; the one slandering somebody on the Island…weren’t initialled W.J.
My fool of a friend read the article upside down…as did I in Arthur’s kitchen.
J.W.
I stare at one of his wings.
Then, it begins...
John Walker’s face begins to ripple and twist before my eyes.
Thread like lines start to bulge from his cheeks like scores of miniscule worms trying to break through the surface. Then, starting from the crown of his head, his whole face begins to melt and peel before my very eyes. Skin and blood vessels dissolve and slide down over his eye-brows and nose like wax. The blood and sinew combined, gives off a putrid stench that makes me move my hand to my nose instantly. There’s the sound of bones cracking, and bubbling as something dark and twisted starts prising its way forward from the midst of the liquid mass, pushing outwards and upwards. His whole body eclipses and expands. He jerks and jerks. The blooded chaos before me is turning cancer-black in its sickly hue. My breath hangs at the back of my throat. A charcoal grey beak pushes forwards out of the congealed mess where his face once was. It opens, and out of it comes an asphyxiated cry, like somebody blowing into an ancient horn of bone. His skin becomes blacker and blacker, until I see that it’s not skin at all; feathers unfurl, pressing through the remnant of skin, as his whole body covers itself in a Grim Reaper’s shawl; a deathly plumage of coarse feathers.
From his throat, the Adam’s apple swells, becoming disproportionately large. The skin pulled tightly around it looks like a giant boil, ready to burst with white puss. The convulsions reside, slowing in their intensity, but not before flimsy white films covering each of his corneas tear open, revealing the blood-red eyes behind them – beyond evil in their look, more animal – wild and rabid.
This is the Carrion Crow.
He stands over me, breathing gutturally for several seconds. Both Astra and Sean look on like pale ghosts, frozen in time.
‘John, John...’ Astra implores; barely a whisper, ‘...What have you done to John?’ she screams.
Still he breathes. It sounds forced, like a person in their death throes, only sounding like human breath at the very peak.
Astra continues to scream as she turns and charges away.
The Crow’s head jerks in her direction like something abstract and unreal.
Almost instantly, the Adam’s apple in the Crow’s throat extends and splits open, sending puss spurting over the feathers on his chest, as the deformed head of a child squeezes its way out, it’s face partly enveloped with a translucent film. At no point does it stretch forward more than a few centimetres, gratified to remain nestled within the neck of its host. The grotesque child speaks:
‘Stop! Stop there!’
Astra stops. There’s something supremely hypnotic in the child’s voice.
‘To run so blindly and dare not to face......to desert the right place...’
‘To crawl away, and not devour - the truth in the knowledge, revealed in this hour.’
‘To practise, to live, the earthly lie, while heaven’s skies, heave sullen sighs.’
‘To ignore this treasure, revelations revealed, manna that hurts your soul till it’s healed.’
‘You have bruised the earth, down on one knee; with the answer presented…you turn and flee.’
‘I stand and implore you...take heed...right before you...’
Astra turns, a look of mesmerized bewilderment.
She shakes her head, ‘How...did…you?’
Her words are staccato.
‘I know nearly every word on this Island,’ comes, the voice of the Crow above.
The Reverend Llewellyn stares at Astra and implores her to run. Astra, simply shakes her head, turns, and faces the Carrion Crow.
She’s capitulated.
‘You know my poetry. How do you know it...John? John, are you there?’
‘Run, Astra! Don’t listen to it. It’s not John – It never was.’
Astra shakes her head. Something in the Crow’s voice is smooth and velvety; it transfixes her.
The child within the Crow’s neck gloats nefariously. It opens its mouth and smiles. Between stained red teeth, bubbles and blood pool together, the latter, spilling from the side of its mouth in a line. Suddenly, it squeezes back into his neck and is immediately concealed by gnarled and coarse feathers.
There’s a noise somewhere behind us, back towards the gate. Two solitary figures approach. The gravel crunches under their feet.
Evelyn Parker is whistling a strange tune.
She strides towards me.
I’m so going to die tonight.
Behind her, Camille is wide-eyed, surveying the scene, not sure whether to walk forward or simply leg-it. In contrast, her malicious sister looks calm and relaxed, almost normal-looking; comfortable in the presence of fellow evil.
Camille turns and stares at Elvis - an air of uncertainty about her.
She tentatively moves forward before stopping dead; unsure. Her eyes haven’t adjusted and she can’t quite make out the antagonists.
Evelyn strides boldly forwards into our midst. She stops whistling, looks at me and smiles viciously.
I’m shaking like a leaf.
‘Angel...p-please?’ I beg in a fevered whisper.
I sound detached; weak.
Camille calls to her boyfriend - my brother.
‘Elvis...where have…what’s…going on?’
The Carrion Crow intervenes, ‘What is she doing here?’
There’s a beauty in his baritone voice, compelling in its pitch. Every syllable is liquid.
Elvis turns to his leader; a moment of uncertainty flashes across his face. He doesn’t respond, but instead turns to Camille.
‘Why are you here? I told you I’d be in touch.’
‘I tried calling you.’ Camille’s response is limp.
‘I’ve been busy. Go home.’
Camille surveys the broken Church, still groaning and crumbling around us. Her eyes widening to alarm, as she catches sight of the Carrion Crow in the shadows. She spins on her heels and prepares to bolt.
‘No, she must stay now.’
Evelyn Parker walks up to the Crow and stands beside him, as her sister flees.
Elvis charges after her – he’s incredibly fast – and in no time, he’s grabbing her half around the waist, half around the shoulders, and is yanking her back towards the scene. She struggles and shouts, ‘Elvis, let...me...go! What...are...you...doing?’
He stops momentarily and stares at her.
‘I told you not to come.’
Camille has tears in her eyes. She reaches into her pocket and stuffs something into the front of his jeans.
‘What’s that?’
‘Look at it later, not now. Please, Elvis, what’s going on? Why are you doing this?’
He grabs her again and pulls her towards us as she screams and kicks.
The Crow, standing over seven feet tall, glides towards the tomb guarded by the Virgin Mary, and picks up my book.
With his other arm, displaying gargantuan prowess, he lifts the statue of Mary and places it on the ground. He reaches into where the statue stood and pulls something. A small gap appears between the two central slabs of stone covering the entrance to the tomb. He places his taloned hand into it and without any visible exertion, pulls the huge flags apart one by one.
The Reverend looks on aghast. ‘Why are you in there again? What is in there?’
The Crow then turns and walks to the Reverend, placing a huge humanesque foot on him, and crushing him into the ground.
‘I don’t know what power you think you possess, but my words will erode the very fabric of your soul. I will tear
strips off your spirit, just like I have with everyone.’
His head jolts towards Elvis.
‘Put the girls in there and chain them up. I will use the other pieces.’
He grasps the Vicar and hoists him aloft effortlessly. The Crow stares at him curiously through his fiery red eyes.
The Reverend makes punctuated grunts every half a second: the pain of the lift is great.
Elvis grabs me by the arm and yanks me towards the tomb. He struggles to pull both Camille and me along.
As we approach its formidable entrance, the black chasm within seems all too apparent. That’s where I am destined.
Then, I hear the many screams inside.
I desperately try to drag my heels.
Elvis is having none of it. He lets go temporarily and elbows me in the face. The blow strikes me on the chin and I’m stunned enough for him to tighten his hold, and tug me along with complete compliance.
Camille screeches by his side, resulting in her being flung to the ground.
Satisfied that I’m too injured to go anywhere, he simply let’s go of me and my momentum sees me stagger inside the chamber where the light rapidly disappears. I clatter against ancient stone and something metallic. It clunks in the darkness and I grab hold of it.
Manacles attached to the side of the wall.
Elvis pushes me to one side attaches a set around the arms of Camille. He then pushes her to the ground, into the darkness beyond. She screams along with the other voices as iron tears into her wrists.
He then turns to me, tugging at another chain. It breaks away in his hand. He’s getting frustrated and so he grabs my left arm and thrusts my hand into a different manacle. It crushes my wrist. Not content that one is enough, he starts wrapping the broken chain around and around me, weaving it through my arms and legs. I stare helplessly at the tattoo on his arm – Josie forever – as he shackles me mercilessly.
He pulls tight to make sure it is completely secure; it is.
I lose balance and scream in agony as I feel its unyielding weight slicing my skin. I try to drop to my knees, but the first chain holds firm, fastened to the wall behind me. I stagger forward slightly, fighting to regain my balance, unsettled by this new intolerable pain. The metal burns my skin, as a satisfied Elvis turns away and heads back to the others.
I can hear the Carrion Crow addressing Astra.
‘Where did she find this book?’
His voice is snake-like and smooth cocoa-butter when he speaks, and hollow, guttural death when he breathes.
‘I gave it to her.’
I raise my head and look through the entrance towards the Carrion Crow.
‘And where did you find it?’
Astra looks star-struck.
‘In the old School building, where we store our stock.’
The Carrion Crow shakes occasionally. It’s like his body pulsates, as if something doesn’t quite fit in his chemistry; his physical stature. Even though, he is wearing a shawl, with each shiver, I see his feathers ruffle.
Why didn’t he ask me these questions, It was my book after all?
‘Are the other books there?’
‘Yes.’
The Crow takes this into account and ponders. ‘Did Alan Washwater find her book in the hill and place it there?’
Astra revives from her stupor at the sound of his name.
‘Alan? How do you know Alan? Where’s John, what did you do to John?’
‘There was never a John. I adopted an earthly form when I grew strong enough. In my time here, I have encountered enough evil words to help sustain this earthly form. I poisoned that other fool of a man who tried concealing her book. No earthly guardian can block my path.’
‘What! You poisoned Alan?’
‘Stay.’
Astra tries to run, but she’s held to the spot by an invisible force – a single word from the Crow.
The Carrion Crow ignores Astra. He turns and sees me attached to the inside wall: His beak, icy and foreboding, his eyes burning a violent red.
‘The book gave her clues, the bell sounded its warnings....but she didn’t work them out.’
He’s right. I don’t know how long he’s been John Walker, my Head of Year, or if he was born that way.
He turns to Elvis.
‘Close them inside.’
Elvis hesitates for a second, and there is a moment, albeit brief, where he considers the instruction, but it’s all too fleeting. He strides over and starts pushing on the old stone doors, one at a time, clearly lacking the strength of his master.
I realise that the somebody who was mentoring Elvis all along, was John Walker, or whatever he was.
Camille starts screaming behind me.
‘No, Elvis. Pleeeaasee...’
One stone shuts and then the other starts to jerk into place. My last picture before the final shards of light disappear is two-fold: Elvis perspiring with effort or maybe, just maybe, fighting his pricked conscience, and Evelyn Parker, standing there watching, with great satisfaction. My evil-alter ego, expressing itself in its anger and rage, delighted at my self-suffering.
Then, the darkness.
Chapter Fourteen
Darkness