Will Elliott - The Pilgrims

Hours later, Case nervously headed out. It was approaching 9pm. Eric’s note on the kitchen bench had said he’d be back no later than three in the afternoon.

Case had looked around for the gun before he set out. It had to be in Eric’s new briefcase, stuffed into its holster, for they’d taken it to the door each time they kept watch there.

There was the park with its rustling grass, the bridge with the secrets it suddenly refused to share, its tunnel like a gaping toothless mouth. Funny how this place had become familiar enough for him to miss it, if he were to leave for good. ‘Eric? You here?’

Cursed dark! He should’ve brought a torch. And a drink, come to mention it. How in hell had he forgotten to bring a drink? He laughed at himself. Well, it was a short walk back.

Nearly half an hour later he returned with the bottle of cheap scotch Eric had bought for him. The lid seal cracked, a nice sound, and he sniffed it, sipped it. Ahhh … His eyes roamed from the door to the path, where he hoped to see the young man strolling by after another late night. He thought of sharking Eric in chess that first night, and chuckled to himself. He set the bottle down gently after another sip, and shone the torch light on the ground beside the bike path.

There were footprints near the door, in that reddish-looking dirt, but they could have been anyone’s. And — just a moment — writing, right there, writing! It was addressed to him! Parts of the message had been covered by wind-blown dust, which he carefully wiped away. Went in! his mind screamed. He went in! What? How?

Case staggered back to the bottle, took a deep pull of the stuff to clear his head. You couldn’t just open the door! Could you? He bit a knuckle, tucked the bottle into the crook of his elbow, grabbed the torch. He already knew what he was going to do. Or try, anyway. What the hell, I’ve lived long enough, he thought.

He dug his fingers into the door’s copper groove and pulled. He leaned with what force he could, one foot planted on the wall, groaning with effort, until it felt like his shoulder was about to pop out. His startled cry rang through the tunnel as light wormed up the edges of the door as though in answer to his efforts. There was not a soul in sight at either end of the path to witness it. His own words came back to him: Funny how this spot chases everyone away when it wants to act up …

He gritted his teeth, breathed deep, and gave another big pull with shaking arms. The door opened and he fell on his backside, scrambled to his feet again, and looked inside. It was a fair way down, but the turf looked soft. Carefully holding the bottle, he shut his eyes and dropped. He landed with a grunt and not without pain, but at least, unlike Eric some hours before, his feet hit the ground first.

At first he knew only the dim ache of his fall. Thin light of either an ending or beginning day lit the blackness of his closed eyes. The soft, thick, shin-high grass made a comfortable bed to lie on. It smelled fresh and pleasant, bringing him childhood memories of afternoons at the park, when bad things like death and suffering were worlds away.

Everything came back slowly. His mind recounted the first wild dream, then the old drunk accosting him with cryptic words, then his feet catching as he went through the door.

Hold on a second: as he went through the door?

Of all the stupid, stupid, STUPID things I could’ve done …

There was nothing but air above him, nothing to indicate the door he’d fallen through. That ivory sky was a touch brighter now, he fancied, which made it morning. No moon, sun or stars could be seen, only cloud like threads of cotton being slowly pulled along. To the left was a sheerly cut wall of stone, with thin grooves and bands of colour weaving through strata of clean white rock. It was very tall, stretching up out of sight until its whiteness was lost against the sky’s. A similar wall opposite was more or less parallel and together they fenced in a green valley that widened ahead over rising and falling ground. Behind him, the sheer walls curved around in a dead end. In the distance was the tower that had held his eye so commandingly, but which, right now, lacked the same power. For there were stranger things to see, much closer.

Other shapes lay in the grass, some nearby, some further away, perhaps a dozen of them between the two valley walls. Like him, they were bodies, and they lay still … unlike him it seemed they didn’t have the option of moving again. Some were face-down, some sprawled on their backs or sides. Some were just dead; others were messily dead. The neat, groomed corpse at Uncle Craig’s funeral had not looked like this.

Eric got up on his elbows. He fumbled for the briefcase and drew it closer, comforted by the feel of it pressed to his side, its familiar clean leathery smell. Further away, he glimpsed glistening red on a shape in a large billowy dress. He shut his eyes, shuddered, and angled himself away from it. The cries for help echoed in his ears. Had it been her crying out? And he’d been thinking Lancelot, maidens in distress, fairy tales as he leaped in. His guts swirled, mouth dry. Quietly as he could, he retched in the grass.

A flash of light, distant, over near the sheer rock face to the right. It was like the sparkle of a small fireworks display, little red beads of light blooming slowly through the air. A figure crouched down in the sparks, too distant to make out other than as an outline. Its head tilted back and a fearful cry swept down the valley, echoing between the sheer rock walls, inhuman and piercing. It stood, waved its arms and hopped in some primitive dance. It seemed to shimmer, then vanished. A wave of hot air rushed through the grass as it reappeared a good deal closer, feet slamming down as though landing from a high drop.

What had looked like a helmet in the distance Eric saw now were thick curved horns like a goat’s, curling from the side of its head down past its cheekbones. Its hair was a thick tangle of shaggy ropes, as was the beard hanging heavy from its face. It wore a stiff, ugly gown made from something’s skin woven into stiff square patches. Unnaturally long fingers clutched a thin notched staff with a diamond-shaped metal tip. Heat emanated from the creature, just perceptible from where Eric lay, some way behind it. Its feet were long claws like a bird’s, but made with human flesh, and scuffed and kicked at the ground, slicing up patches of grass.

Its head swept left and right, though if it noticed the new shape in the grass clutching a briefcase, it gave no sign of it. In a very deep voice it muttered incomprehensible babble, then crouched down, not moving. Waiting. Seeming to listen for something.

Eric swallowed, lay motionless, hardly dared draw breath. His hand slowly, slowly worked its way around the front of his briefcase, to the clips that opened it. The gun. I think it’s in there. Please, let it be in there …

His hand found the latch buttons, but they’d make a sound if he pressed. What’s more, if the gun was there, they hadn’t kept it loaded — he’d need time for that, too. He wished the cursed apparition would leave, just go a little further away. But for a torturously long time it didn’t budge, other than the slow sweeping movements of its head side to side, and soon he hated it more than he feared it.

Slowly, slowly, his other hand went to the briefcase’s second button. A hissing noise came from the thing’s throat. His blood froze; but it wasn’t watching him, its head was tilted up . Above where it crouched, a thin line of light was being drawn in the air, horizontal, then vertical, forming a rectangle. It stood, hands shaking around the wooden staff, knuckles white, it gripped so hard.