William Meikle - The Hole

“There’s no way out that way. Back the way we came. It’s our only hope.”

They retreated back as far as the cavern with the smoking pit, only to find that way too was blocked, as more demons streamed out to the tunnel they needed to take.

Charlie immediately moved to the only option available to them; the entrance leading to the iron door.

“What if it’s locked?” Ellen Simmons said.

‘Then we fight,” Charlie said grimly.

“Whatever you’re going to do, make it fast,” Bill said, as the six of them crammed into the space in front of the large door. Bill kept his weapon trained on the opening. The chant from beyond got louder again.

“Weemean.”

Charlie turned the handle on the door. Iron creaked and complained, and for a long second Janet thought it wasn’t going to open; then Charlie put his shoulder into it and the door swung open. They all but fell inside, slamming the door shut behind them just as the first of the demons slammed against it from the outside.

“Light. We need light,” Janet shouted.

Bill obliged by lighting up the door. A demon showed its face in the portal window and just as quickly dropped away as the beam hit it.

“Got it,” Charlie shouted. There was the sound of a switch being flicked, and suddenly everything got so bright that Janet’s eyes took seconds to adjust. When they did, she got her first look at Hopman’s bunker .

When Charlie had mentioned a bunker, Janet’s first thought was of a concrete subterranean dwelling, like a nuclear shelter, with maybe some retro-styled fittings from the Cold War era, but at least with some creature comforts.

What was in front of her was far from modern. It was little more than a modified cave, lit by neon tubes overhead. There were several alcoves; one with a camp bed, one with a basic stove and sink arrangement, and one with a writing desk and bookcase. But the floor space was totally dominated by the carving etched directly into the rock. She had to stand back to get a sense of what she was seeing, and her heart sank as she understood.

More of Bill’s demonic shit.

It was a pentagram, straight out of a Hollywood fantasy of satanic ritual, a five-pointed star with two external circles carved in a Cyrillic script Janet couldn’t read. Skulls, all too human, sat at each point of the star, and thick wax candles sat in the valleys between the points. The whole diagram was some ten feet across.

“What the hell is this?” Bill said.

“ Hell is the right word,” Charlie replied, and spat on the floor. “Looks like old man Hopman found what he was looking for. I guess we know where he got his money.”

Janet looked over at the older man.

“You’re serious?”

Charlie didn’t smile back.

“After what we’ve seen these past few days? Are you not?”

He’s got a point.

“First things first,” Charlie said. “We’ve got light, for now. Let’s see what else Hopman has squirreled away down here.”

Over the next five minutes they found that they wouldn’t starve; Hopman, the younger, had kept a well-stocked larder behind the stove, mainly canned and dried foods and a large supply of coffee. Ellen Simmons surprised them by taking charge of the stove.

“The menfolk need to be fed,” she said, and smiled, straight at Charlie.

Something definitely happened there.

Fred Grant and the girl had already appropriated the camp bed, sitting side by side and sharing a cigarette. Bill and Charlie were off in the farthest corner of the cave, checking out the generator and ensuring the area was secure, leaving Janet feeling like the fifth wheel on the cart.

She headed for the writing desk, more in curiosity than any search for information. An old habit led her straight to a perusal of the books on the shelves at the back of the alcove. The titles meant nothing to her— The Mysteries of the Wurm , The Twelve Concordances of the Red Serpent, The Sigsand mss and many others; esoteric tomes from a bygone age that should have stayed gone.

The writing desk itself was a handsome piece of furniture of some vintage, the sort of thing Janet might wish to have in her own home, had it not been so obviously infested with mildew and rot. There were only two things under the roll-top lid—a ballpoint pen, and a thick leather-bound journal, filled with scrawled writing in several distinct hands. She started reading a passage near the middle of the book.

“Still no joy. I’ve had them digging twenty-four hours a day. I know it’s there. The Cree said it was, and I’ve felt the power for myself. Last night I performed the Saamara Ritual in the barn out back. The Old One came to me again, asking for release. He promises much, but that will all be for nothing if I do not find the Gateway. It is there. It must be there.”

It was dated: August 23, 1973.

She skipped to the last entry, a crabbed, hard-to-read paragraph in a tight-spaced hand.

“I can’t control it. God help me. God help all of us. It’s free. After all this time, it’s free again.”

It was dated two days ago, and signed, Tom Hopman.

Fred looked up as Charlie and Bill returned from the rear of the chamber.

“Anything happening outside?” Bill asked, and Fred realized that nobody had even bothered to check while the two men were away. He stood, with Sarah as ever moving like a part of him at his side. He looked out of the small window. The glass was thick, obscuring some of the view, making it blurred and unclear. But he saw enough to know they weren’t leaving anytime soon. The pit glowed red and orange. Around its rim, tall figures danced. They were mostly just dark shapes framed against the fiery glow behind them, but they were defined clearly enough that horns, tails and even talons were clearly visible.

First ghosts, then bears, now fucking demons?

Fred turned away, looked to Charlie, and shook his head. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The older man nodded in reply.

“So, we wait,” Charlie said. “Ain’t not much else we can do.”

Fred saw Ellen Simmons flinch at that, and expected a retort. But none came. The woman left the stove and went round the room serving coffee.

“There’ll be corned-beef hash along in ten minutes or so,” she said. “It ain’t going to be much, but it’ll be hot.”

“Ellen, darling,” Charlie said with a smile, waving towards the iron door. “It’s as hot as hell in here already.”

The woman actually blushed as she returned to the stove. Big Bill joined Doc over in the alcove with the writing desk, and Charlie sat down beside Fred and Sarah.

“You got any smokes left, lad?” the older man asked. “I’m pegged out.”

“I’ll swap you,” Fred replied. “For a story. What happened after the rockslide? And don’t try to dodge it. I can see the way she looks at you now.”

Charlie looked grim.

“It ain’t anything that should be told here,” he said. “It should wait until we’re back up in daylight, with the sun on our faces and beer in our hands. But if it’ll pass the time…”

He took a cigarette from Fred, lit up, and started to speak, gazing off into a far distance, remembering.

“We didn’t fall too far,” he started, but we went sideways as well as down and when we came to rest, we had only rock above us and a wall of dirt at our backs we couldn’t dig through. Ellen was in a bit of a state. She didn’t even calm when I let her hold the flashlight. She was screaming fit to burst and I thought she’d bring more of those… things… down on us. So I shut her up.”