Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

“You mentioned human sacrifice, Miss Moore,” said a stout youth with thick glasses, “Aren’t you going to tell us about that?”

“I might have expected you to pursue that one, Charles,” grinned Anthea. “I had noticed the latest Stephen King among your books.”

She waited for the smattering of laughter to die down and then continued, “Some of you may have heard of the Wicker Man. The Druids built great wickerwork cages, often in human form, in which they would burn living slaves and captive enemies.”

“Oh, is that all?” said a disappointed Charles.

“No, that’s not all,” Anthea told him. “I think you’re all mature enough to be told about the Corn King . . . even you, Charles.

“The Corn King was selected from among the most physically strong and most ferocious fighters in his tribe and was often – dare I mention it? – the most sexually potent man in the community. He was the Celtic stud.” She raised a hand to quell the sniggers. “Many social wild animals know instinctively that it can benefit the herd or pack if the genes only of the most powerful male are passed on. Many pre-Christian pagan tribes had the same instinct. The Corn King was literally a stud. It is believed that the Celts willingly gave the Corn King access to their wives, and if a child resulted from the union then it was treated as the husband’s own. I think this could possible be the origin of the changeling legend.”

“Nice work if you can get it.” Tim Finnegan was what American students would call a “jock”, an all-round athlete and self-appointed God’s gift to women. He waggled lascivious eyebrows at several girls nearby.

One of them sighed. “And to think Miss Moore believes we’re all mature.”

Anthea nodded at the boy. “Yes indeed, Tim, nice work if you can get it. But I’m not so sure you’d like it.”

“Try me,” Tim laughed.

“Okay, submit your application through the usual channels,” Anthea said, “but read the job description very carefully. The Corn King reigned for a single year. At the end of that time he was sacrificed to ensure the fertility of the fields. He might be skinned alive or have his throat cut or be dragged by horses – anything at all to give his blood to the land. Now that you know what it entails, Tim, how soon can you start?”

Mocking shouts were interrupted by the bell signalling the period’s end. “Right, that’s it for now,” Anthea told them. “Please leave quietly and enjoy the short break. I’ll see you soon, and don’t forget—” She tapped the four words on the blackboard.

“You going anywhere good for the break, Miss?” someone asked as they gathered their books together.

“I’m getting into my car and I’m going to drive around looking for interesting May Day customs,” Anthea said. “I don’t know where yet, but the weather has been very good recently and I hope to have a pleasant trip.”

Famous last words, thought Anthea Moore ruefully. She was sitting in her car staring out at a grey-white cocoon of fog which surrounded her.

She had decided on East Anglia for her holiday drive. There was an out-of-the-way village called Bresslingham Market which was said to have some very interesting old May Day revels. There might just be the basis for an article or the start of a book there.

The weather had started out well – “Bright periods,” the radio weather forecast had promised – but conditions had worsened gradually after she had driven off the A11 onto the secondary road system which would bring her to Bresslingham Market.

The change had started with a sudden dip in temperature. There had been nothing disturbing in that. After all, cold snaps in late April and early May are only to be expected, particularly in the eastern counties. Anthea had turned up the car’s heating system and was soon warm. Then thin tendrils of mist had started to creep across the broad, flat farmlands, climbing the low hedgerows and sliding through shallow ditches towards the road until the whole day was wrapped in a light monochrome shawl.

Still, it wasn’t too bad. Visibility was down to several hundred yards and the car’s headlights were well able to deal with that. Anthea had slowed down to compensate for her unfamiliarity with the convolutions of the narrow country road. Thank God, she had encountered very little traffic and she guessed that most drivers stuck to the main roads. After all, this part of East Anglia was sparsely populated.

And then without warning Anthea Moore had found herself in the middle of the thickest fog she had ever seen. She reduced her speed even more, down to about ten miles an hour, leaning forward with her face almost touching the windscreen in a vain attempt to see through the murk ahead. The wipers clacked back and forth but made little difference to the viscous droplets which smothered the vehicle.

Fate had been reserving its dirtiest trick. One moment the car was crawling ahead and then, for no apparent reason, it just stopped. The engine seemed to be running sweetly and then . . . silence.

“ Shit !” muttered Anthea Moore.

There was a minor consolation. She was on a straight run of road which stretched for some distance ahead and so there was little chance of an accident. Unless the oncoming driver was a road maniac, she realized, and there were plenty of those on the loose. She steered as far in to the left as the narrow road would permit and applied the handbrake.

For several minutes she tried the ignition and pressed the gas-pedal. Nothing, save for some odd choking noises from the engine. For the first time ever, Anthea regretted that she knew so little about the working of cars. But this was supposed to be one of the most reliable small cars on the road. “Excuses don’t start engines,” she told herself. “Decide what you’re going to do.”

Expert opinion was that a woman finding herself in this position should lock herself in the vehicle and await the next police patrol. Trouble was, this particular good advice was aimed at women stranded on motorways, not on very minor roads in the middle of nowhere. The police patrol around here was likely to be a bicycle-riding bobby who passed by once every three or four months.

Anthea consulted her road atlas but it was of little help. She could see where she had left the major road and she was able to pinpoint Bresslingham Market in relation to that junction. But she had little idea of how far she had travelled through the thickening murk. The town could be around the next bend or it could be an hour away at fog speed. God, in this blinding mess she could well have driven through the town and never have realized it.

Decisions, decisions! She could stay here in the car, cold, miserable and hungry, for any length of time. Alternatively, she could get out and walk and hope that she would soon arrive at Bresslingham. She glanced at her wristwatch. Two o’clock. At least it was still daylight ( ha, ha ). Anthea reached into the back seat for her overnight bag. Her suitcase could wait until she returned with help. She took a flashlight from the glove compartment.

She carefully locked the car door and began to walk. The idea of the walk itself did not bother her. She often walked for pleasure and she was wearing sensible shoes. But the fog was heavy and damp, clinging to her as she moved, and all sound – even that of her own footsteps on the road – was muffled. Anthea felt as if she was treading the depths of a lifeless sea.

Perhaps ten minutes passed and Anthea began to imagine things. Or, rather, she hoped that she was only imagining things. The fog, as if sentient and inimical, seemed to press closer. The woman’s spine began to itch with a sensation of being silently watched. Several times she wanted to whirl about and scream into the gloom but controlled herself. It’s natural to be apprehensive in this situation, she told herself fiercely. Succumb to panic and you’ve really got problems.