Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

As Anthea drew abreast with the church, she noticed that a sliver of ruddy light still fell across the footpath and that the main entrance door had been left slightly ajar. She pushed gently until the door was no more than wide enough to admit her. Anthea found herself in a small porch.

Keeping as quiet as possible, she closed the door behind her. The red light was from an oil-lamp hanging from the ceiling and beyond was another doorway. Venturing on, Anthea came into a cramped and claustrophobic nave, the walls bleak and moist. The nave, like the porch, was lit by a pendant red lamp. There were no pews as such, just a few time-polished wooden forms on the stone floor.

Down to the left was a wall broken by a low archway. Remembering what she did of Saxon architecture, Anthea knew that through the archway she would find the chancel. She tiptoed to the archway and had to stoop slightly to pass through.

The chancel was deeply shadowed, being lit only by two candles on the small altar. As Anthea straightened, she noticed something which made her catch her breath. It was the marble outline of something – someone – lying still upon the altar. Anthea put her hand to her lips to stifle a giggle. Of course, it was an effigy. But then, she wondered, did Saxon churches ever have commemorative effigies? She could not quite recall.

For some reason, she suddenly wanted to run away; only her enquiring mind prevented her from doing so. She took several deep breaths and approached the altar slowly. When she was what was there. Anthea moaned softly and bit fiercely on the knuckles of her right hand.

The man was naked and there was no doubt that he was dead. His face was peaceful but beneath that mask of serenity an appalling, mirthless crimson grin split his throat. That was not all. Anthea’s eyes, taking in detail piecemeal, wandered to a dreadful raw wound at the groin. Then, most terrible of all –

Anthea wanted to be sick and only with great effort managed to swallow the rising vomit. The hands were crossed on the corpse’s broad chest and below them the genitals had been placed on the abdomen in such away that they appeared raised and offered.

Shaking, Anthea backed away until she was brought up short by the wall between chancel and nave.

Her thoughts tumbled. What was going on in this place? With those frightening wounds, the dead man had to have been murdered. And it followed that Jack Lewis must be involved somehow, the way he had appeared to slink away from the church. If the victim had been slaughtered by – what? a maniac? – then the place would be crawling with police and the killing would have been he talk of the village. Perhaps Jack Lewis was the maniacal killer. But then, leaving his victim in the church like this meant that others would be in on the secret . . .

Anthea felt giddy. She ducked under the archway and fled the church. Outside, the mist had finally dispersed but in her distraught state she hardly noticed. She was aware that the village street was empty and she made a dash for the pub, flinging back the door which led into the public bar.

The bar was almost full and the hubbub of talk and laughter ceased as Anthea crashed into the room. She stood there, trying to catch her breath, and everyone turned to look at her. A huge figure moved from a dim corner into the light to confront her. It was Jack Lewis, a pint glass almost hidden in his fist.

“Why, Miss Moore, is anything wrong?” The policeman’s voice was kind and concerned.

Lips tight, she backed away a little and shook her head. Seconds later she managed to speak, doing her best to sound calm. “No, I’m just a bit more tired than I realized and I feel a bit unwell. I’ll go to my room.”

“I’ll get the missus to bring you up some cocoa, shall I?” offered Reg Feltham.

“Thank you, no,” said Anthea. To her own surprise she managed to sound normal. “I just need sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Anthea turned and left the public bar, walking up the stairs as slowly as she dared. Once in the room she locked the door and removed the key from the lock. She noticed strong iron bolts at both top and bottom of the door and she rammed them closed. There was a murmuring noise from below, as if things were getting back to normal in the bar. Or were they discussing her odd behaviour?

A worrying thought came to her. Had she left the church door open when making her frantic escape? If so, Lewis and any accomplices he might have would realize that she knew their terrible secret. Going to the window, she looked out into the street. It was still empty. From where she was she could not see the church doorway. She pulled the weighty velvet curtains closed. This at least gave her a feeling of security and safety.

Anthea had stopped smoking some years previously but now she felt the urgent desire for a cigarette. She slumped into the armchair and thought.

There was no doubt that she must get away from Naysham as soon as possible. Tonight was certainly out, even though the fog had evaporated. She didn’t know the area and could easily become lost. And yet if she stayed, would Lewis try to come for her in the early hours? The room door seemed to be solid enough and she doubted that the man could get in without rousing the rest of the pub. But suppose that they were all in on it? Stop it now! she scolded herself – you’re becoming paranoid.

The best thing to do, Anthea concluded, would be to stay awake all night and make her getaway at first light. At this time of the year, that should be a little after four-thirty. She was fairly fit and seven miles was not so far. By the time the village came to life she could be in Bresslingham Market, reporting the savage murder to the police there.

The thought of using the bed was attractive but Anthea resisted temptation. She turned the chair to face the door and then snuggled into it, trying to make herself as comfortable as possible. She prepared to face a long night.

Anthea awoke with a slight cry. She fumbled with her watch, pressed the stud which illuminated the dial. Almost five-twenty. Stiffly, body protesting, she uncurled herself from the armchair and tottered to the window. God, she felt as if she had been on an all-night bender. The old brass rail squealed as she pulled apart the curtains.

The room was flooded with the saffron glow of early sunlight. Anthea opened the window a little, peering out with caution. The village was quiet and she could neither see nor hear any sound of life. Now was the time to be gone.

She wrote a cheque to cover her night’s lodging and clipped it to the bedspread with a safety-pin. Stealthily, Anthea drew the bolts and unlocked the door. She listened for a moment but The Maypole was still. Taking up her shoes in one hand and her overnight bag in the other, she left the room and crept downstairs.

As she descended, imagination took over again. The pub door would be locked by an ancient iron key which was kept beneath the landlord’s pillow while he slept. She would not be able to escape the place . . .

She need not have worried. The door was fastened by a simple Yale lock. Anthea left the premises and pulled the door shut behind her.

They were waiting for her at the first corner. There were four of them: Melissa Taybourne, Lewis, the rector and the publican. “Why, Anthea,” said the woman. “Don’t tell me that you meant to leave us without witnessing our May celebrations?”

Shocked, Anthea lost power of movement and her case slipped from her hand. Jack Lewis stepped forward to pick it up. “I’ll look after this for you, Miss Moore.”

Anthea stared at the four. The men wore flowing white robes while Melissa Taybourne, hair loose and flowing, was clearly naked beneath her flimsy green gown. But it was the scintillation of early sunlight on the sickle at Melissa’s belt which caught and held the eye rather than her lovely form.