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    Thing of Darkness
    Thing of Darkness
    Thing of Darkness
    Ebook54 pages47 minutes

    Thing of Darkness

    By G.G. Pendarves

    ()

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    About this ebook

    It was an empty shrine, too old, too tired to survive the night's long vigil and shock of battle-an empty shrine, but not marred, not touched by hurt or evil. The Thing Of Darkness had left no shadow in the calm sightless eyes, no lines of terror or dismay on the peaceful worn old face; only deep exhaustion. A victor fallen at the goal.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStart Publishing LLC
    Release dateDec 6, 2013
    ISBN9781627939812
    Thing of Darkness

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      Book preview

      Thing of Darkness - G.G. Pendarves

      I

      A long curving sweep of tall gray houses. At their feet the old parade, its worn seawall banked up against wind-driven tides. Troon House, grayer, gaunter than the rest, stood empty. A signboard creaked on rusted hinges, advertising it For Sale or To Let.

      Lonely. Lovely. Deserted. Seagate was proud of Troon House. Seagate was afraid of it. People came by the score to see it, always in broad daylight. They were careful to keep in groups, silent, timid, turning a sharp corner, entering each unexplored room with that sudden jolt that a clumsily manipulated elevator gives to one’s heart.

      They stared at beautiful restorations, at blackened beams, at vast wall-cupboards, and at brick fireplaces whose ancient clay showed every tint of umber, rose and purple-brown. They bunched together closely going up the last steep narrow stairs to the west attic. They looked at its deep recess, recently and fatally uncovered—looked and shuddered.

      They went in close order downstairs again, escaped through low-roofed, retiled kitchens to a long untended garden behind the house and thence to a broad lane and main road at last. Shaken, nervously loquacious, they didn’t speak of Troon until the old place was out of sight. Over tea and famous Seagate shrimps they exchanged impressions.

      Going home after sunset, if they stayed so long, they glanced in passing along the road, at Troon’s blank front windows, shivered, looked quickly away.

      Troon—gray old house, left to hideous memories of the Thing of Darkness. Day by day, night by night, through the years, through the centuries Troon had stood. Old, forsaken, betrayed. Old Troon—shell of death—old Troon.

      Low sullen clouds. A cold northwest wind. Fierce squalling gusts of rain. A high angry tide, gray-green flecked with bitter white, roaring up the estuary. Seagate was a mile of wet gray road and blank-faced houses. Wind and sea . . . wind and sea.

      At the village-church of Keston, a fifteen minute walk away on the hill behind, the broken body of Joe Dawlish with its staring tortured eyes and twisted face of fear was being buried. And in another grave, a sad small grave, the bones of "Lizzy Werne were being laid to rest after three hundred years delay.

      People thronged the small churchyard to its broad low moss-stained walls. From Seagate, from Keston, from all over the Wirral peninsula, and even from Liverpool and Chester they had come to witness this double funeral. Reporters, psychic investigators, university professors rubbed wet shoulders with fishermen, farmers, shop-keepers and local gentry.

      At the end, the very end when the last words of the service were said and it only remained for the gaping graves to be filled in, the vicar stood with uplifted hands.

      His somber gaze looked out over the crowd to tossing trees and lowering sky. His lined face, wet with rain, was worn and anxious.

      *

      Suddenly his voice rang out again, a cry from the heart of this shepherd of a stricken flock . . . Deliver us, O Lord, from all assaults of the devil! In thine infinite mercy, protect and succor us! Stretch forth thy hand against this Thing of Darkness and set us free from fear! In the name of Him who died for us—Amen.

      There was a murmurous response like water breaking on a distant shore. Then, slowly, silently, pelted by spiteful icy rain, the crowd dispersed.

      At the lich-gate Doctor Dick Thornton was pushed up against two people he wanted to avoid: Edith and Alec Kinloch. Alec’s heavy sallow face showed distinct traces of emotion. He looked quite appealingly at Doctor Dick.

      ‘Fraid I didn’t take all this quite seriously before, he confessed. I don’t understand what it’s all about, but—

      Edith put a restraining hand on his arm. He was having one of his emotional moments, she could see. Heaven knew what he might say! Probably he would double his already absurdly generous offer of five pounds to the widow. What a

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