The House of the Wicked

The House of the Wicked - By D. M. Mitchell



Prologue



1867: 13 Years ago





They were all deeply afraid of what they had to do. But they were more afraid of the consequences should they not carry it out. If they shied away now, lost strength, they feared they must bow to inevitable destruction. They could feel it in the very air, and like a dark, malevolent cloud they sensed it creeping across the sea to engulf them.

They heard Baccan laughing at them in the night, for that was when he was strongest, taunting them, and men said they felt his voice pierce their brains with his cries as he sent high waves smashing into their boats and tore them to driftwood; felt his cold, clammy hand as it pushed them beneath the frothing surface. This was true. There were those present now who had experienced it, testified on the Bible to it. And in time they all heard it, every man, woman and child in the cove, in the anguish that gushed from the hearts and spewed from the mouths of the newly-made widows and grieving mothers.

Yes, they were each of them afraid. Four men allotted to carry out the task, taking but a little courage from the beer they forced on their unaccustomed palates, begging for some relief; but their minds resisted the alcohol and remained sharp and clear.

One man rose, sensing their resolve crumbling, and the others got to their feet, unfurling from their beer-puddled table like dark fern fronds. They followed him out into the still night, lit only by a razor-thin crescent moon and the icy pinpricks of stars, marching single file from the shack in the woods and picking up their spades that leant against its ramshackle sides. The trees about them absorbed their noise and gave them the appearance of soundless spectres.

They looked to him now like never before. He understood these things. He knew what other men would never know, and many things they were fearful of knowing. He had a foot in both worlds and they trusted and believed all he said.

He took a large canvas bag, made of stout sailcloth, sewn for this night, for this very purpose, and silently he led the way deep into the wood, tracing the thin, threading scars of ancient ways. Their hearts beat furiously, their mouths becoming dry, and one man, under the cover of the night, shed a hot tear that burnt his cheek, for he feared for his soul.

They climbed higher, the way now steeper, so that at times they had to clamber breathlessly over rocks and haul themselves upwards till they reached the crest of the headland, and instead of rest for their pulsing hearts and scorched lungs, they felt only the wild coursing of fear in their veins till they thought they would explode with the turmoil it caused.

They emerged from the wood into a clearing, high on the bluff. Now they could hear the sea, soft and distant, like the calling of a woman. There was no breeze. All was still. The very stillness of the air caused them to worry the more, for it had rarely been so up here, not recently. They each took it as a sign. But each did not know what that sign meant and each kept the thought to themselves.

The ruined monastery stood out against the night, darker than the sky, without features, like a shadowy, ragged rent between heaven and earth, a black unfathomable void. The four men walked to the ruins, passing under the high, crumbling arches, treading through empty rooms that were no longer rooms, where people from long ago had lived and died and were but spirits that could be sensed by those that had the Gift. The men’s wraithlike forms flitted silently through the fallen stone and towards the disordered ranks of headstones, for this is where for hundreds of years the people had buried their dead. Those with the Gift said you could still hear their voices in the keening wind. But tonight they were silent, as if the dead held their collective breath.

Now the sound of the sea was louder. They were close to the cliff edge, where land, sea and sky merged into one, and they gathered into a tight circle around a grave, standing as rigid as the gravestones all around them.

Their resolve was being tested to the limits. One of them muttered a prayer, the words but an unintelligible hissing through gritted teeth. It seemed, for a moment, that it would not happen, they would dissolve away, back into the trees, into the night.

But he handed his canvas bag to one of the men, reached out for a shovel. Had to take it forcibly from a hand that was frozen around its haft. And he sank the blade deep into the earth of the grave, tore out a sod. The spell had been broken. Two men now set about digging as if they had the devil on their backs and two kept silent vigil some yards away.

The ground was still soft and yielding, for this was not an old grave, had not yet sunk flat and been absorbed by the earth. The act of digging gave them strength and for a while their exertion caused them to forget what it was they did in a way the beer could not.

Till a spade struck wood with a dull thud and everyone stopped and silence fell again. It had not taken long, or had not seemed to, for the earth up here on the headland was shallow. But still it took them by surprise and their gasps melded with the sounds of the soughing sea. He took charge again, knowing they had no choice but to continue, for they were each now tainted by the act and could never turn back. He began to clear the earth from the coffin.

Finally it was revealed, the rough-hewn lid bathed in faint, cold starlight. He stepped into the grave, the sound of his boots scraping on the coffin lid. He held out a hand and was immediately passed a crowbar. They all crowded round, even the two men who stood guard, drawn by the sounds, and they held their breaths. They heard the sounds of splintering wood, the squeal of metal as nails were torn away. The man held the canvas sack at the ready, but drew it to his chest so that it acted as a shield to hide behind. The murmuring of prayers became more sibilant.

His legs were astride the coffin. Shaking fingers gripped the lid and wrenched it free. The smell of putrefaction rose in an invisible cloud and one of the men moaned. In that instant the wind came rushing in from the sea and tore across the headland towards them, roaring through the arches of the monastery, rippling the grass at their feet and tugging at the canvas sack.

“Baccan!” cried the man, and dropped the sack, bending over and vomiting on the fresh earth.

The air grew alive, stirred madly around them, and the trees began to lament in the growing wind. He was here. They felt the chill of Him in their bones and they quaked as He sent the wind to buffet them and tear them away from their task.

But he took up the sack and dragged it into the grave. Fought against the smell of death and squeezed his eyes tight against the dirt thrown up by the wind. Baccan could scream and shout all He wanted, but he would not flinch now.

He put up a defiant fist, as if he could punch the very air, and there were those present who saw this as only enraging Him further and silently begged him to stop. You will not take us, he thought. You will not destroy Porthgarrow. He pulled at the sharp-boned upper arms of the corpse. The shroud fell from its rotting, pained skull. Strength began to ebb from him, as if sucked into the gaping, empty mouth, and everything became a terrifying, dizzying whorl of sight, sound and smell.

Give me the strength, he thought.

Give me the strength…



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