The Year's Best Horror Stories 16 Part 16

Some years ago I was commissioned to ill.u.s.trate a series of booklets on Royal Arms in English churches, a chance I rather jumped at because it meant I could combine a bit of tower-grabbing with my work. Strictly speaking, I didn't need to visit every single church (nor would I have got much work done if I had)-but show any ringer a bunch of towers, all with bells, cl.u.s.tered together in one area, and the temptation is irresistible.

On my travels in one part of the country I couldn't help but become aware that a rather prolific family of bellfounders had been active during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Time and again appeared the names William Merrilees, Joshua Merrilees, and, most frequently, Abraham of that ilk; and it was not a name I had ever noticed before.

They seemed proud of their work, too, this family. On one bell I saw the inscription North, South, Easte, Weste, Merrilees bells is alwaies beste.

And on another When a bell a Maiden be Know twas cast by Merrilee.

Well, my curiosity was aroused: indeed, I have always found bells fascinating. They are the greatest instruments man has made, and whether they speak for the glory of G.o.d or for the glory of the peal-ringer, each single one has its own mystery, and its own majesty. And the folk who founded them were imbued with a glamour in my mind. Where only Whitechapel and Loughborough now remain, yet their heritage is great, and strange, and intriguing. Who were the Bilbies, who Agnes le Belyetere? And who, indeed, these founders whose names I now saw, time and again?

I admit it: those long-dead Merrilees had captured my imagination. Unfortunately, no one seemed to know anything about them, nor could they suggest any avenues of inquiry.

Until I came to the village of Lacey Magna. I love village names: I can stare at maps for ages. This one caught my eye for no more reason than that; so I looked it up in Dove and found it had six bells, tenor 13 cwt, and that I could arrive on practice night, if I left that day.

It was a misty January day, raw with chill: the air was like tin. Frost had spread fronds over the windows of my car, and took ten minutes to sc.r.a.pe off. Buildings, hedges, trees, were humps of nothingness, less substantial than the fog which masked them. Black ice hid itself on the roads, and the gra.s.s of the verges was cl.u.s.tered so thick with crystals they looked like the inside of a freezer.

I was listening to a tape in the car-it was the Brandenburg Concertos-and it suddenly struck me how absolutely extraordinary it was to be moving along in a machine propelled by an internal combustion engine while hearing sounds which had first been heard in the eighteenth century. Maybe, I thought, this is what ghosts are: a re-creation, by some strange science, of people or things which had once lived or happened. The image of the paranormal as some kind of supernatural video-tape made me smile, and the day became a little brighter for that.

Naturally I had needed no further encouragement to book a room at the pub in Lacey Magna-the "Five Bells" it was called, since they do not tend to augment inn signs-nor to sit in its bar, that evening, with an ear c.o.c.ked to the church of St. Dunstan. Beside me, an open fire shed its pungent scent into the room, and little, jerky flames began to eat into the logs.

As soon as I heard the bells start to go up, I went outside. The exterior of the pub (Tudor, with infills of brick in a dog'stooth pattern) was dimly lit; a feeble streetlamp outside the lychgate made a pale halo in the mist; and that was it. Lacey Magna might never have heard of electricity, otherwise. Yews loomed foggily, more sensed than seen; underfoot, mud had turned to frosty ridges which turned my ankles. That night the air was still, and clear, and sharp cold, and the church tower seemed a very far thing indeed: the uttermost farthing, I thought, remembering a line at random.

Sometimes it can be a very curious experience, entering a strange churchyard in pitch darkness. There is some kind of atavism there, I think: it does not inspire fear, except the fear of tripping over a tombstone and falling flat on your face; but there is, sometimes, an eerie kind of awe. The fog had that strange s.h.i.+ning quality you get when there is no other illumination-having its own glow, a kind of dark light, if you know what I mean. It seemed to affect my eyes oddly: I kept thinking I saw queer dullish patches in the night, as if it had faded in places-but only out of the corners of my eyes: I could not look directly at them, for they seemed to slide away.

I was relieved to find a dark studded door which opened when I turned its big cold handle, and which gave onto a worn spiral stone staircase. Rounds began above me and quickly gave way to changes-I haven't the ear to identify methods, but it was some kind of Doubles, quite well struck, and the bells had a mellow tone to them which was utterly charming. They sang like angels; or as near as we can ever come to the music of the spheres. I had, and have, never heard anything quite so harmonious. Plain-song comes close, sometimes, and parts of the chorale in Beethoven's Ninth; but these depend on the singers and are therefore too transient for comparison, for every rendition must be different.

The door to the ringing chamber was ajar, so I was able to sidle in. Two men who were not ringing smiled briefly at me.

"Single," said the conductor, a short, pleasantly ugly man with vivid red hair, who resembled nothing so much as an amiable pig; his arms and shoulders were big as a blacksmith's. I sat down on a bench of black wood, worn smooth by generations of ringers' bottoms, and took in the ringing chamber. Gold and black sallies, like elongated bees: except for the treble, which was red-white-and-blue. Six small scruffy mats to stop the ropes wearing the worn carpet. A fan-heater valiantly puffing out hot air, like an over-enthusiastic conductor. A table in the center piled high with the usual impedimenta. And the walls were covered, completely covered with peal-boards, old photographs, framed doc.u.ments, yellowed prints. The place was a feast: there were boards dating from the eighteenth century, nearly the birth of change-ringing. Some had been carefully restored, but others were almost illegible. I looked for a notice about the bells and was delighted: all six had been cast by the Merrilees, five by Abraham in 1782 and the treble by William in 1804.

"Bob," said the conductor, and "This is all," then, shortly afterward, "Stand." I waited for ringing etiquette to take its course, and was surprised when the conductor beamed at me, held out his hand, and introduced himself: "I'm Adam Merrilees. How d'you do?"

I shook his large hand, and said, "How d'you do. Michael Denehey. Are you related to those Merrilees?" gesturing toward the notice.

"Not difficult to figure that out," he replied with a grin. "Me, I make clocks. What would you like to ring?-mind, we're not up to Surprise standard here." I was glad to hear this, as neither was I-not by a long way.

"Nowt wrong with Stedman," remarked one elderly gentleman. "Good enough for our forebears, and good enough for us."

"Oh, come on, Jack," retorted someone else. "People've been ringing Surprise methods for a century at least."

"More. Longer than that," began one of the younger ringers. I had the feeling that this was an old argument which had been simmering for some time.

"Stedman will do fine," I said hastily. "Or Plain Bob, or Grandsire." The old man, whose face was purpling, seemed mollified. "All right, Stedman it is," he grunted.

"Which one would you like?" Adam Merrilees asked me.

"Oh, I don't mind," I said. "-Would you mind telling me something about the Merrilees, some time?"

"Sure. Take the fourth, if you like-she's quite well-tempered."

"Would you care to call something, Mr. Denehey?" asked the old boy, Jack, which fl.u.s.tered me. Only my bank manager calls me that.

"Er, no, thanks, I'm afraid I'm not up to that," I said.

"You, then, Adam. Fill in, please. We're not here to stand around gossiping."

"Silly old fool," muttered a girl next to me, uncharitably. I looked at her, and she reddened. She was small and slight, with spiky fair hair; but there was something about her, though, which didn't quite fit with her modern appearance. Her face was like those which you sometimes see in Renaissance paintings-not quite Botticelli, but close-and which the Pre-Raphaelites just failed to recapture; but, in retrospect, I think it was, rather, something ancient in her eyes which made her different. Fortunately old Jack seemed to be deaf enough to miss her remark: he was endeavoring, with some impatience but little success, to induce someone to ring the tenor.

After the practice, I discovered that half the ringers were, in fact, Merrilees. Jack, the patriarch, who was such a martinet in the ringing chamber, actually bought me a pint in the "Five Bells." Adam's wife Lesley and their daughter Jane, the girl who had made the disparaging stage-whisper, were the others. Such a proliferation of the family quite overwhelmed me: it was one thing to be fascinated by the exploits of the ancestors-quite another to come face to face with their descendants.

"What was you interested in finding out?" Jack asked me.

"Well-anything about the bell-founding Merrilees. I keep seeing the name, and I'd never heard of them before."

"Not surprising, unless you come from these parts. Irish, are you?-name like Denehey?"

The old man kept unsettling me. "Er-no-I expect my ancestors were."

"William Merrilees was my five-times great grandfather," said Jack. "Joshua, the first bellfounder, was his grandfather. He cast his first bell that we know about in 1723, when he was in his early twenties."

"They had their foundry here in Lacey," put in Adam.

"Aye, but that was later. See, there was tin and copper to be had locally-the coast's ten miles away, so they didn't have to go far to get sand-and this valley's full of clay. They had all they needed for their trade right on the doorstep."

"You said-1723? And the bells here are 1780 or something-that's a long time for his home village," I remarked.

"Time for that tale when we come to it," said Jack.

"He'll tell the story his own way," said Lesley Merrilees.

"They were proud of their workmans.h.i.+p," Jack went on, "and with good reason. Merrilees' bells seldom needed chipping or sc.r.a.ping-they was maiden bells, already in tune. William claimed they used a secret ingredient, but I don't know what it was."

"There's the story of the lady who threw a silver coin into the furnace to make a clear ring," young Jane observed. I stole a look at her: she was leaning forward, elbows on the table, an intent expression on her face; though, I thought, she must have heard this story many times. Her eyes were gray as mist. Jack did not seem to relish the interruption.

"That's as may be," he said brusquely. "There's stories like that for any founder you care to name. Abraham said it was all down to their special rituals, the way they prepared and cast the bells."

"What was special about it?" I asked.

"Well, they insisted on absolute silence to get the right note. So they always completed the castings at midnight when the air was at its stillest. And it had to be a full moon, too. And when they traveled away to cast bells, they did the casting in the churchyard-so it would be as silent as the grave."

"That's fascinating," I said, meaning it, picturing it, the black of the night, the glow of the furnace, illuminating those eighteenth-century faces like a de la Tour painting. My imagination almost became lost in the image: I'd have liked to paint it. Jack continued: "Joshua was asked to cast a ring of bells for St. Dunstan's in 1732. Now he didn't have a proper foundry then, because he dug a pit and set about doing the work in the churchyard. And there was a dreadful accident, and his wife was killed-some say burned to death in the furnace, some by molten bell-metal. It took the spirit out of him: he refused to go on with the job, and St. Dunstan's stayed without bells for nigh on fifty years.

"After Joshua died they asked his son-Abraham, that was-to cast the bells for St. Dunstan's. He did the work, but reluctantly, and that's the back five now. He later said that all the time he was doing the work he was aware of his mother's presence, and that she disapproved. Which I suppose is logical, if ghosts can be logical. What we do know is that his son, William, who was a lad of about sixteen at the time, suffered some kind of fit or seizure while the work was being done, and was unable to speak for twenty-two years-though he carried on the family trade well enough, by all accounts.

"Now at the beginning of the last century, William took it into his head to add a sixth bell to St. Dunstan's. No one asked him to do it, he just did the work and asked no payment; and the bell being there, well, it was put in the tower. I don't know the ins and outs. But the long and the short of it is, after that treble bell was hung, William could speak again."

"So the tale has a happy ending," I said.

"Not exactly," said Adam. "It was said after that, that William had 'lost the silence' and the bells he founded were so much trouble to tune that the family firm went out of business."

"Do people ever see the ghost?" I asked curiously.

"The ghost of Joshua's wife is said to walk, yes. But it's not good to see her, young man. Nor should you seek her out."

If I thought Jack was being circ.u.mspect, it did not occur to me to quibble. By this time the pub had long since closed its doors, and it must have been due only to some local laxity or respect for the elder Merrilees that they had not been chucked out. The family departed then, and I went upstairs to bed.

I couldn't sleep. The room was hot and stuffy. Brief dreams kept chasing each other between bouts of wakefulness. I smoked a great many cigarettes.

At half past two I gave up the attempt and went to sit by the window. Idly, I drew back one of the curtains and peered out into the darkness; found my breath misted the window, so opened that too.

Now I may have been dreaming, then: may have had my imagination fuelled by old histories and too much beer. But I don't think so.

The fog had dispersed, and the frost-laden air which surged in made me gasp: it was as chill as a glacier. Outside, great evergreens rose, inky shadows on the inky sky, blotting out the brilliant icy stars. My eyes were drawn to the dark under these trees, where I became aware of a phenomenon I had seen before: a pallid patch in the night, as if someone had rubbed a bit of it away.

This time, it appeared to be drawing nearer. I wasn't afraid, only curious, and my interest seemed to be winching it in, like a fish on a line, but without the reluctance.

Gradually, it became clearer. Now it looked like a pale woman in a white, long nightdress: her hair was blonde as barley. Down one side of her body and her arm lay a filmy shadow which took on the appearance of pumice-stone as she neared me. Something was clotted in the pit of my stomach-a sort of antic.i.p.ation. My heart was beating fiercely. I could see her very clearly: she was white, but not the white of snow, for snow is only white, and blue shadow, and unformed outlines; the woman's whiteness was gentle contours, rounded as only the shading of flesh can be. But if there was warmth there, it was not the flow of life.

She was almost close enough to touch, now, and I saw with a sort of fascinated revulsion that the whole of her side and her arm were boiling, like milk on a stove, bubbles rising to the surface and bursting. The flesh hissed and simmered, and I felt the heat which radiated from it. Her ruined face drew close to mine; and then she smiled.

All the breath went out of me, as if I had been hit in the heart. It was sweet beyond description-in that smile was all the joy and love and laughter in the world: it was as if the smile and the beauty had gathered themselves into a great fist and thumped me. I fell to my knees, there was no strength left in them. When I raised my head again, she was gone.

If her smile had gathered in all my positive emotions, her departure hit me harder. Now there was so much loss and pain and emptiness in the world that I wanted to die. I couldn't cope with the breadth of that despair: I pa.s.sed out.

The night was dimming toward dawn when I woke up. Things drawn on the dark were beginning to solidify into chairs and furniture. I was freezing cold and stiff and aching with the loss of the glory; I managed to crawl into bed and pull the covers round me, s.h.i.+vering uncontrollably and as weak as a puppy.

I woke up, late, with chilly feet and a draught down my back, but a hot bath soon cured that; then I breakfasted and went to get my camera and gear out of the car-it's easier to work from photographs on this type of a.s.signment. It was a bright clear morning, but bitterly cold: I was able to see Lacey Magna for the first time, a pleasant village but not picturesque enough to attract too many tourists.

"D'you want a hand with that?" asked a voice, startling me a little. I turned to see Adam Merrilees, a little incongruous in a vast ski-jacket and red moon-boots. "I mean, I presume you got permission to take photos in the church."

"Yes, I phoned the rector."

He picked up one of my cases without any apparent effort, hoisted a light over one shoulder, and headed toward the church. I locked the car and followed, festooned with camera and lenses and feeling unaccountably awkward.

"I'm going up to do a bit of maintenance," Adam said, "but give me a shout when you've finished. There's a peal-board you might find interesting. Ever thought of doing something with peal-boards?-you know, making a collection of photos, or something?"

"Yes, I have, actually, but-"

"Well, as I say, give me a yell. I expect you'd like to see the bells, too. Cheers then!"

St. Dunstan's was like the inside of a refrigerator. My two spotlights, which can usually be relied on to heat an enclosed s.p.a.ce quite uncomfortably, made no impression. I took a couple of rolls of the Royal Arms, which were, unusually, carved and not painted, then reloaded the car and went to find Adam Merrilees.

He was in the ringing chamber, fiddling with the clock. The room, as most do in daylight, looked shabby; Adam with his bright hair and gaudy pullover (he had discarded the jacket) seemed curiously exotic.

"This was what I wanted to show you," he said, "you being so interested in the family."

It was a small board, one of the unrestored ones, black with age and barely decipherable: the script was crowded in as if the signwriter had not wanted to use up too much s.p.a.ce, and the lettering was now little more than b.u.mps on the surface. Peering close, I could just read it: it was not, strictly speaking, a peal-board: In the Tower of Moreton Lacey, St. Mary the Virgin, ON THE 14 OF JVNE 1730.

Was Rung on Extent of Grandfire Bob Tripples Being a True Seven Hundred and Twenty By the Following Ringers: Thos. Bartholomew, Trebble.

Robt. Richards, 2nd.

Josh. Merrileef, 3rd.

Jne. Merrileef, 4th.

Wm. Garfton, 5th.

Geof. Norwich, 7th.

Jn. Harte, Tenor.

"There was Abraham, and William, and here's Joshua," I said. "But who was 'JNE' Merrilees?"

"Ah!" said Adam. "I reckon that was Joshua's wife."

"What?" I exclaimed, as my heart seemed to lurch.

"Hm? A lady ringer in 1730, you mean? I've got a theory about that."

Something seemed to be constricting my throat. In my mind's eye I could see a white figure, drifting toward me, her arms outstretched. My breath labored. I shook my head, trying to clear it: the first sharp thuds of a monster headache beat in my temples. I tried to concentrate on what Adam was saying, but it was cold, so cold in that room.

"You see, it can't be John, because there's a 'JN' on the tenor, and this is definitely 'JNE'; anyway, we don't know any John Merrilees. But you see, I think Joshua's wife was one of those ladies who didn't like being a lady in 1730. You know: like that woman, I've forgotten her name, she disguised herself as a man and joined the Marines-but why else would Joshua's wife have been anywhere near the furnace, to have been burned to death-unless she had insisted in helping Joshua in his work?"

"Adam," I said, "I'm sorry, but my head's got a pneumatic drill in it."

He turned and looked at me, his eyes narrowed. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'll be OK-I-I think I'll sit down," I finished lamely, and did so. Adam looked like a ghost: his edges seemed insubstantial, as if yesterday's fog had crept into the room. I started to s.h.i.+ver.

"Come on," said Adam. "Let's get a couple of pints of 'Winter Warmer' down you. Pub's open now."

Well, he got me down the stairs and back to the "Five Bells," and I did feel better after a few drinks, sitting by the fire. But that had scared me. Had I really seen a ghost, the night before? And if so, why?-Not who, but why?

Moreton Lacey was in Dove: the church was derelict. I found the name on my map, and wondered about driving over; but the day was too cold, flurries of snow were being flung at the windows, like torn paper, my head was still aching-I felt disinclined to go anywhere. Or, really, to think about the Merrilees. It had been difficult enough to get rid of Adam. I did some desultory work on an ill.u.s.tration, but my heart wasn't in it; some time later, I dozed off in a chair.

It was dark when I woke up. I had a crick in my neck, my left arm had gone to sleep, and my head felt stuffed with kapok. The clock said ten to six, so I picked up the Times and Telegraph and a pen for the crosswords, stuck a book in my pocket, and went to sit in the bar.

None of the Merrilees family came in that evening, but I was quite content with my own company. I was a bit fidgety, but managed to occupy the time, making a leisurely dinner and a half-hearted attempt at the crosswords, and retiring to bed having spoken only to the barman and the middle-aged lady who served the meal.

I still had a headache; the day had been half-wasted, and I hadn't done a great deal, but I was tired, and fell asleep quickly.

If I had thought, or hoped, that I would sleep the night through and be able to leave Lacey Magna refreshed in the morning, I was wrong. At twenty to three I was thoroughly and completely awake, sitting up in bed staring at the darkness, and wondering why I felt so strange. It was as if I were waiting for something, but I hadn't felt so excited since I was ten years old. The dancing b.u.t.terflies of childhood disturbed my stomach, my breath was short and loud in the silence, and my heart was beating rapidly. I hadn't forgotten the ghost; but I didn't feel as if I were waiting for a ghost.

I felt as if I were waiting for a lover.

Leaning out of the window, I strained my eyes, willing the shadows and the whirling snow to coalesce into a different whiteness. A s.h.i.+ver convulsed me, but it didn't feel like a s.h.i.+ver of cold, despite the icy night.

She drifted into my vision, and my heart leapt. Her warmth misted the night, steaming from her side like smoke.