Hell on Hallowed Ground
It was a dark and stormy night, as it invariably is when tales such as these are told. The storm is of course important to the atmosphere, for there must be, at some point, a moment when the power goes off plunging the draughty old house into a jittery blackness, perhaps just as the french doors to the patio blow in scattering rain and debris over the parquette floor. Once the doors are closed again and locked up tight, then comes the uncertainty, that little thrill of panic creeping up the spine: Did something get in while those doors were open?
Something did indeed get in…
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Maggie Ferguson decided that she and her husband, Dennis, would celebrate their thirteenth wedding anniversary with a little romantic getaway to the countryside. She’d gone online and located the perfect spot. “Picturesque and private, Eldritch House is a stately turn-of-the-century home snuggled in a secluded woodland setting. Perfect for a quiet escape from city life,” the ad had said. Maggie thought the name of the place sounded elegant, so she called the provided phone number and made the arrangements.
Dennis, of course, had grumbled his usual disinterest to her. He had all but given up on their marriage and didn’t think that yet another “getaway” would magically repair his apathy. He would have preferred to spend the weekend at the office going over his notes for Monday’s Board Meeting. In the end, he had conceded, as he always did, just to get her off of his back.
The drive to the country was stressful. Maggie harped most of the way that Dennis was driving too fast, or that he had made a wrong turn. He ignored her entirely, but, by the time they made the turn onto the long dirt drive to their weekend getaway, his teeth were on edge. Their SUV thudded over potholes and plowed through the overgrown underbrush. When, at last, they broke free of the grasping forest, they found themselves in a clearing. The house was directly ahead of them. Off to the left of the rutted road, was a tiny graveyard which Dennis assumed to be the family plot of the house’s owners. Maggie did not seem to notice it; she was agape over the size of the house.
Dennis scanned the sky as they unloaded the car and figured they were about two hours ahead of the storm front. The tv weatherman had predicted unsettled conditions for the entire weekend.
“Huh,” said Maggie with disgust, fists balled on her hips, “It’s not at all like it looked in the picture on the website. It’s practically derelect!” Dennis didn’t bother to reply. He’d grown quite numb to her neverending complaints. Nothing ever measured up to her lofty standards. “Well, it’ll have to do, I suppose,” she said with a huff. Then she whirled off to sort out the weekend’s provisions and create sandwiches for their romantic dinner.
Dennis had packed a couple of bottles of pinot noir for (tranquilizing) Maggie, and a nice bottle of single malt scotch for himself. While she fixed the food, he uncorked her wine to let it breathe and poured a hearty dram of the Glenlivet into a tumbler. He began to feel much better by the second pouring.
Thunder grumbled in the distance.
“What was that?” Maggie called from the kitchen.
“Just the storm coming,” said Dennis eyeing the massive stone fireplace. He wondered if the chimney was sound enough to have a fire.
“I don’t like storms,” said Maggie.
“You don’t like much of anything, dear,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he stuck his head into the fireplace and prodded the flue with a stick of kindling from the bin. There came the sound of scurrying from the chimney. Squirrels, he thought, but it sounded somehow bigger than squirrels. Whatever it was, it put having a fire quite out of the question.
Lightning raked across the dimming sky. After a breath, the thunder growled again. Closer this time.
Maggie appeared in the doorway with plates of sandwiches. “Here we go,” she said, plunking their dinner down on the coffee table.
“Lovely,” said Dennis with an inward cringe. “Would you like some wine?”
“Thank you,” she said, taking the proffered glass and giving it a sniff.
They ate their sandwiches without conversation, only the sound of the looming storm breaking the silence. When the plates were cleared away, Maggie sat back down on the sofa and raised her wineglass to Dennis. “Happy Anniversary, darling,” she said.
“It’s not ‘til tomorrow,” said Dennis.
“Oh, I know,” she said, “but this is going to be such a wonderful romantic weekend, I thought we should begin celebrating now.”
Dennis tipped his glass to her and then gulped a good inch of scotch down in one swallow.
It was just then that the lights flickered and died.
“Dennis!” Maggie wailed, groping for his hand and slopping her wine on the sofa.
“It’s all right, Mags, just a power failure. I’m sure the lights will come right back on.”
After several minutes, they remained in the pitch black. Dennis got to his feet thinking to search for a flashlight or some candles. Lightning ignited the sky. The french doors blew open. Maggie screamed like a banshee.
The rain had begun in earnest. The lightning and thunder were almost simultaneous now. Dennis grappled with the patio doors and finally got them shut. The floor was a wet mess of leaves and dirt.
“I’m going to go and find a flashlight,” he told Maggie.
“Don’t leave me, Dennis!” she squealed. “I’m afraid!”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll only be gone a minute,” he said, and fumbled his way toward the kitchen, leaving her to her whimpering. He tried to remember if they’d packed a flashlight. He didn’t think they had. He groped his way around the kitchen opening drawers and feeling their contents. At last his hand made out a cylinder which, in the next blinding flash of lightning, revealed itself, thankfully, to be a flashlight. The beam it produced was very weak, the batteries almost depleated. It would have to do.
A blood-curdling scream erupted from the livingroom. Dennis raced down the hallway behind the flickering beam, and found Maggie curled up on the sofa, sobbing hysterically.
“What is it? What happened?” he demanded.
“I heard a noise,” she snuffled.
“Oh for Christ’s sakes, Mags! There’s a God-damned storm going on! Of course you heard a noise!”
“No,” she choked, “It wasn’t a storm noise—there’s something in here!” Suddenly she seemed to regain control of herself. “There is no need for your blasphemous language, Dennis. It’s completely uncalled for. Now, I’m telling you I heard something in here.”
Dennis sighed. “All right,” he said, “I’ll have a look around, but we need to find some candles or something. This flashlight has about had it.”
By the time the flashlight had finally given up the ghost, Dennis managed to round up a good supply of candles in various shapes and scents and determine that there was nothing sinister lurking in the room. He set about placing the candles throughout the living room while Maggie applied herself to jumping at shadows and gasping melodramatically everytime the thunder split the sky.
Rain battered the windows without mercy. In the flickering gloom of candlelight, Maggie pleaded with Dennis to come sit with her. He told her he would as soon as he’d cleaned up the mess on the floor. He didn’t want to have to pay for repairs if the wood floor became water damaged. No sooner had he left the livingroom in search of a mop, Maggie let fly with another ear-splitting scream.
“Maggie, for God’s sake! You’ve got to stop…”
“Dennis!! I’ve been bitten!! Something attacked me!” she howled as he made his way back to her. “Looook!” she wailed, “There’s blood all over the sofa!”
“For crying out loud, Maggie! You’ve spilled your wine is all. Now settle down and…”
“But my foooot!”
“Let me see it,” said Dennis reaching the limit of his patience. He picked up a candle from the coffee table to see Maggie’s “mortal” wound. To his complete astonishment, there were three puncture marks on her ankle! They were emitting the strangest odour. Dennis was speechless.
“Seeee?” sobbed Maggie, “I told you something bit me!”
“Did you see what it was?”
“No,” she sniffed, “I heard that scuttling sound again and then it just BIT me!”
Dennis grabbed up a candle and had a look under the sofa. It was impossible to see anything under there, but he didn’t think that whatever had bitten his wife had stuck around for dessert.
“What would bite with three teeth?” he wondered aloud.
“It’s burning now, Den! I need to go to the hospital!”
“We’d never get out of that laneway in this storm, Mags. I’ll get some water and we’ll clean it up. I think there’s a first aid kit in the bathroom upstairs.”
Maggie wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Am I gonna die, Den?”
“Of course you’re not gonna die, Mags! Don’t be silly. I’ll be right back.”
Once Maggie’s wounds had been washed and bandaged, and she’d gulped down another glass of wine, she began to doze on the sofa. Dennis found a quilt and covered her up. The storm raged on. He stood at the french doors and watched it rail against the old house. As a bolt of lightning lit up the room, movement, caught in his peripheral vision made him spin around.
Nothing. Maggie was still on the sofa, snoring lightly. Nothing had changed. He put it down to a flicker of candlelight and turned back to watch the storm. That was when he heard it. A mewling sound, almost a growl. He turned slowly back to face the room. At first he didn’t see anyting unusual. Then Maggie moaned in her sleep and that’s when he saw it.
Her arm had come free of the quilt and was dangling near the floor. Something was obscuring his view of her hand. It was a hairless lumpy thing about the size of a cat with luminous orangish eyes, and it appeared to be sucking on her hand.
“What the hell?” he whispered uncomprehendingly. The abomination turned it’s eerie eyes on him and gurgled a word that sounded like nummy. Then it was gone.
With his heart in his throat, Dennis grabbed up the fireplace poker and then went to check on his wife. Her breathing had become raspy. He shook her shoulder. “Mags? Maggie, wake up.” There were three new puncture wounds on her wrist and she wasn’t responding. “Maggie!” He shook her roughly. Nothing. Just that horrid phlegmy breathing.
Of course the phone line was out, and way out here in the middle of nowhere, there was no cell signal. Dennis knew that Maggie was in serious trouble. She needed medical assitance as soon as possible. He didn’t know what that thing was that had bitten her, but he was pretty sure that those bites were killing her.
This thought gave him pause.
Killing her. He rolled the idea around in his head for a bit. He supposed he could just let her die. No one could blame him for being unable to get her to the hospital in the storm. He poured himself another scotch and sat down to ponder his options.
On one hand, he could attempt to carry her out to the car, and if the road wasn’t washed out, he supposed he could make it to the highway, and from there, to the hospital. No, there was no way that road would be passable.
On the other hand, he could just carry her up to the bedroom and leave her on the bed for the night. It wouldn’t really be his fault if she died in her sleep, or if that creature attacked her again. He’d sleep down here on the sofa and be none the wiser.
The lights tried to flicker back to life just then, giving him a nasty start. In the few seconds they were back on, he could see that Maggie’s usually robust complexion had gone ashen. Was that good or bad?
In the event that she did survive this, he should probably at least try to do something to save her. From where he sat across the room, he could see that her bitten arm was beginning to swell grotesquely. He decided he should probably check to see how the bite on her ankle was doing, and when he did, he was shocked to see that her foot and leg were hugely swollen and the skin was covered in what looked to be at least fifty pustules. It was disgusting. And the smell was overpowering.
Just then he heard the scuttering sound coming down the hall. Where had he left the fireplace poker?
A candle guttered and went out. A shadowy shape blurred low across the floor. Dennis spotted the poker leaning up against the chair he’d been sitting in. He flung himself at the chair, grabbed his weapon and spun. The thing was on Maggie’s chest, it’s head bent over hers. The mewling sound came again and it made Dennis’s blood run cold. Nummmy!
“Get the fuck away from her!” he shrieked as he lunged at the creature. It turned it’s lamp-like eyes on him and favoured him with a snarl. That was all it managed to do before the fireplace poker impaled it. The thing on the end of the poker writhed in agony as Dennis watched in horror. What the hell was it? He flung it to the floor, poker and all. It struggled briefly, then on its last breath, it moan nummy again. Only this time, it didn’t sound like nummy, it sounded more like
Mummy…
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If you made it this far, bless your heart! This was actually my original bash at the Scribbles Challenge but I thought it was a bit longish, so I went with the other one instead. If you did make it through this one, I applaud you! And I thank you :)
I think I might need a Chapter 2...
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