The Night of the Necromancer (A John Sinclair Story) by Jason Dark
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The Night
of the Necromancer
By Jason Dark
(Translated by Dr. Tony Page; begun 7 August 2007, finished 4 September 2007)
Midnight.
An ancient delivery van rumbled along a bumpy country lane.
In the driver’s cab sat three men.
The man at the steering wheel was Professor Ivan Orgow. He stared out into the night from deep-set dark eyes, only sparsely illuminated by the light from the two headlamps.
Ivan Orgow’s thoughts were fixed fully upon the task before him. His eyes flickered at the thought of the power over which he presided. He, Ivan Orgow, had dominion over the dead. And this very night a deceased person would be restored to life.
The two men beside him could no longer think clearly – they were not masters of their minds any longer. Professor Orgow had placed them under a hypnotic spell. All they could do was blindly carry out his orders.
The old delivery van reached its destination and stopped in front of the old, wrought-iron gates of the cemetery. Professor Orgow turned off the headlights. Then he pushed the door open and jumped out.
The mist had thickened. It bore down upon the chest like an oppressive suit of armour and impeded the breathing.
Professor Orgow beckoned to his two helpers. He pulled forth a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the primitive lock of the cemetery gates. They squeaked as he pushed them open. Silently the three men slipped into the graveyard, and soon the mist had swallowed them up. Only the delivery van remained vaguely visible, standing, temporarily vacated, close to the fissured wall.
Ivan Orgow knew his way around. With singleness of purpose he made his way towards the old house of mourning, which was constructed of thick stones and served additionally as a mortuary.
The professor also had a key for the heavy wooden door. He took a deep breath as he unlocked the door. He was gripped by a strange sense of excitement - the feeling of excitement one gets on the brink of an all-decisive event.
Orgow hesitated momentarily. He concentrated his mind on what was soon to occur. Then he pushed against the solid door. With a creak, it swung open.
Orgow fetched out a torch from the side-pocket of his long, dark overcoat. He advanced a step forward into the mortuary and switched on his torch. Its beam of light flitted like a lost soul through the little chamber. Orgow groped his way along the walls, which were festooned with box-tree sprigs and whose fragrance he breathed in as though it were balsam. Ivan Orgow let the light of his torch dart further around. The cold marble floor of the chamber partially reflected the light and painted reflections on the professor’s gaunt, grey face. Orgow directed the torch at the opposite wall.
And there it was – what he was looking for. A coffin!
It was an expensive oak coffin, resting on a small pedestal and adorned with wreaths and flowers. The funeral ceremony was appointed for the following day.
The professor’s eyes darted round like will-o’-the-wisps as he slowly advanced towards the casket. His free left hand twitched feverishly. Orgow could scarcely contain his excitement.
Suddenly he tossed the flowers and wreaths aside in a wild, uncontrolled gesture, and supported himself with both hands on the coffin lid, panting heavily.
“I’ll restore you,” he muttered. “You will return from the realm of the dead. You will bring devastation upon mankind, and I shall be your master. I have the might and the power to restore all the dead, and then they will wreak vengeance upon the living.”
Orgow straightened himself up, bathed in sweat. Undiluted madness flickered in his eyes. He stretched his arms out wide like a vampire and laughed. But it was a maniacal laugh and seemed inspired by the Devil himself.
His two assistants stood motionless like tin soldiers at the door. Not a muscle twitched in their faces.
It was some time before the professor had recovered himself. When he had, he turned his gaunt, hollow face towards the two men.
“Come on!” he whispered roughly. “Get to work!”
Like two automata, the pair began to move. They were almost of the same height and both mightily built. Beneath their shabby jackets they wore checked shirts and old corduroy trousers covered their legs.
“The tools!” Orgow flashed a fierce look at the men. They reached into their pockets and pulled out two chisels, which they then wedged beneath the locks of the coffin lid. After a short while the first lock was cracked open. The second lock likewise did not last long.
“Lift up the lid!”
The men obeyed their master. Slowly they raised the heavy coffin lid, while Professor Orgow waited and watched with half-open mouth and outstretched hands like claws. The torch in his right hand trembled. Only very slowly could the coffin lid be pushed aside, but finally the men accomplished their purpose. The coffin was open!
A deep sigh escaped from the professor’s throat as he looked inside. Yes, there she lay: Mary. Barely twenty years old when she died, three days ago, of heart failure.
Even in death the girl looked wondrously beautiful. Her curly black hair framed her pale face like a fleece. Her shroud was of pure silk and the inside of the coffin was adorned with dark-red velvet. Mary had her hands folded across her breasts. Professor Orgow gently passed his bony fingers across this lifeless bosom.
“Soon you will live again, Mary,” he whispered. “I promise you. But first you must come with us to the castle. There you will find restoration.”
Professor Orgow’s face twitched and bore testimony to immense inner excitement.
“What’s going on here, then?” a voice sounded from the door.
The professor and his two accomplices jerked round. In the mortuary entrance stood an old man - the cemetery attendant. He was holding a table lantern in his right hand. The flickering light of the candle was refracted on the walls and cast long shadows upon the ground.
Slowly Professor Orgow moved menacingly towards the curious cemetery attendant. The old man withdrew a few paces, trembling. Indefinable sounds came from his toothless mouth.
“Kill him!” Orgow suddenly ordered, his hand shooting forth like a dart.
The two assistants began to move, still clutching their chisels in their hands. The old man stood rooted to the spot in utter shock. He still did not comprehend the deadly danger which confronted him. And by the time he did – it was too late.
The two men raised their weapons aloft …
The cemetery attendant staggered back, collapsing to the ground. In a flash the uncanny assistants were upon him.
When they straightened themselves up again, the old man lay on the floor in a pool of blood. His life had been snuffed out as quickly as the candle in his table lantern.
“He should not have disturbed us,” said Professor Orgow in a hollow voice. Then he turned to his two assistants again. “Lift the dead woman out of the coffin.”
They obeyed his order like two robots.
“Don’t handle her so roughly!” Orgow snapped in a forceful whisper.
The murderers lifted Mary out more gently.
“Now to the van, quickly,” Orgow whispered.
The three men left the mortuary with the dead woman in their grasp.
Meanwhile the mist had grown ever denser. One could scarcely see one’s hand in front of one’s face. Professor Orgow brought up the rear of the little group and suddenly stopped in front of a family vault. He slowly extended his right hand.
“You will also return to life soon,” he whispered. “You will leave your coffins. Satan himself will bring you back to life. Very soon the graves everywhere will open up. Very soon …” The professor turned aside. He followed his assistants, muttering to himself.
They had reached the delivery van and were now heaving the dead girl into the back of the vehicle. The professor sat down behind the steering wheel once more and, as he started up the engine, a satanic fire was blazing in his eyes …
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The castle was named Manor Castle and had been built well over five hundred years before. It stood between wind-swept cliffs and rocks, like a dreadful threat. The superstitious inhabitants of the surrounding coastal villages kept well clear of the place. For centuries rumours had abounded that Manor Castle was haunted.
Professor Orgow had purchased the castle almost two years before at a song. He had set up a laboratory in the cellar for himself, where he devoted himself exclusively to his occult researches.
The delivery van groaned and rattled as it struggled up the narrow road to the castle. The mist had lifted somewhat, and so visibility was now relatively good.
The ancient entrance gates were open and swinging and creaking backwards and forwards in the slight wind. The great castle courtyard was covered with cobblestones. Weeds grew in profusion between the cracks.
The shaky vehicle ground to a halt. Orgow turned off the headlights and clambered out of the van. The castle was enveloped in total darkness. A strong wind had suddenly sprung up and whistled and howled, driving masses of dark cloud before it, and losing itself in the corners and turrets of the castle.
Professor Orgow flicked his torch on again. He approached the entrance door with hasty steps. A sense of impatience overcame him. He seemed unable to await the great moment of truth …
His two companions fetched the dead girl from the payload of the van, and together carried Mary’s corpse into the interior of the castle. Meanwhile, Orgow had lighted three thick wax candles which were suspended in heavy holders on the walls. Their flickering light disclosed a huge hall, in which a long table and a number of chairs were standing. The lower half of a great staircase could also be made out.
“Place the dead girl carefully on the table, then go upstairs,” Professor Orgow gave his orders. The two men obeyed. Orgow now advanced towards the dead girl and stroked her hair with skeletal, gout-ravaged fingers.
“Yes, you are beautiful,” he whispered. “And your beauty will be preserved for long to come.” Orgow grasped the dead girl under her knees with one hand and under her back with the other. Gently and effortlessly he lifted Mary up. No one would ever have credited this man with such strength. Slowly, step by step, he proceeded with the corpse to a certain spot on the wood-panelled wall.
It was a ghostly picture that presented itself: the arms of the dead girl dangling down limply from both sides of her body and her head, with its long black hair, lolling far back. Ivan Orgow bent his knees slightly and pulled one of the heavy candles out of its holder. Then he pressed against a special spot on the wooden wall. A secret door swung inwards with a creepy creak. Orgow gazed upon a flight of stone steps leading down into darkness. The flickering light of the candle stirred up a few startled bats, which flew off in wild profusion. Step by step Professor Orgow climbed down the stairs with the dead girl in his arms. He was taking her down into his own realm.
The realm of the Devil and of darkness. The realm of the dead …
A musty, oppressive odour – the foul stench of centuries – bore down upon the cellar vault. The stale air threatened to extinguish the candle. After precisely nineteen steps, Professor Orgow had reached his goal. The dancing light of the candle illuminated a laboratory. Test tubes and glass receptacles containing coloured fluids stood on old, worm-eaten tables, and a sickly-sweet aroma hung in the air. The stench of corpses …
With great solicitude, Professor Orgow laid the dead woman on a massive stone table. He carefully folded her hands over her breast once again.
“Soon you will live once more,” Orgow whispered and slowly turned around. The hand that was holding the candle trembled as he moved towards a narrow opening at the front of the eerie laboratory. Orgow now entered a dungeon. The foul stench of decomposition and decay was even stronger here.
The candle illuminated a ghastly scene. Three corpses were lying in a corner. They were already in an advanced state of decay, and their hairless skulls shone with a ghostly glow in the light of the candle.
But the candle disclosed something further: an open sarcophagus!
A woman was lying within – still almost a girl. Her hands were tightly pressed against her seemingly fragile body.
Orgow came closer, shone the candle on the girl and mumbled some words in a strange tongue. Then he wedged the candle in a cleft in the rock and circled both hands above and around the woman’s head.
Suddenly the girl’s eyes shot open. Orgow took a step back.
“Yes, come,” he whispered, “come out of your coffin, Lara. Do you hear me?”
The girl, Lara, sat up erect, staring at the professor from deep, dark eyes.
Orgow took hold of the candle again. “Get up. It is time. You must bring her back. She is waiting for you.”
With the movements of a marionette, the girl left her sarcophagus. Step by stilted step she followed the professor into the laboratory.
Orgow stuck the candle into a support on the wall, and with trembling fingers poured a red, syrup-like liquid into a vessel. This he handed to Lara.
“Drink! The juice will give you sovereignty over life and death. Only you can bring her back. None but you. Drink!”
Lara took hold of the goblet with both hands. Swiftly she raised it to her mouth and consumed its contents in long, thirsty gulps.
“That’s right. Good!” Orgow praised her, pressing his back against the cold rock wall.
At first nothing transpired with Lara. But suddenly she seemed to grow. Her sunken face glowed and blossomed; lights began to dance in her dark eyes, and a dreadful scream was wrung out of the girl’s throat. Orgow breathed heavily. His eyes twitched, as if in fever. He knew that Lara had succeeded. At last!
“Bring them back, Lara! Bring back the dead!” Orgow shouted wildly. “Look at me. You must obey me now. I am your master. Bring them back, Lara. Now!”
And Lara, the medium, obeyed.
Suddenly she was standing beside the dead Mary. Her hands moved across the stiff body. While making these gestures she murmured incomprehensible words, which grew louder, more crazed. Her whole body became convulsed, as if she were in a state of utter intoxication.
In thrall to the sight that confronted his eyes, Professor Orgow stared at his medium. He knew that she would fulfil his purpose.
Lara’s lean body seemed to be shaken by volts of electric current. She threw her arms around uncontrollably, backwards and forwards. Then came a last, desperate scream, and Lara collapsed in upon herself.
Professor Orgow jumped forward, paying no heed to his medium. He had eyes solely for dead Mary. His bloodless lips twitched convulsively. And then – a demented cry issued forth from the throat of the professor. The dead woman had moved!
Orgow’s heart raced, and everything darkened before his eyes. It was all too much for the old man. Orgow sank to the ground, overcome by a violent fit of the ague. The professor no longer saw what played itself out in his presence. He was powerless to stop the horror from unfolding …
********************************************************************
Mary was alive again!
As if in slow motion, she opened her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Some strange power propelled her as she sat up: she could not think, nor feel – only some unknown force drove her forward. Her feet touched the ground, yet she did not register the coldness of the stone. Mary began to walk, with half-outstretched hands like a somnambulist. Single-mindedly focussed upon her goal, she steered herself towards the staircase and commenced climbing the steps, as though in a trance. Her movements were strangely jerky. Despite the darkness she found her way about the hall as if she had always been at home there.
The door!
Orgow had left it open.
Mary stepped out into the open air. The cold wind whistled through her shroud, but the living dead felt nothing. With faltering steps Mary walked across the inner courtyard of the castle. A stone cut into her foot – but no blood flowed from the wound. Mary stumbled on. The same unknown irresistible urge drove her on. The wind caused her shroud to billow out.
Suddenly, Mary groaned. All of a sudden she was able to think again. Yet her thoughts were of a gruesome nature.
“You must kill,” a voice whispered. “Kill – kill …”
Satan had taken possession of Mary’s soul.
Mary’s steps grew faster. She hurried down the castle pathway. Yes, all at once she knew her destination. Not far from here – that was where she had to go. That was where the village lay. A big house, people lived inside. Who were these people?
Mary’s thoughts became diffuse – but one remained clear and focuses: Kill the people – kill the people!
Mary ran. The compulsion inside her grew ever stronger. She sensed that she had almost reached her destination. The first houses …
Mary halted. She was only interested in one house in particular. And she knew where to find it. She pressed on. The village street lay deserted before her. Not a single light burned anywhere in sight. But no! Behind the window of one particular house Mary saw a bright glow.
This house was her destination …
*********************************************************************
Mr. and Mrs. Winston could not sleep. Tomorrow was the funeral of their eldest daughter. This event had already cast its long shadow over them.
Mrs. Winston was lying on the couch, tossing and turning restlessly. Again and again she started up in fright: she simply could not come to terms with the death of her daughter.
Mr. Winston was sitting at the table, staring into empty space. Every time his wife moved, he gave a convulsive start. In the last few days he had aged years. They had all been very attached to Mary. Jack and Jenny, too – the twins, who were sleeping upstairs. They had coped best of all with what had happened, perhaps because they did not really comprehend it.
“What time is it?” Caroline Winston asked her husband.
“What?” Ronald Winston gave a start.
The woman repeated her question. Ronald Winston looked, with reddened eyes, at his watch. “Nearly two in the morning.”
“My God!” whispered his wife. “You need to get some sleep too, Ron.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Please try, at least.”
“No.” Ronald Winston shook his head. His wife let out a deep sigh. She sank back on the couch and stared at the ceiling with expressionless eyes. There was a big lump in her throat – yet she could not cry. Mrs. Winston had already shed too many tears over recent days.
Ronald Winston got up.
“Where are you going?” his wife asked.
“To get something to drink.” Ronald Winston disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Caroline was alone in the large living room. The stillness bore down heavily upon the room. All that could be heard was the monotonous ticking of an old wall clock. The Winstons were accustomed to this sound. They didn’t even notice it any more.
A scratching noise at the front door made Caroline Winston jump.
“Is that you, Ron?” At the same moment she realised that her husband was in the kitchen at the other end of the house. Now she heard a knocking at the front door. Heavy blows. Caroline Winston frowned. Who could that be at this hour …?
There was renewed knocking. This time even stronger. Caroline Winston got up. Fear gripped hold of her heart.
“Ronald!” she called. “There’s someone knocking at the door.”
“Open the door, then,” her husband shouted back. “I can’t get to the door at the moment.”
Caroline went with uncertain steps to the front door. Again there was a thunderous knock on the wood.
“All right, I’m coming, I’m coming!” Her voice sounded slightly irritated. Caroline Winston first had to unlock the door. She hastily turned the key in the lock. As always, the door jammed a little.
“I just need to …” All further words literally stuck in Caroline Winston’s throat as she saw who was outside.
“Mary! No. But this is imposs …. – no, no ….!” Only now did Caroline Winston comprehend that her dead daughter was indeed standing right before her. She tumbled back with a scream. At the same instant, dead Mary entered the house.
Ronald Winston heard his wife’s scream. “What is it?” he yelled.
Caroline gave no reply. She was lying on the floor. Her body twitched convulsively, as though in a fit. She felt nothing when two dead hands placed themselves around her neck and pressed together mercilessly. The last sound that came from Caroline’s mouth was the death rattle. Then her body grew limp.
Mary straightened herself up. Her hair hung dishevelled across her forehead. Her hands were stretched out like claws. Her face was pasty and bloated. The reek of decay issued from her.
Heavy footsteps could be heard coming towards the hall.
“Caroline, what’s the matter?” Ronald Winston came running up. At the same moment, Mary began to mount the staircase that led upstairs – to where the twins were sleeping …
Ronald Winston saw his wife lying in front of the open front door.
“Caroline!” Winston’s cry sounded more like a groan. He threw himself down beside his wife and caressed her face.
“Caroline, please! Answer me, please!” But Mrs. Winston would never make answer again. She was dead. As soon as her husband realised this, he collapsed in a heap, sobbing pitifully.
Meanwhile, the “dead” girl had reached the children’s room on the first floor. Cautiously she pressed down the handle. The door swung gently open. Mary’s hand groped for the light switch. The sudden illumination frightened the twins from their dreams.
“Is that you, Mum?” Jack asked in a sleepy voice, sitting up in bed. He blinked into the bright light, rubbing his eyes and suddenly jumping for joy.
“Mary!” he cried joyously, and extended his little arms. The dead woman approached his bed. She moved like a puppet – jerkily, in the manner of a marionette.
“Jenny, wake up, Mary has come!” Five-year-old Jack jumped up and down excitedly in his bed. Now the dead woman had reached the child. Her claw-like hands were stretched out for the little boy’s neck.
“Carry me downstairs, Mary, will you?” Jack looked at his big sister expectantly. Then her hands closed around the little boy’s throat. She squeezed, without mercy …
Jenny, meantime, was now fully awake. It was only a matter of seconds before she understood what was going on. She saw Mary’s horrid face, saw her brother’s little legs kicking and jerking, and she screamed, screamed, screamed with all her might …
Her screams roused Ronald Winston to his senses and brought him back into action. “The children!” he whispered without any expression as he pelted upstairs. When he crashed into the children’s room, he thought that he had lost all reason. He saw the scene before him, but could not take it in. He saw his dead daughter bending over Jack’s bed, her hands fastened around the little boy’s throat.
Ronald Winston acted out of pure instinct. He leapt forward with one mighty bound and smashed his fist into Mary’s back. It felt to him as if he were pounding his fist into a piece of dough. But it had the desired effect: Mary let go of Jack. She now turned her attention to her new attacker. As Ronald Winston looked into the face of his daughter, he nearly took leave of his senses. From the pale, bloated skin of this re-animated corpse two bloody eyes shone out at him, and long, pointed fingernails moved towards his neck. Ronald Winston saw his little son lying bloody in the bed and knew that he had arrived too late. But one thought dominated his brain: You must kill this monster!
Winston spun round, just in time, as Mary’s razor-sharp fingernails sliced past his neck, missing by just a hair’s breadth. The dead woman staggered and fell against the doorjamb. But she quickly caught herself and set off in pursuit of her father, who was pounding down the stairs as if pursued by furies. With a few giant strides, Winston reached the kitchen. The axe! For three days it had lain in the kitchen. He had kept intending to return it to the cellar, but had completely forgotten about it in the turmoil of the past few days. The hatchet was standing behind the cupboard. Ronald Winston seized it with both hands.
With a creak, the kitchen door swung open. She was coming! Like some jerky automated marionette, Mary lunged towards Ronald Winston. The man raised the axe above his head. His brain was functioning clearly again now.
Mary still had her hands extended before her. Ronald Winston knew exactly what had to be done. He was no murderer. Mary was already dead!
Ronald Winston brought the axe crashing down, and staggered back. From out of his fear-widened eyes he watched what now occurred.
The dead creature sank to the ground with a cry defying all description. Her eyes suddenly became huge, and with a pitiful and pleading expression they turned their gaze upon the man.
Ronald Winston trembled. The dead woman shrivelled up, dissolved away and turned to dust. A smell of burning hung in the air.
Ronald Winston mopped the sweat from his brow. His lips formed the shapes of silent, incomprehensible words. He could not grasp what he had just witnessed. Only a pile of ashes remained of the dead monstrosity.
Ronald Winston reeled about the kitchen and flung the axe into a corner.
In the doorway stood little Jenny. “Jacky. He’s bleeding so badly!” she said in a faltering voice - with tears streaming down her face …
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Professor Orgow awoke as if from a dream. He pulled himself up with great effort, using the stone table as a support. The foul air suddenly caused him trouble. He staggered.
After a few minutes he had recovered himself. His glance fell upon the table.
It was empty!
Mary had vanished!
Professor Orgow trembled. He sensed that her disappearance could have horrific consequences.
Lara! Where was Lara, the medium?
Orgow tumbled into the little room. What good fortune! Lara lay in her sarcophagus. She had climbed into it again by herself.
Professor Orgow did not lose a moment. As quickly as he could, he ran upstairs. When he heard the howling of the wind, he knew that Mary had disappeared through the open door. His first impulsive reaction was to dash outside. But then he thought better of it. No, why should he search for Mary? It would only arouse suspicion. And that was undesirable. They would get onto his tracks. And he had so much more to do. As yet, nobody knew that it was he who had removed the dead woman from the mortuary. And the old cemetery attendant would not be saying anything any more. The police would rack their brains over the whole affair. But nobody could link him with it. And in any case, Constable Jones, the village policeman, was a bit of a duffer. He could at best clear up a case of chicken rustling – that was about all.
Reassured by these reflections, Professor Orgow closed the entrance door. What he needed now was sleep. He had to get some rest, for great tasks lay before him on the morrow’s eve …
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“And you expect me to believe this, Mr. Winston?” Constable Jones asked sceptically.
Ronald Winston sobbed. “It is the truth. Really. I can’t tell you anything different. I did not kill my wife and my son. It was my dead daughter who did it. I swear it, as surely as I am standing here.”
The constable tapped the side of his head. “I’ve always regarded you as a normal person, Mr. Winstone. Not as a nutter, like most of the villagers are. But what you’re trying to tell me now – well, no reasonable man would believe a single word of it.”
Ronald Winston sank exhausted onto a kitchen chair. With a trembling hand he pointed to the pile of ashes on the floor. “That’s all that’s left of my daughter.”
Constable Jones dismissively waved the idea aside. He thought of himself as a realist and had always distanced himself from the nonsense gossiped by the villagers. To him, the case was clear: Ronald Winston had strangled his wife and son in a sudden fit of madness. On the other hand, though, one would normally expect to find traces of skin under the fingernails. But there was none. The policeman had examined Winston’s hands most carefully. Oh well, the murder squad would doubtless find out more.
“For the time being, you stay here in the kitchen,” said Constable Jones, leaving the room.
Winston nodded feebly and watched him go, with dull eyes.
Meantime, the two corpses had been removed. They were to be housed in the fire station until the murder squad had completed their work.
Constable Jones rolled himself a cigarette and inhaled the smoke with sybaritic pleasure. The more he thought about the case, the more uncertain he grew. Damn it! He had known Robert Winston for a number of years, and he simply was not capable of murder. But who could see into the soul of another human being?
Nevertheless, Jones wanted to give the unhappy man a chance. He went back into the kitchen. Ronald Winston was still squatting on the chair, a veritable picture of misery. He was staring with glassy eyes at the ashes.
“This was her, “ he whispered, barely audibly. “This was Mary, my daughter. I had to kill her. With the axe …”
Constable Jones got goose pimples at these words. Involuntarily he stared at the heavy weapon in the corner. But he could discover no blood on it. Are you starting to go round the bend? he thought.
The policeman gave himself a jolt. He placed his giant’s paw on Winston’s shoulder. “Come with me, Winston.”
Ronald Winston had not understood his words. Instead, he asked, “Where is Jenny?”
“She’s in safe hands, with Sister Elisabeth.”
Winston nodded automatically. “What time is it?”
“Six o’clock in the morning.”
“My God! So late? I must hurry. It’s Mary’s funeral today. I …” Ronald Winston was totally confused. The shock had hit him too forcibly. With a despairing gesture, he pressed his hand against his head. “Where is my wife?”
Constable Jones gave a sad sigh. This man had lost his mind. He was getting everything muddled up.
Winston looked at the constable with wide-open eyes. “I did not kill my wife, no! It wasn’t me. You must believe me!”
Jones mopped the sweat from his forehead. God damn it! This was an accursed situation. Then he remembered what he had said a moment before.
“Come with me, please, Mr. Winston.”
“Where to?”
“To the cemetery. We can see there whether you’re right or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain it to you once we’re there.”
A minute later, the two men stepped out into the cool morning air. In the east it was slowly getting light. Nosey neighbours had gathered in front of Winston’s house. News of the event had spread like wildfire. Cold, pitiless eyes stared at Ronald Winston. One man spat at his feet and called out “murderer!”
Winston winced. With a shiver of cold, he pulled his jacket over his shoulders. Constable Jones stood squarely in front of the silent crowd. He was respected in the village. With his square skull, sparse blond hair, sickle-shaped moustache and massive build he was the very epitome of a man who claimed and gained respect. The uniform did the rest.
“Go home, people,” he called in stentorian tones. “There’s nothing to see here. Get going, vanish!”
And indeed the crowd dispersed. Constable Jones grinned with satisfaction. He turned once more to Winston. “Let’s go.”
It took about ten minutes on foot to reach the cemetery. During that time, Ronald Winston did not speak a single word. His gaze was lowered, as he shuffled along beside the policeman.
The constable frowned when he saw the cemetery gates open. Had old Kinny forgotten to lock them? No doubt he’d got drunk again. Constable Jones shrugged his shoulders and entered the cemetery grounds. Ronald Winston followed him, albeit hesitantly. He seemed frightened of something.
“Come along, Mr. Winston,” he urged. “I’ve got other work to do. After all, I’m doing you a favour by coming out all this way to take a look.”
The two men walked along the paths that led to the mortuary, and which were laid out like a chessboard between the rows of gravestones. The smell of brackish water and rotting vegetation hung heavily in the air. Constable Jones cleared his throat. An unpleasant feeling had crept up on him. But meantime, the sky was growing lighter.
Jones’s eyes narrowed when he saw the open door of the mortuary swinging to and fro in the wind. Something’s happened here, the policeman thought and automatically quickened his pace. His blood almost froze in his veins when he all but stumbled over poor old dead Kinny.
“My God! That’s …”
Jones didn’t get any further. Ronald Winston, who had cast a glance over Jones’s shoulder, gave a sudden shout. He tore past the constable like a lunatic, throwing himself down on his knees before the oak coffin. “She’s gone,” he stammered, “she’s gone!”
Constable Jones squinted, to accustom himself to the early morning light. He felt as though an icy finger were tracing a track down his spine. Slowly he approached the coffin.
“You are right!” he whispered. “Mary is no longer here.”
Ronald Winston had collapsed. He cowed on the stone ground, whimpering silently to himself. It was also some little while before Constable Jones was able to overcome his fright. For several minutes he simply stood there motionless. Suddenly something occurred to him. He remembered a circular that he had received a few days previously. It had said that three corpses from neighbouring villages had been stolen. To date they had not been found. And Mary’s was evidently the fourth. But who was stealing the dead bodies? And what was the grave robber’s purpose? Or was more than one person involved? Poor old Kinny had obviously surprised them – and paid the price.
Constable Jones’s face grew thoughtful. The story which Winston had told him suddenly did not seem so fantastic after all. Perhaps he really had seen his daughter …
Jones shook his head. No, no, that was impossible. After all, Mary was dead. Or did the thieves perhaps show him his dead daughter, causing Winston to lose his mind in consequence? Rubbish! This was most unlikely. And he would hardly have done away with his wife on this account. Jones turned over this and that possible explanation in his mind, but could arrive at no firm conclusion.
“This is all beyond me,” he muttered and tapped Winston on the shoulder. “Come on.”
Winston got up automatically. With head bowed he accompanied the constable back to the village.
The murder squad met some two hours later. The members of the squad listened to the story but did only the bare minimum, just that which was absolutely necessary. By mid-afternoon, they had already disappeared again.
But the case kept going round and round in Constable Jones’s head. The officials of the murder squad had taken Ronald Winston into custody. One of their inspectors was going to interrogate him.
In all honesty, Constable Jones did not invest too much faith in the local country constabulary. And so, late that evening, he reached a decision, wrote a seven-page report and sent it off to Scotland Yard …
*******************************************************************
Four corpses disappeared!
That was the headline in the “Carlisle News”, a provincial rag of the tabloid type.
Ann Baxter, a London journalist on a motoring holiday in Scotland, deposited the newspaper on the passenger’s seat with a shake of the head. What would her colleagues here dream up next! No doubt they still believed in ghosts!
Ann Baxter was a “modern miss”. She was a great believer in female emancipation and had little time for the petit bourgeoisie. Her sporty trouser suit emphasised her well-formed figure, and her short pageboy haircut made her look like a college girl. Ann was twenty-five years old and not yet married. She had no intention of drifting into the marriage harbour until she was at least thirty.
As Ann Baxter turned out of the exit from the small petrol station, she put her foot down hard on the accelerator. The engine of her bright-red MG roared impressively. The petrol pump attendant looked after her as she raced off, and began to feel nocturnal desires …
The country road was in a pretty good state of repair, so Ann could let her fast little car show what it could do.
“It’s time you looked for a hotel,” she muttered to herself and put her foot down even harder. The next village – she knew from the map – was called Middlesbury, and that was where Ann Baxter would spend the night.
The hilly and forested Scottish landscape exerted a special charm over Ann Baxter. Somehow she felt free, liberated from the oppressive weight of the daily round.
“I’m going to have myself a marvellous holiday,” Ann thought.
A signpost flashed by: Middlesbury - 2 miles.
A short time later the car pulled up in the village. It was a cosy little nest, with friendly-looking houses and a large main road – although Ann Baxter could not help but notice that very few people were actually out and about in the open. She had no problem parking. She stopped her snappy little vehicle in front of an inn. “Paddy’s Inn”, it said on the sign in red lettering above the entrance. Ann Baxter manoeuvred herself out of the MG, picked up her light suitcase, placed it on the pavement and locked the car. As she was straightening herself up again, her gaze chanced to turn northwards. Now, just before sunset, the air was particularly clear. So Ann Baxter got a good view of the gloomy castle that was perched high up on the rocks above.
My Goodness, does that place look haunted! Ann Baxter thought to herself and felt goose pimples involuntarily creep up her skin. Rubbish! She scolded herself at once for such silly thoughts, and gave a little laugh. Shaking her head, she entered the inn.
Ann Baxter found herself stepping into a dark parlour which houses a long wooden bar and a number of tables. The chairs were likewise of wood, and free of all upholstery. No guests were to be seen in the little pub.
“Hallo!” Ann Baxter called out. “Custom!”
Nobody answered.
Ann knitted her brows.
“Is there anybody here?” This time her voice was louder.
Shuffling steps approached. From out of a door beside the bar stepped a rather elderly man. Ann rested her suitcase on the floor and stood there with her arms on her hips.
“About time, mister! Don’t you want to earn money?”
The man looked at her in surprise. He was small, with a bald head and thick, bushy eyebrows and a potato-style conk of a nose.
“What do you want here?” he asked in an almost comically high voice.
Ann Baxter shook her head. “Something to eat, something to drink, and a bed for the night, of course. Is that so strange to you? I thought this was meant to be a guesthouse!”
“To be sure,” the old man smiled. “Certainly. My apologies, Miss. But we’re not used to strangers here. Especially women. I’ll get your room ready for you right away.”
“Good,” said Ann. “But bring me something to drink first. Fruit juice, if you’ve got any?”
“Certainly, Miss, certainly,” the landlord replied obsequiously.
Ann received her fruit juice and sat down at one of the tables. Then she ordered something to eat: scrambled eggs with ham and bread.
The young journalist had chosen her place well. She was sitting directly next to the window and could comfortably overlook the street.
The twilight slowly began to fall. The shadows of dusk already lay across the village. Ann Baxter was more and more surprised that she couldn’t see anybody in the street. Nor did any guest enter the pub.
“Funny,” thought Anne and lit herself a cigarette.
“Your meal, Miss.”
The landlord had crept almost inaudibly up to Ann’s table. The girl thanked him with a friendly nod of her head, stubbed out her cigarette and applied herself to the food with relish.
When the landlord returned a quarter-of-an-hour later to clear away the things, Ann detained him.
“Tell me, Mr. ….?”
“McDuff. Paddy McDuff.”
OK, right, McDuff. What’s going on here?”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand you, Miss.”
“Let me express myself more clearly: why are there no people here? Why are the streets all empty? And why no customers here at the inn? I don’t understand.”
“You’re right: you wouldn’t understand,” the landlord said quickly and attempted to move off.
“Just a moment.” Ann grabbed hold of the sleeve of the man’s jacket. “I want to know, now.”
The landlord looked at her thoughtfully. Then he sat down. “Very well, I’ll tell you, Miss. The dead have come back to life.” He spoke the last sentence in a mere whisper. Ann, who had just been sipping an after-dinner whisky, spluttered.
“What did you say?”
The landlord’s face clouded over. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“No, I do, I do – I believe you,” Ann attempted to mollify the old man. “But it came as too much of a surprise for me just now. I am actually very interested in the story. Would you do me the favour of telling it to me?”
The wall lights, which by this time were turned on, cast dark shadows upon the old man’s face. There was almost total silence. Ann Baxter suddenly shivered. She found the atmosphere constricting.
The landlord nodded. “I’ll tell you the story, Miss. But it is not a good story. Listen.”
And the old man began to report. He told of the Winston family, whose dead daughter had come back to life and committed the most horrific murders. Ann Baxter, the level-headed, realistic girl from London, felt shiver after shiver run down her spine. To be sure, she had read her share of ghost stories; but the way the old man delivered his tale had something of the truth about it. After he had finished speaking, there was a moment’s silence. Then Ann put on a somewhat inhibited smile and asked, “But you’re surely not serious, Mr. McDuff?”
“I am utterly serious, Miss …?”
“Baxter. Ann Baxter. Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner.”
“It all happened just as I’ve told you,” the old man continued. “And there will be more dead to come back. Believe me, Miss Baxter.”
Ann did not know what to make of the story. She remembered the newspaper that was lying on the passenger seat of her car. Four corpses had vanished, said the headline. Could there really be a connection between that newspaper report and the old man’s tale?
Ann was too much of a reporter not to feel interested in this story.
“I’ll stay, Mr. McDuff. I’ll take the room for a week.”
The landlord nodded.
“I don’t wish to pry into your affairs, Miss Baxter. But does your staying on here maybe have something to do with the events that have occurred in this part of the world?”
“Indeed it does, Mr. McDuff. I should very much like to meet one of the dead folk who spook about this area …”
The old man gave Ann a serious look. “If I were you, I’d drive away from this place as far as you can get, Miss.”
“No, no, my dear sir. There can be no question of that. Maybe I can help clear up the murder of the cemetery attendant. I’ve always been interested in criminology.”
“You know best, Miss.”
Ann Baxter laid her hand on McDuff’s arm. “And now tell me how I get to the castle.”
The landlord jumped as if he had just received an electric shock. “For God’s sake! The castle is cursed. None of the villagers dares go up there.”
“But I’m not one of the inhabitants here,” smiled Ann. “By the way, who does the castle belong to?”
The landlord stirred uneasily on his chair. “We don’t really know that ourselves. A stranger bought the castle. He has never come down to us in the village. Only once a month a car from the main town in the district delivers food to the place. A few people have spoken with the driver. But he wasn’t able to tell us much, either. He is only allowed to drive into the castle courtyard and unload the provisions. We don’t want to know any more, in any case.”
“But I do,” said Ann Baxter, and got up from her chair. The landlord warned her again.
“Turn back, Miss Baxter. Drive away to some other place. Don’t stay here, don’t start making enquiries. It’s in your own best interest not to do so.”
Ann slapped the man jovially on the shoulder. “Have no fear, Mr. McDuff. I am not so easily intimidated. Good night!”
Ann Baxter went up to her room and immediately threw herself onto the bed. But she could not sleep. All night long, the insistent words of the old man kept going round and round in her head, like some haunting spirit …
*******************************************************************
New Scotland Yard!
A police organisation in which tradition is paired with progress.
The new building towered up into the overcast sky like the point of a dagger.
John Sinclair, thirty years young, of dark-blond hair, blue eyes and almost six feet three inches in height, had just sat down in the canteen over his lunch when the announcement came over the Tannoy that he was to report to his boss immediately.
With a sigh, John left his roast beef, winked across at the pretty waitress, and got into the lift, which took him to the tenth floor.
Superintendent Powell sat behind his writing desk like a giant baboon and cast a sharp glance at the Inspector through the thick lenses of his glasses as he entered. Powell was a lean type, who suffered from asthma and abhorred alcohol. Still, it took all sorts to make a world! Despite everything, he was a born tactician and organiser.
“Take a seat and have a look at this letter, John,” Powell said, handing the Inspector several closely typed sheets of paper.
John Sinclair read the letter with great attentiveness. After about twenty minutes, he placed the sheets of paper on the writing desk.
“Well?” said Superintendent Powell, with emphasis. “What do you think?”
John grinned, somewhat ruefully. “Normally I would say that this Constable Jones here has rather too fertile an imagination. But as things stand – I mean with the disappeared corpses – there really must be something to the whole affair.”
“Exactly,” his superior returned. “John, I want you to handle this case. You are just the right man for the job.”
John Sinclair was the right man indeed. During the years of his studies, he had occupied himself, amongst other things, with parapsychology, that fringe area of psychology. To be sure, he was a realist, but he also knew that there are things which conventional learning cannot explain. This was especially the case with science.
“Do you really believe that my travelling up to Middlesbury will be crowned with success, sir?”
“Yes, I do” Powell replied, getting up from his chair. “It would be best, I think, if you got going today. But be careful, John. I’ve a funny feeling about this case. I would not like to lose my best man! Good luck to you.” The two men shook hands.
John Sinclair was used to this kind of job. And to date, he had always returned in one piece.
First John drove to the national archive centre. The place smelled of dusty old files and floor polish. He had put Constable Jones’s letter in his pocket, and now he took it out again, to read the name of the castle that was mentioned in it.
“Manor Castle?”, the archivist muttered, scratching the back of his bald head. “I’ll have it for you in a second.” He disappeared into the back of the huge archival hall, mumbling to himself. Three minutes later he returned, with a loose-leaf binder in hand. He blew the dust off it and handed the file to John. “I had a quick look myself, sir. If you ask me, it looks like the castle is haunted!” he sagely opined, shaking his head.
“I’m fond of ghosts,” John grinned, and disappeared.
Back at his soberly furnished office, John looked through the file. The contents were partially made up of newspaper articles and old documents. Many of the sheets of paper were already yellow with age. John passed his eye swiftly over the initial history of the castle. But the last few pages aroused his interest. They stated that a certain Professor Orgow had acquired the castle some two years before for a mere ten thousand pounds. Orgow hailed from Rumania, but had long lived in England and gave himself over – so the file said – to the academic study of magic and its problems. His colleagues regarded him as a crackpot and had broken off all contact with him. The students at the university where he had formerly lectured had given him the nickname of “the necromancer”. It seemed that he had indeed met with some considerable success in his researches, but his results had never been acknowledged by the scientific Establishment. Quite the contrary - they had actually laughed at him. Apparently bitter and filled with a fervent hatred for mankind, he had withdrawn to the creepy castle, the perfect backdrop to his mysterious investigations. What he was engaged in now, however, could not be determined from the documents.
Thoughtfully, John snapped the file to again. He regarded this Professor Orgow as in no way a crackpot. In fact, he was convinced that the nickname of “the necromancer” was completely justified in the case of this seemingly mad scientist. Even if the man gave the impression of being rather peculiar, even bizarre, John knew that precisely these types can display abilities with which they astonish those around them or even plunge them into fear and terror. Probably that was the case here too. Everything pointed to it, anyway.
John wedged the file under his arm, got into his silver-grey Bentley – the only luxury he could afford – and drove home. Without further ado he packed a suitcase and half an hour later set off for the north – for Scotland. He spent the night at an inn, and arrived in Middlesbury the following morning.
The little village made a sleepy kind of impression upon him – quite unlike the girl who ran across John’s path as he was looking for a hotel. John stopped the car, let down the window and politely enquired after a hotel. The girl furled her brow when she saw the Bentley.
“Are you lost, mister?”
“Not at all,” John smiled. “I want to take a holiday here.”
“A man of your income bracket usually flies off to the south or the Bahamas. But a holiday here in Scotland ….?!”
“It’s a matter of taste,” John replied. “May I ask, then, why you are here, Miss, er, …?”
“Baxter. Ann Baxter,” the girl returned. “I’m on holiday here too.”
And they both burst out laughing.
“You can stay the night at Paddy’s Inn,” Ann Baxter explained. “I’m staying there myself. Why don’t you take me along with you? I’ve just finished my morning walk and am looking forward to breakfast.”
“But of course, with pleasure, Miss Baxter,” John responded, opening the car door. “My name is John Sinclair, by the way,” the inspector introduced himself. “I’m interested in old castles and fortresses. I have practical dealings with such things.”
“So you are not here on holiday, then!” Ann observed.
“Whatever!”
“I am a reporter, Mr. Sinclair,” Ann said during the short drive to the hotel. “I’m just here for a bit of relaxation. To get away from the never-ending hectic pace of the editorial office. Even a horse couldn’t stand that for too long!”
John smiled. He did not believe Ann Baxter – purely instinctively. She was not the type who hid away in the wilderness when she went on holiday.
John stopped the Bentley in front of Paddy’s Inn. When the two got out, the villagers who were in the street all stuck their heads together and started to whisper. John paid them no heed, but entered the inn with Ann Baxter, settled the formalities with the landlord and likewise ordered breakfast.
They had barely swallowed their first morsel of food when a man came rushing and wheezing into the hostelry.
“Paddy!” he called. “Paddy!”
“What’s wrong, Buck?” the landlord asked grumpily.
The man had to catch his breath first before he could speak any further.
“He’s hanged himself,” the man gasped.
“Who?”
“Ronald Winston. Yes, he’s hanged himself in his cell. Paddy, I tell you, the Winston family is cursed.” The man confided the last words in a whisper.
John Sinclair noticed how Ann Baxter shuddered. What did she know about this Winston family? John put down his knife and fork. He turned to Ann Baxter, who was sitting there as if frozen to her chair. “Who was this Ronald Winston?”
“A villager.”
John Sinclair looked at Ann sceptically. “You know a thing or two, don’t you, Miss Baxter? You seem to have been in this place some time already.”
Ann’s manner grew even more dismissive. “Why are you interested in this?”
John smiled. “I was observing you, Miss Baxter. The death of this man seemed very much to affect you. You started visibly. I seriously doubt that you are really just on holiday here. Maybe there’s something else …”
“Oh, you’re imagining all this,” Ann Baxter retorted, pertly. She stood up. “Goodbye, Mr. Sinclair.”
John wanted to hold her back, but then decided against it. By this time, Buck – who had delivered the news of Winston’s death – had grown calmer. He was already downing his third whisky. John went over and sat beside him at the bar. There was no sign of the landlord for that moment.
“Strange things seem to be going on round here,” John said.
Buck nodded vigorously. “You can say that again, mister. Things that are not just strange, but uncanny.”
“How do you mean?”
Buck leaned forward. “The dead are returning to life,” he whispered.
“But that’s impossible.”
“No it’s not. Mary Winston, who was meant to be buried three days ago, came back and murdered her mother and her little brother. And then there was the old cemetery attendant: the dead ones in the mortuary did for him. I heard all about it from an acquaintance of mine.”
John shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“But it’s true: the dead ones did it. The murder squad couldn’t even find any fingerprints. Constable Jones told me so himself.”
“The murderers might have worn gloves.”
“No,” Buck declared emphatically. “It was the dead ones, believe me. The uncanny one himself is bringing them back to life.”
“And who might this ‘uncanny one’ be?” John asked, amused.
“The professor up at the old castle,” Buck whispered fearfully. “People say he’s a vampire, a warlock, a necromancer! Nobody dares enter his castle.”
John laughed out loud. “But that’s all fairy tales to frighten the children.”
At that moment, the landlord returned. He called over to Buck, asking him to give him a hand in the cellar.
John Sinclair went out too. Outside, the sky was clear and the air fresh. A pale autumn sun shone in the sky. John Sinclair walked to the end of the village. His gaze passed over the countryside and came to rest on the gloomy old castle on top of the rocks. The inspector studied Manor Castle for quite a while. But he could discern no movement there. He resolved to pay this strange ancient ruin a visit that very night. Then he went back again and asked one of the villagers the way to the police station. Strangely enough, the little stone building was situated in a side street. The heavy entrance door was open. John Sinclair immediately found himself in the waiting room. A filing cabinet and its contents, a picture of the Queen, two chairs and an old writing desk were all the furniture that it was able to boast. Behind the writing desk sat a bear of a man, who got up as John entered.
“I’m Constable Jones,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr. …?”
“My name is John Sinclair. Inspector Sinclair, Scotland Yard, Constable.”
“Oh!” The policeman immediately and involuntarily stood to attention.
“No need for any ceremony,” John smiled and sat down on a hard office chair. Jones likewise resumed his seat.
“We received your letter,” John began. “And we read it with much interest, I can tell you. It was immediately clear to us that there was something in what you say. That’s why I’m here, Constable. I suggest that you tell me everything again, in exact detail.”
Constable Jones nodded eagerly and began his report. John listened attentively. Not once did he interrupt Jones, not even with a single word. When the policeman had finished, John nodded. “Of course, there are a few questions I’d like to ask you, Constable.”
“Please go ahead, sir.”
“Did the murder squad examine the ashes of the dead woman?”
Jones went red. “No,” he admitted. “When I returned to the house to secure the evidence, the ashes had vanished.”
“How so?”
“The neighbours had come into the kitchen out of sheer curiosity,” the constable said. “After that, the ashes had been removed – and nobody would admit responsibility for their disappearance.”
“Pity,” said John. “But carry on. Have you already received the murder-squad reports from Carlisle?”
“No, sir. My colleagues say they are overloaded with work at present. So much has happened recently. In addition to Mary Winston, other corpses have also disappeared. And all these cases are being handled by my colleagues in Carlisle.”
“But these other dead bodies have not suddenly re-appeared, I take it?” John surmised.
“Correct. At least, we’ve heard nothing about it if they have.”
“You talk as though you yourself believed in the return of the dead!” said John.
The constable stirred uncomfortably on his chair.
“Well, almost,” he finally confessed. “Things happen here that truly are inexplicable. Look sir, I grew up here. The inhabitants of these parts really do believe in the supernatural. Me too. And recent events have proven me right.”
“Nothing has been proven yet.”
“Nevertheless, sir. I have the feeling that something dreadful is going to happen …”
“There’s no room for apprehension here,” said John. “In any case, I intend to take a closer look at the castle – this very night.”
The constable swallowed. “Isn’t that too dangerous? I mean – I fear that you might be … running to your own death., sir.”
“That’s a risk I am prepared to take. But if, contrary to my expectations, I should not be back by tomorrow, inform Scotland Yard. Right, now I’ve got another question for you. Who or what is this Ann Baxter? I have just encountered her.”
“She is a journalist,” Jones replied.
“That’s what she told me, too. But I can’t escape the feeling that she’s doing more than just having a holiday here. The suicide of this Mr. Winston seemed to affect her quite a bit.”
The constable shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t really had much to do with the lady. She just came to me recently and enquired about the castle and its owner – pretty intensively, I must say. She also asked around in the village, and naturally the inhabitants will have told her about the uncanny goings-on here in Middlesbury.”
At the same moment the door of the little police station opened, and Ann Baxter rushed into the room.
“Constable, I …”
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw John sitting there on the chair.
“What’s going on here?” she asked in amazement. “It was about this man that I wanted to speak to you, Constable.”
Jones was about to answer her, when John gave him a warning look.
“Did you want to make a complaint about me, Miss Baxter?” He gave her a broad smile.
Ann Baxter felt embarrassed. “Not exactly, but your – your …”
She suddenly stuttered.
John Sinclair laughed. “Have no fear, Miss Baxter. I really am a harmless fellow. I was just asking Constable Jones about the castles and fortresses in this area. You know, I deal in such things.” John deliberately concealed his true profession. Now Constable Jones also knew what he was pretending to be.
“In any case, I’m leaving tomorrow, Miss Baxter. So I won’t be a burden to you any longer.”
Ann went red. “I didn’t mean that, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Me neither,” John smiled. Then he turned to the constable once again. “Many thanks for your advice, sir. I’ll drive further on to Aberdeen.” As he spoke these last words, he gave Jones a wink. He also took his leave of Ann Baxter.
He stopped for a moment in front of the door. So he involuntarily heard Ann Baxter’s words:
“I’m going to pay a visit to that Manor Castle. And not even you can stop me, Constable!”
******************************************************************
The shadows of twilight already lay heavy across the land as Ann Baxter approached the castle. She was going on foot, having left her car down below in the village. Nobody was to see her arrival.
The path leading up to the castle was steep. Ann was sweating, despite the cold wind that always blew in this coastal region.
It had already grown dark when she reached Manor Castle. The rusty iron gates were open and were squeaking to and fro in the wind. Ann Baxter slipped inside the interior courtyard of the castle. She listened attentively. Somewhere an owl was screeching in tones of lamentation. Then a raven flew over her head, squawking discordantly. Weeds and gnarled bushes grew in profusion in the inner courtyard, and the wind whispered through the twigs.
Ann’s eyes soon grew accustomed to the darkness. She scanned the great courtyard once more, then ran quickly across to the castle. She pressed herself close to the cracked wall. She wanted to try to enter the castle through a side entrance; so she crept further, always keeping close to the wall. A few minutes later she reached the east side of the castle, and therewith one of the four towers.
Ann quickly switched on her pen torch and made out an old wooden door, through which she could gain entry into the tower. She hesitated for a moment. An uneasy feeling had suddenly come upon her. Goose pimples ran up and down her flesh like pointed needles. “Don’t do it,” an inner voice told her. “Go back, quickly!”
Ann ignored the warning. She took a deep breath, thereby giving herself more courage, and pressed resolutely down upon the heavy handle. With a sustained groan, the door swung open. Ann involuntarily pulled in her head as she entered the tower. Spiders’ webs tickled her face, and bats started up in fright.
Ann stopped still. It was as silent as the grave. The journalist wryly thought to herself that anyone miles away would be able to hear her heart beating. But she plucked up courage and switched on her torch again.
She saw the first few steps of a winding staircase. It led both upwards and downwards. Ann’s hands trembled as she mounted the staircase. The journalist decided to go down. She took the stone steps singly, one by one, always keeping to the inner edge of the staircase. Unconsciously she counted the steps. “Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven …” With a loud crash, the door to the tower above slammed to. As if lashed by a whip, Ann Baxter jumped back. She knew for a fact that she had left the door open. Was it merely the wind that it had blown it shut, or …?
An eruption of sudden, crazy laughter struck Ann as though with physical force. The laugh reverberated uncannily throughout the tower, growing louder and returning as an echo.
Noises up above on the steps. Footsteps! Ann Baxter was seized by panic. She spun round and clicked on her torch …
“Aaaahh!”
Ann’s scream rang throughout the tower. The beam of her little torch revealed an eerie figure. Ann Baxter only saw the frightful face and the upper torso, but that was enough to propel her as if pursued by furies down the steps. She held the little torch in a desperate grip. She could easily have tumbled down the steps and broken her neck; but she had no such thoughts at that time – the only thing that mattered to her was: escape!
Despite gasping for breath, Ann could hear the footfall of the man behind her.
Luck was on Ann’s side, however: she reached the end of the spiral staircase in one piece.
But where to now? No door, no passage – nothing.
And the uncanny figure was creeping ever closer.
Ann pressed her back against a cold, stone wall. Shudders of terror ran down her whole body. Her hands and legs shook like jelly.
Tap, tap, tap. The steps grew louder, closer.
Then they ceased altogether.
Ann did not dare raise her arm with the little torch. Suddenly there was the maniacal laughter again. The tiny torch slipped from Ann’s trembling fingers and landed on the ground, where it continued to shine.
The laughter broke off abruptly. Ann Baxter shrank back, step by step. “You must try to get to the back of this monster,” she said to herself, “and then run up the steps again.”
Ann darted forward. A shadow darkened the circle of torchlight. Then the torch was crushed underfoot with a chilling crunch.
Total darkness!
And in the darkness a crazed giggling.
Unconsciously, Ann opened her eyes wide. She was suddenly no longer capable of thought.
Hot breath strafed her face. The eerie creature had reached her. And the giggling came again – as two hands placed themselves about Ann’s neck. Ann Baxter felt the cold fingers squeezing without mercy. She could not get any more air. Choking, Ann Baxter began to cave in upon herself. Her hands flailed about wildly and out of all control.
And the strangler continued to giggle like a lunatic.
Veils of mist rose up before Ann’s vision – veils of unconsciousness. And suddenly – the pressure upon her throat eased and Ann was able to breathe freely again. The stuffy, stale air seemed like pure ozone to her.
A voice uttered some words that Ann did not understand. A harsh light struck her eyes. Ann Baxter looked up. She saw a hand holding a torch, the light of which dazzled her.
“Get up!” the voice commanded.
Automatically, Ann obeyed. Her knees trembled.
“Follow me!” The man turned around. Ann slowly followed behind him. The uncanny person who had almost strangled her likewise followed behind. His torch shed sufficient light for Ann to be able to see her surroundings relatively clearly. She could also see from where the man had come. A block of rock in the stone wall had moved to one side and disclosed a secret passage.
Stooping, the three persons passed along this passageway. A few minutes later they reached a laboratory. Ann looked about her, anxiously. Big thick wax candles were flickering on wooden tables. They diffused an odd smell. Fresh air penetrated the eerie laboratory through some shaft or other.
The man with the torch turned round. Ann Baxter saw a gaunt face, across which the skin was stretched as taut as a parchment. An uncanny fire was burning in the deep-set eyes. The man was dressed in a black cloak, and his skeletal hands twitched nervously.
Ann Baxter attempted a smile. “Many thanks for rescuing me from this monster,” she croaked. Her throat still hurt her, and speaking was difficult.
The man placed the torch on a table.
“You entered my realm,” he suddenly said, with a voice that seemed to rise up from the grave. “I, Professor Orgow, the necromancer, am master of life and death. But you will leave my realm once again.”
Ann breathed a sigh of relief. Lucky once more, it appeared. But the journalist had not noticed the threatening undertone in Orgow’s voice. Ann Baxter had no idea of the terror which the next few minutes would bring her …
*******************************************************************
The necromancer advanced slowly towards the journalist. The flickering candlelight distorted his face into what looked like a terribly hideous mask. Ann involuntarily shrank back against the wall.
“You are going to die,” Orgow whispered, menacingly. Every syllable of his sentence cut into Ann’s brain like a glowing sword. The words had sounded too resolute and firm. Everything began to whirl before Ann’s eyes. Once again, the journalist screwed up all her courage …
“But – but why did you rescue me just now?” she stammered.
Professor Orgow gave her a cruel smile. “I need more information from you: your name, where you are from, and what they say about me down in the village. Go on - talk!”
Ann’s eyes darted across to the strangler, who was crouching down in the corner, staring at her.
“I – I …,” she began.
“Talk!”
Orgow stepped right up to the journalist. His black eyes shone with fiery demonic light.
“I – I am from London,” Ann panted, in a suffocated tone of voice. “I wanted to have a holiday here in Middlesbury. This castle – it interested me. I …”
“What did they tell you in the village?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Ann responded, in torment.
“You are lying.” The necromancer stared at the journalist with eyes that seemed to penetrate right to her soul. A weird fire seemed to radiate from those eyes. Hypnosis! The thought suddenly shot into Ann’s mind. She looked down at the ground. Her hands dug into the rough-hewn stonework like claws. Ann felt her fingernails breaking off and her fingertips bleeding.
An ice-cold, bony hand placed itself around her throat. Involuntarily, Ann turned her head aside. Now she saw the eyes of the professor right before her. His narrow, dry lips opened. Spittle trickled from the corners of his mouth.
Those dead-cold hands! The blood in Ann’s veins seemed to chill.
“Come with me,” the professor whispered. “Come with me into Lara’s realm.”
The fingers released their grip on Ann’s throat.
“Trough there!” The professor’s arm pointed to a slender opening that was scarcely the size of a man. Ann obeyed as if under external compulsion. Step by step she moved towards the opening. Behind her, Orgow muttered incomprehensible words. Ann stopped short. A feeling of vertigo had suddenly come over her.
“Go on!”
Ann obeyed. Hesitantly she stopped in front of the pitch-dark room. She turned round briefly. Professor Orgow was standing behind her with a candle in his hand. The flickering light was just enough to make out part of the room. Orgow jabbed Ann in the back with his bony fingers. The journalist took a few more steps forward. A sickly-sweet smell struck her nose …
Now Orgow, too, had entered the room. Full of horror, Ann let out a scream. Her glances passed over the three corpses and remained fixed on the open sarcophagus.
Ann’s scream faded into quiet, pitiful whimpering. She pressed her hands against her eyes with a violent movement. Close beside her she felt Orgow’s breath.
“Look! Look at the sarcophagus,” he whispered. “Lara lies there. She alone has the power to awaken the dead. It was she who brought Mary back to life. Mary Winston – you know of her, don’t you?”
Ann nodded, sobbing.
“That is good. That is very good. Have you seen Mary?”
Ann shook her head. “I have – I have – heard about her,” she managed to get out, panting. “She - turned to dust, people say.”
Orgow burst out into shrill laughter. “That is good. Nobody will be able to find Mary any more. And nobody knows who brought her back to life.”
Suddenly the necromancer seized Ann by the shoulders. His sharp fingernails dug into her flesh.
“Listen. Lara has grown strong. She will prove her strength this very night. And she will begin with you!”
Begin, begin: the word struck against Ann’s consciousness like the blows of a hammer. And then she comprehended: Lara could not in the least begin with her, as she, Ann, was not yet dead. Dead? What was it that Orgow had said?
“I don’t want to die!” Ann yelled, with all the strength that remained to her. “I don’t want to die!” She threw out both fists – straight into the necromancer’s face. Orgow staggered back from the force of the blow. But Ann no longer saw anything. Like some hunted animal she dashed through the narrow defile, ran into the laboratory, heard Orgow’s screaming behind her and – stopped dead in her tracks, as if struck by lightning, right in front of - the strangler!
Driven by murder-lust, he lurched towards Ann and blocked her way to the liberating steps.
The woman was overcome by panic. At a loss to know what to do, Ann cast about, trying to grab hold of anything with which to defend herself …
And then the man threw himself at her. Ann Baxter crashed to the ground, stiff as a board, banging the back of her head painfully as she did so. She wanted to say something, but her voice was paralysed.
Two shovel-like hands made a move for her throat and slightly lifted her head. Once again Ann was looking into the eyes of the strangler. Ann knew that this time there would be no escape. A terrible pain suddenly bit into the nape of her neck, and then the shadows of death descended upon her.
The gruesome figure slowly straightened up. He stared with dull, expressionless eyes at Ann Baxter, whose neck he had just snapped …
******************************************************************
That afternoon, John Sinclair went back to the inn. It was fairly busy, which suited the inspector. He sat down at a table with several villagers, ordered a large whisky and tried to fall into conversation with the men.
But these people were too fearful. As soon as John steered the topic of conversation towards the strange events of recent days, they lapsed into a stubborn silence.
Only one of them said, “These are things, mister, that no one can explain. The powers of darkness have come upon us.”
“Well in that case – there’s probably nothing to be done,” John smiled and got up from his seat. “Anyway, many thanks.”
The men nodded – and said nothing.
Paddy, the landlord, was keeping himself busy, with a sour face, behind the big wooden bar. It was quite evident that he did not particularly like John and especially his constant questioning.
“Is Miss Baxter still in her room?” John enquired in a friendly manner.
Paddy looked at him grumpily and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“But Paddy! Don’t be so stubborn. You can’t stand me, OK. But please answer me this one question, and then you’ll be rid of me.”
Paddy thought for a moment. Then he condescended to reply. “She has gone off.”
John started. That was not at all to his liking. He would not have thought that Ann Baxter would disappear so soon. God damn it! The girl was in mortal danger.
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No.”
The last question was superfluous, since John already knew Ann’s destination. Nevertheless, he wanted to make sure that Ann had not perhaps driven off to some other place.
John Sinclair thanked the landlord and went to his room. There he got changed. He slipped on a dark polo-neck jumper, put on a pair of shoes with stout crepe soles, slipped into his short black leather waistcoat, put a number of things in his pocket and last of all slid his pistol, his Beretta, into its holster. Then John pelted downstairs again.
His car was still parked in front of the inn. He wedged himself behind the steering wheel and drove off. All his instincts told him that every second counted …
****************************************************************
Wheezing, the necromancer rose to his feet. He had fallen upon the sarcophagus and banged his elbow. Orgow now cast a glance at Lara. She had registered nothing of the struggle. Now as before she lay in a deep hypnotic trance.
The uncanny professor staggered into his laboratory. A devilish grin played about his lips when he saw Ann - dead before him. His accomplice was leaning against the wall, staring vacantly into empty space with expressionless eyes. His huge shovel-like hands were twitching nervously.
“You have done well,” the professor praised him. “Pick up the dead woman now and place her on the table.” The murderer obeyed.
“Go upstairs,” the professor continued. “Take your friend with you and see that no one disturbs us.” Like a robot, the man obeyed his orders. Orgow looked after him. His two assistants were mere putty in his hands. He had brought them with him from Rumania many years back, just as he had Lara. They didn’t want him in his homeland; they had no understanding for his research. Even here in Scotland, he had been rejected. And now he was going to take a terrible revenge. He, Professor Orgow, the necromancer, would show them. Horror would swoop down upon the land.
Professor Orgow stepped up to a wooden bench and took hold of a beaker filled with thick, red fluid. He stirred the mixture again and put the glass to one side. He then stalked with stiff steps into the adjoining room. The candle in his hand trembled as he bent over Lara.
Sotto voce, he mumbled some incomprehensible words, until Lara began to stir. As if in slow motion, she opened her eyes, met the hypnotic gaze of the professor and slowly eased herself up. Carefully she rose from her sarcophagus.
“Come,” Orgow whispered. “Come with me.”
The hypnotised medium followed him into his laboratory. Orgow hurried over to the wooden bench and picked up the beaker full of red fluid. He extended his arm to Lara, who was standing next to dead Ann.
“Drink!” Orgow breathed heavily. “Drink it all up!”
Lara, the medium with the bloodless face and the long black hair, drank. The viscous liquid ran slowly down her throat. A few drops dribbled down her chin. It resembled blood.
Then the glass was empty. Lara simply dropped it to the ground, where it shattered into a thousand splinters.
But a change was now transpiring in the medium. She was beginning to blossom and bloom. Currents of energy seemed to pulse through her body. Little lights danced in her eyes.
Professor Orgow groaned: yes, he had done it! This time Lara would have sufficient strength not only to awaken one but hundreds of dead. That very night. It would indeed turn out to be the night of the living dead.
“Awaken her!” Professor Orgow whispered, huskily.
Lara turned towards dead Ann. Indefinable sounds issued from Lara’s throat, as she made strange circular motions over the poor woman’s corpse with her hands. Lara’s voice grew louder, more insistent. Orgow’s eyes were glued to her lips, as if by magic.
And then – Ann moved! Her face began to twitch, her fingers to stir, and all the while, Lara was speaking her mysterious words of invocation at her.
Professor Orgow stepped back. The spectacle fascinated him. The first time it had been too much for him, but now …
Ann Baxter stood up. Like a puppet, with a strangely twisted neck.
Lara drew back before the dead woman. Her voice grew quieter, and then fell silent.
Professor Orgow pulled himself out of his state of numbness and walked towards the dead woman.
“Go out!” he said quietly.
And Ann Baxter went.
Like a sleepwalker, she found her way to the staircase. She mounted the first steps stiffly and clumsily. Her arms swung pendulously at her side.
“Go further!” Orgow whispered.
Ann obeyed like an automaton.
Lara, the medium, stayed behind, with Professor Orgow. They could now leave Ann to herself …
****************************************************************
Ann Baxter soon reached the top of the staircase. There, up above, Orgow’s assistants were waiting. They had lit several candles and now looked at dead Ann. Yet no muscle twitched in their faces. Automatically, they opened the heavy door.
The dead woman stepped out into the great courtyard.
The nightwind was whistling around the castle. The shrubs and bushes were rustling, and a pale moon shed its illumination upon the ghostly scene. Ann Baxter walked on, into the darkness. An inexplicable compulsion drove her forward.
A torch was suddenly and briefly ignited. Light! Light meant life. And life had to be destroyed.
Ann lurched to the left. She had seen the light coming from that direction. A shadow appeared before her. The beam of a torch framed her figure.
“Hallo, Ann,” a voice whispered.
It belonged to John Sinclair.
Ann made no reaction. Inexorably, she advanced towards the inspector.
“Ann, what is the matter?” John asked in surprise. He threw all caution to the winds. A few steps further and Ann would reach him. “Something’s not right here,” John thought to himself.
Ann was directly in front of him now. John hesitated. A creepy feeling overcame him. The sharp light from his torch illuminated the journalist – and suddenly it struck John Sinclair like a whiplash: he knew what had bothered him. It was incredible, horrifying.
Ann Baxter was no longer breathing!
John had no time to ponder this phenomenon any further. Two ice-cold hands were gripping him by the throat. The hands squeezed tight, mercilessly, displaying preternatural strength.
John Sinclair dropped his torch to the ground. In a fraction of a second he realised the dreadful truth: he had to fight for his life with a female corpse!
John Sinclair swiftly raised both fists, groped for the fingers of the dead woman and tried to bend them downwards. He failed.
Already John Sinclair could barely breathe. He dropped to the floor. Ann, who stuck to him as hard as a bur, was dragged down with him. She fell down on the ground beside him. As a result, her grip slightly loosened. With his last ounce of strength, John ripped her hands from his throat. Gasping, he jumped to his feet. Ann still lay on the ground. Yet she, too, was attempting to rise to her feet.
John bent down to reach for his torch. Then he saw the two men, rushing towards him almost soundlessly.
Ann Baxter was unaware of any of this. She had meanwhile clambered up and was continuing on her way. She left the inner courtyard of the castle and passed down the narrow pathway.
People: she sought people. People - whom she could kill …
************************************************************
“OK, all the best, then,” Jim Burns said to his predecessor, depositing his briefcase in the corner and sitting down at the little table.
Jim Burns was a signalman. The little signal house with its many switches and panels was situated on the Carlise-Aberdeen stretch of the line at milestone 36.
Jim made his entries into the signalman’s book, compared times, and lit himself a cigarette. He leaned back in his chair and made himself comfortable. The night shift was not so bad, after all. Not many trains ran at night, and you even had time to read a good detective yarn.
There was a clatter from the telephone. The man from the other station gave notice of an upcoming train. Jim jotted down the times, hung up, and pulled down one of the huge levers. Somewhere along the line the points would now have changed.
The train arrived four minutes later. Jim leaned out of the window and waved to the train driver as he sped by.
Then all was peaceful again. Jim had plenty of time before the next train – the express from Aberdeen to Carlisle. Jim Burns had to change the points for that one too. But first he tucked into his sandwich and had some tea from his thermos flask. Milly, his wife, made good tea. Jim Burns was wholly at peace with himself and the world.
A knocking at the door made him wake up from his meditations. Jim started. Did someone want him for something at this late hour?
There was renewed knocking. The blows on the metal door resounded throughout the little room.
“I’ll bet it’s one of those dossers again,” Jim muttered. “Now just you wait, mate – I’ll show you.”
Jim Burns yanked open the door with a no-nonsense thrust. He already had his greeting ready in his mind and on his lips – when he started back.
In front of him stood a girl. She was blond and sportily dressed and struck Jim as a traveller who had lost her way. The girl did not utter a word. “Maybe she’s too shy,” Jim Burns thought. So he broke the ice for her: “You can come in, Miss, no problem. Please come right in.” Jim Burns knew very well that he was now breaching the rules of his job, but who cared? There was no one to complain, or to condemn him.
The girl stepped inside, in ungainly fashion, with teetering steps. She suddenly halted in the middle of the room – as rigid as a statue.
Jim Burns shut the door. He went over to the little table and cleared away the remnants of his sandwich. Then he asked the girl, “Tell me, miss, are you unable to speak? I can imagine that you …”
He didn’t get any further. Two ice-cold hands suddenly laid themselves about his throat and squeezed without mercy.
Jim felt sharp fingernails penetrating into his flesh, felt the breath leaving his lungs, and then found himself falling forwards to the floor. But the homicidal hands continued to squeeze, giving no quarter and showing no mercy. Jim Burns tried to grab hold of the woman and push her hands away from his throat. All in vain.
Jim Burns’ eyes were almost popping out of their sockets now. His tongue was lolling out of his mouth. Yet – he was still just about able to think: “The train. There will be a catastrophe!” Then he plunged into the dark shaft of death …
It was another two minutes before Ann Baxter let go of her victim. She moved towards the door like a marionette, and soon disappeared into the darkness of the night.
The living dead was in search of new victims …
************************************************************
John Sinclair had no time to concern himself further with Ann Baxter. A murderous punch to the pit of his stomach threw him back. John crashed painfully against the wall of the inner courtyard. But he immediately sprang up again and rammed his head against the chest of his opponent, storming towards him. There was a dull thud as the two men clashed together. John Sinclair saw stars in front of his eyes and felt giddy.
But his opponent was faring no better. He lay on the ground and was gasping for air.
John moved towards him. He wanted to give the man a good grilling and question him about the professor and above all about Ann Baxter.
John was half bent over when the blow struck the back of his neck with the force of a steam hammer. John let out a short groan and fell upon his groggy opponent. Then he knew nothing.
When John came round, he was looking into the face of the man with whom he had fought. The inspector looked further around and saw that he was lying in a great castle hall that was only sparsely lit by a few burning candles.
John’s neck pained him. In a flash, he remembered everything. “I forgot about the second man. What an idiot!” he scolded himself quietly.
Fortunately, he had not been tied up. John moved cautiously. Immediately his guard placed a heavy foot on his chest. John gasped. He had the feeling that the man wanted to smash his rib cage in. John did not move again. He did not want to provoke the man further.
But where was the second ruffian? And above all, where was the professor?
John Sinclair heard footsteps. Then he saw the second man appear at the back of the hall. He resembled his companion down to a T.
The foot was removed from John’s chest. The two men spoke briefly with each other – but so softly that John could not comprehend a single word.
He felt the energy returning to his body. He gently propped himself up on his elbows. From out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the men draw a knife. So, they wanted to do away with him! John suddenly felt icy cold.
The man with the knife glided towards him. At the same moment, John rolled over onto his side and kicked the fellow in the shins with both feet. Caught unprepared by this assault, the man let out a howl of pain. As quick as a flash, John was on his feet again. He knew that every second counted now.
His hefty swing at the man hit home and resounded throughout the knife-wielding villain’s jaw. The fellow flew diagonally through the air and fell crashing against a table.
But now the second man was on the attack. He was swinging a wrought-iron candlestick, intent on smashing John’s skull. John, practised karate and Judo fighter that he was, evaded with a side step. The candlestick whistled past him at a hair’s breadth. The attacker could no longer check the force of his blow and stumbled forward.
John’s karate chop caught him in the nape of the neck. The man gasped, choked and landed floundering on the stone floor.
Meanwhile, attacker Number One had recovered. John saw the movement of his arm from out of the corner of his eye. With a pike-dive, the inspector slid across the hall. The knife whistled past him like a silver flash of lightning and clattered against the wall. John was immediately by the side of the knife-wielder. Before the man knew what was happening, John had knocked the breath out of his lungs with two mighty blows. Panting and gasping, and without cover, the knife man stood before him. John delivered a textbook karate blow. His opponent had nothing to offer in return. He lay himself down to sleep ….!
John now dealt with the other thug, and then tied the two assailants up with the cords hanging down beside the thick curtains at the windows.
John wiped the sweat from his brow. He had seen off two men. Good. But he was not one step closer to his actual goal. Where was Professor Orgow? And where had the dead Ann Baxter disappeared to?
John no longer had any doubt that Ann was indeed dead. But who had turned her into this living dead? And above all, how?
John Sinclair walked across the hall and discovered the staircase leading to down below. He took out his pistol and climbed down the first few steps. The deeper he descended, the worse the air became. John had the feeling of climbing down into the realm of the dead. It was still. Unnaturally still. All of a sudden he had the feeling of being the only human being in the entire castle.
What was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps?
John Sinclair was actually disappointed when he saw just the laboratory. He had almost expected it. He looked at everything very carefully, and discovered the narrow opening leading to the adjacent room. As there were candles burning down here and John’s torch was lying upstairs in the courtyard, he took hold of one of the burning candles and inserted it through the narrow opening leading into the next-door room.
He stopped short, as if he had run into an invisible wall. His gaze was riveted by the sarcophagus and the three corpses in the corner. John’s stomach rebelled. The inspector turned away and went back into the laboratory.
What dreadful scene had played itself out in this little room? For whom was the sarcophagus intended? John began to calculate. The three corpses in the corner, plus Mary Winston – if one added her - : that made four. What had the newspapers said? Four corpses had disappeared. John was certain that he had just found three of them.
But where was Professor Orgow? What was he planning?
John suddenly sensed that the terrors of the night were still far from over …
***********************************************************
While John Sinclair was fighting in the castle courtyard with the two men, the necromancer had been making his preparations. He had induced Lara to drink all of the remaining fluid that he still possessed. Then he had crept with his medium along the secret passageway into the castle tower. The two swiftly mounted the staircase, Orgow driven by a sinister compulsion. He knew all too well that the decisive moment was approaching. He would strike this very night.
Orgow opened the door of the tower with trembling hands. Cautiously he peered about him. The courtyard was empty. A diabolical smile played about Orgow’s thin lips as he beckoned to Lara to follow him.
The two glided swiftly across the courtyard like shadows. Once beyond the wall, they turned to the right. Orgow had hidden his old delivery van there. It was well camouflaged amongst the bushes.
Orgow and Lara climbed into the driver’s cab. The motor started up immediately, and then the van rumbled down the castle road.
Their destination: Middlesbury Cemetery …
**********************************************************
The Aberdeen to Carlisle express raced through the night. The train driver sat with a tense face behind his panel of dials and levers. True, he could cover this stretch of track in his sleep, but nevertheless – rushing along the rails was always a new adventure.
He knew from the guard that the train was not even half full. After all, who likes travelling at night?
The train’s lights burned their way through the darkness. Hills, woods and little villages flitted by, like illustrations out of a picture book. The train driver knew all these places. The next would be Middlesbury. After that there were two more villages where the train likewise did not stop, and then they would be in Carlisle. At 3.15a.m. - if he kept the timetable.
The train driver lit a cigarette. Really smoking was prohibited, but nobody bothered about that rule, especially not at night.
The engine driver only saw the blond woman by chance. She was standing there beside the track, transfixed to the spot. Something must have happened, thought the driver, as the train raced by.
A few moments later, Jim Burns’s signalman’s box appeared. The train driver was wondering why Jim was not there, waving to him as usual - when the train suddenly tore down a sidetrack.
The engine driver reacted just seconds later. He braked and simultaneously seized hold of the telephone to contact Carlisle.
Too late. The express smashed with unbelievable force into several stationary goods wagons. There was a screeching of metal; goods wagons and train carriages piled onto and into each other like matchboxes. People screamed and windows shattered with ear-splitting force.
Then everything was quiet. Only the groaning of the injured passengers could be heard.
An hour later all the police, ambulances and fire brigades of the nearby villages were on the scene. Voluntary helpers had also rallied to lend their support.
But the villages were now completely open and defenceless …
****************************************************************
The jarring ring of the telephone jolted Constable Jones out of his sleep. He just about managed to mumble his name into the receiver.
“Full-scale alarm! A train crash at …” The precise location was given. “The fire brigade has been notified,” the hasty voice informed him.
Constable Jones hung up the phone at once and leapt out of bed. His wife, who had also been woken up, looked at him questioningly. As he got dressed, he explained the situation to her.
He buttoned up his uniform jacket on his way to the garage. Already the howl of the fire brigade sirens could clearly be heard. Constable Jones jumped into his Morris and shot off. He drove out of the village, made a small bend and approached the disaster site by short cuts that were impassable to larger vehicles.
Trees and bushes whizzed past in the light of his headlamps. Jones stared concentratedly through the windscreen. He knew that he was driving riskily, but this was a matter of life and death, where every second counted.
The policeman only saw the figure by the side of the road at the last moment. He slammed his foot down hard on the brake. The Morris skidded, but kept to the road.
The figure slowly approached the car – and Jones opened the passenger-seat door.
“What are you doing here at this hour, Miss Baxter?” he asked in surprise. “Come on, get in. I’m in a hurry. There’s been a train crash. I’m sure you can make yourself useful by helping with the rescue efforts.” As he spoke, Jones re-started the engine, which had previously stalled.
Ann Baxter sat down in the passenger seat with stiff, ungainly movements. With her left hand she slammed the door shut. Constable Jones drove off again.
“I really can’t think how this accident could have happened,” he said. “What do you think, Miss Baxter?”
The journalist gave no reply.
Jones knitted his brows. Why didn’t the girl answer?
“Miss Baxter. I …”
Two throttling hands cut short his words. Jones felt the fingers closing about his throat like claws. A dull rattling sound issued from his mouth. Unconsciously, Jones let go of the steering wheel but inadvertently put his foot down on the accelerator. The engine gave a roar. The car sprang forward like a kangaroo, came off the road, collided with a bush and then ran headlong into a tree.
Constable Jones, half unconscious, was thrown forward. His chest smashed painfully against the steering wheel. The windscreen shattered into a shower of splintered glass, which ran down the back of Jones’ neck.
As a result of the fierce impact, the woman’s strangulating grip loosened somewhat. Ann Baxter was thrown off her seat and lay beside it. Little flames were leaping from the engine. Feeling like a trapped animal, Jones cast a quick glance to one side. His gaze met a face that no longer possessed anything human about it. Ann Baxter’s pretty face had become a grotesque and distorted parody of its former self. The journalist was trying to sit up and was stretching out her claw-like hands.
Constable Jones did not understand anything any more. He just acted instinctively. He launched a desperate punch into that twisted face and simultaneously tried to push open the door. Jammed!
You must get out of here! This thought kept thundering through his head. Once again the journalist attempted to attack him. At the same moment, Jones saw the spreading flames. He summoned all his strength one more time and threw himself against the door. Fortunately it gave way, and Jones fell backwards out of the car. His trouser legs were scuffed up and he felt a sharp pain in his right calf. In addition, the woman’s fingernails had scratched him.
Constable Jones rolled over a few times and landed in some bushes. Thorns lacerated his skin.
His car was in bright flames.
The woman! You must save the woman! This was the thought that dominated the policeman’s mind.
He struggled to his feet. But there was nothing more to be done. A circle of fire engulfed the Morris. It was only a question of time before the car exploded.
Then Jones saw Ann Baxter. She was lying across the two front seats. Constable Jones could still make out her distorted face and even her half-open mouth through the dancing flames. The journalist attempted to raise an arm. Jones then saw the flames swallow her up. Her body doubled up, writhed – and then melted away like fat. A soft, mournful and melancholy sound issued from the car.
Jones stood there rooted to the spot. That eerie sound cut to his very quick.
The next moment, the car exploded.
Constable Jones was caught by the shock wave, tossed up into the air and sent crashing head-first against something hard. Then everything went black before his eyes, and he submerged into a deep, dark tunnel …
***************************************************************
The necromancer raced with Lara through the night. They had left the van a short way from the cemetery and now stood before the rusty entrance gates.
Orgow fetched a key from out of his overcoat pocket with shaking hands. Nervously he unlocked the gates and dragged Lara in by the hand after him. They ran past the mortuary, onto the main gravel pathway, and shortly afterwards found themselves standing in front of the graves. Orgow let go of Lara’s hand. His eyes shone as they felt their way along the gravestones. The moon cast its ghostly light upon the cemetery and revealed the foremost graves quite clearly.
The necromancer stood there, still as a statue.
A tawny owl let out a dolorous screech into the night. A breeze sprang up. Whistling and rustling, the wind moved amongst the alder bushes and weeping willows, throwing up autumnal leaves into the air.
Professor Orgow’s lips began to move – yet no sound came from his mouth.
Yes, this was the hour for which he had waited almost his entire life.
Orgow turned to Lara. The girl resembled some horror figure from out of a Dracula film. Her long black hair was fluttering in the night wind, and her white dress shone like a bright speck in the darkness. Lara was replete with strength and energy. Now she could carry out her mission.
“Speak!” the necromancer whispered. “Bring back the dead. You have the power, Lara.”
The medium raised her head, concentrated fully upon her master’s voice and then looked with shining eyes at the graves. She took a few steps to one side and breathed in deeply. Then she began to speak. Slowly, in an unknown language.
Lara raised both hands. The wind caused her dress to billow up.
Professor Orgow held his breath. With fixed gaze he stared at the grave, waiting for the dead body to rise up from out of its stinking, mouldering earth ….
*******************************************************************
John Sinclair ran back into the hall of the castle. The two men with whom he had fought still lay tied up on the ground. John seized one of them by the collar, yanked him up and tossed him onto the nearest chair.
“Now listen well, my friend,” John Sinclair hissed. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”
The thickset thug just stared at him. Now John realised that this man was in a hypnotic trance. Damn! John did not know the “password” to release him from this state. It was the same with the second ruffian.
How could John find Orgow? Where was he? Maybe in Middlesbury? Possibly. At all events, he would have to give it a try.
John Sinclair left the gloomy castle and ran across to his Bentley, which he had parked in a little side path.
During his drive down into the village, he suddenly saw the rotating light of a fire engine. It was leaving Middlesbury in a westerly direction.
What had happened? Did it perhaps have something to do with the creepy professor? John decided to follow the fire engine. The rotating light showed him the way. The siren howled loudly through the night. Behind the fire engine, on the country road, other rescue vehicles were racing along too. An ambulance overtook him.
John was one of the first to reach the scene of the accident. The extent of the disaster could not yet be fully assessed. The police searchlights illuminated a veritable scene of horror. Heavy train compartments had concertinaed into one another like parts of toys. People had been flung through the smashed windows and unhinged doors and either lay still or quietly groaning on the ground. In the train, too, one could hear the moans of the injured.
More and more helpers arrived. John Sinclair did not dither. Through a torn-open train door he managed to get inside one of the carriages, which had half tipped over onto its side. Seeking support from the luggage racks, John pushed himself forward along the compartment. A plangent groaning made John’s ears prick up. A woman was lying on one of the seats with her child. The woman’s head was bleeding and her arm was also badly injured. The child seemed unharmed.
“Please, help us,” the woman begged.
“Of course,” John smiled at her soothingly. He beckoned through one of the open windows to a helper and got him to take the child.
Other assistants entered the carriage. They were trained rescue workers and took care of the badly injured woman.
John Sinclair left the carriage. So many rescue workers had now arrived that he could see to his own affairs.
He found Constable Jones. The policeman was swaying like a drunk towards the scene of the crash. John ran up to him.
“For God’s sake, Jones! What’s wrong?”
The constable looked at him out of flickering eyes. His breathing was stertorous.
“Sinclair! My God, I can’t understand it. I saw her!”
“Who?” John asked quickly.
“The journalist. Ann Baxter. She tried to strangle me.”
“Tell me what happened, Jones,” John demanded.
The constable reported his experience in halting, hesitant words.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked when he had concluded his account.
“I do, Jones. I believe you indeed,” John returned, seriously. “Ann Baxter, who tried to strangle you, was already dead before she was burned up in your car.”
“No!” Constable Jones involuntarily shrank back and put his hand to his throat. “Then – then – what Ronald Winston said about his dead daughter was true after all. I haven’t been able to believe it until now.”
“Yes, it was true,” John Sinclair replied.
Jones covered his eyes with his hand. “I simply cannot comprehend it. My God!”
John Sinclair seized his arm. “We have no time to wonder now how all this came about. We have to do something!”
“But what, Mr. Sinclair?” Jones shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. He was confronted by a situation which he had never experienced before. It was all simply too much for him.
“Listen,” John said hastily. “We’ve got to find this Professor Orgow. They don’t need us so urgently here at the crash site. They’ve got enough rescue workers already. Jones, you know the area better than I. So: where might the Professor have fled to?”
“You mean – he – he might be somewhere in Middlesbury …?”
“It’s possible,” John Sinclair replied. “But where? Does Orgow have any acquaintances in the village?”
“No. He used to have contact with old Smitty. But Smitty’s been dead these past three months.”
“Just a moment. You’ve given me an idea. Dead, you say? To be sure, Orgow is attracted to the dead. Jones, he’ll surely be at the cemetery. Come on!” John Sinclair was already moving as he hastily spoke these words.
The two men ran to the Bentley. “Let us hope that we are not too late,” John thought. “Let us hope and pray …”
****************************************************************
Lara’s voice grew louder, more insistent. Her hands, previously stretched out, now tensed up and became clenched, as if in a shivering fever. Her lips moved in a rhythm that grew faster and ever faster.
The necromancer stared at the burial spot like one transfixed. When would the dead body finally rise up from its grave?
Orgow’s blood was pounding in his ears. The crosses on the gravestones in the cemetery suddenly spun before his eyes, became distorted caricatures, shadows that melted into one another.
Lara’s voice rang out piercingly. Would the dead hear it?
There! The damp earth on the grave began to move!
The necromancer stood rooted to the spot, with his mouth open in a silent cry.
Suddenly all was still again. The grave lay quiet as before. Had it all been a hallucination?
Lara was speaking again.
Once again, the earth began to stir, only this time more vigorously. Little clumps of earth fell to one side. The whole upper layer of earth that covered the grave commenced a sinuous motion. Two empty flower vases toppled over. Brackish water flowed out. Now the heavy wooden cross swayed to one side. It seemed as if the Devil incarnate were about to emerge from that grave.
Orgow trembled. His eyes were riveted to the spot. Suddenly the professor gave a cry and involuntarily shrunk several paces back.
Slowly, as if pulled by a string, a bony, skeletal hand pushed its way up and out, onto the surface of the earth. At the same time a strong gust of wind swept across the pathways and murmured amongst the bushes.
Further and further, the dead body emerged from the depths of the grave. An arm followed, part of a shoulder, the neck, the face …
It was indeed a night of horror.
The dead man had not yet wholly decomposed. Parts of his cheeks were still intact. Tatters of his shroud hung like specks upon his partially fleshless body.
Now the dead man had left his grave. He paused and listened attentively to Lara’s voice.
“He is to go into the village,” Orgow whispered excitedly.
Slowly the corpse began to walk. With small steps, his arms swinging pendulously on both sides, he lurched towards the main pathway.
Orgow drew a deep breath. He had done it. His gaze fell upon the cemetery. The necromancer started, as if stunned by an electric shock. Not only had this corpse alone left its grave. No! Everywhere, the graves were opening up and the dead were rising from their coffins!
The pale moonlight shone upon the eerie figures, who, as if driven by a hidden compulsion, had been brought back into the world of the living.
Not a sound could be heard as the all-but fleshless figures shuffled across the cemetery.
It was, truly, the night of the living dead …
*****************************************************************
John pushed his motor to its utmost limits. Beside him sat Constable Jones with pasty face, hanging on tightly to a safety strap. His lips moved and he muttered, “I still can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it.”
John did not say a word. He had to concentrate wholly on the road ahead of him. The way to the cemetery appeared in his headlights. John braked abruptly and pulled the steering wheel over to the left. The Bentley skidded elegantly onto the cemetery path. John accelerated again. The cemetery wall was already in sight – and so was the old delivery van.
“That van – it belongs to Orgow,” Constable Jones said hurriedly.
“Then our deductions were right,” John Sinclair returned, and braked just in front of the cemetery gates.
The two men swung themselves out of the car and – jumped back in horror.
“But that’s impossible,” Constable Jones groaned, staring with wide-open eyes at the spectacle that presented itself to them. Even John Sinclair, who had seen a thing or two in his life, shuddered at the sight which confronted him.
Uncanny figures were stepping almost silently through the open cemetery gates. They moved like marionettes. John involuntarily reached for his pistol. Constable Jones supported himself against the bonnet of the Bentley. His eyes were fixed, as though hypnotised, upon the dead, whose numbers grew ever greater.
“God, I know most of them,” the constable whispered. “None of them has been under the earth for more than one or two years at the most. Many of them are from the neighbouring villages.”
The dead revenants paid no heed to the two men. They seemed to be going in a pre-determined direction.
“The village!” John Sinclair suddenly exclaimed. “Damn it! They’re making straight for the village.”
Constable Jones stared at the inspector, his eyes wide open in terror.
“Come on, Jones. We have to get to Middlesbury. We must try to save what can still be saved.” John literally threw himself behind the wheel of his Bentley. He was already driving off as Jones tore open the door to the passenger seat. The constable likewise threw himself onto the seat. John sped off.
“The road!” cried Constable Jones. “The road to the village: it’s full of these dead!”
“We can’t worry about that,” John declared, putting his foot down on the accelerator. He simply drove straight into the zombies. Like puppets, they were tossed to all sides. In a fraction of a second the two men saw gruesome, half decayed faces staring at them through the car windows and trying to cling to the Bentley. One dead man coiled his skeletal fingers around the car aerial. He was dragged along for a short stretch of the road, but then went smashing into a tree trunk at the next bend.
The first houses sprang into view. Sounding his hooter wildly, John sped into the village. Seconds later, the first frightened faces showed themselves at the windows. John Sinclair stopped outside Paddy’s Inn, which was the approximate centre of the village. The two men leapt out of the car.
“Listen, Jones,” John explained, hastily. “Round up all the inhabitants. Have you got a secure building here?”
“The school house.”
“Then get them all inside as quickly as possible. Don’t leave anyone out.”
“They are nearly all women and children here,” Jones realised, dismayed. “All the men are helping out with the rescue work. Shall we send a messenger?”
“No. He might run into the clutches of the corpses. I’ll telephone to Carlisle from your police station. Give me the key!”
Jones handed it to him with shaking hands. Meanwhile a number of the inhabitants had gathered around the two men. They had heard John’s last words, and a wave of panic now threatened to sweep over them.
“Try to calm down the people down!” John Sinclair called out to the constable, as he ran off.
He swiftly opened the door of Jones’ little police station, dashed inside, turned on the light and reached for the telephone at once. He knew the number of the Carlisle police station by heart. It seemed to John to take an eternity before somebody at the other end finally answered.
“John Sinclair, Scotland Yard,” the inspector quickly announced himself. “Now, listen to me very carefully.” In a few concise sentences, John explained the whole situation.
“Are you drunk?” the man in Carlisle asked, dryly. “You’re surely having me on. Sleep it off, man ….”
“No, God damn it!” shouted John impatiently. “All hell has broken out here. Send a hundred police officers over here at once. You can drum them up from the neighbouring towns, too.”
“You must be mad,” the man retorted. “We’ve had a train disaster near here. And anyway …”
“Alert the army,” said John – but his interlocutor had already hung up.
Inspector John Sinclair mopped his brow. Exasperated, he threw the telephone receiver back onto its cradle. There was only one thing to do: he had to telephone Scotland Yard.
As good luck would have it, he got through immediately. The man on night duty was an acquaintance of John’s. He did not ask any major questions. John had explained the whole situation to him within five minutes, and his colleague promised to mobilise the military in the vicinity of Carlisle. John Sinclair concluded the conversation and then ran outside.
The inhabitants of the village were all assembling and gesticulating wildly. John found Constable Jones coming out of a neighbour’s house.
“Can you manage?” called the inspector.
“Yes. The people here understand, thank God. I’ve only got three more houses to visit.”
“I’ll see to that, Constable. You go on ahead to the school.”
“Thanks”.
John Sinclair ran through the houses. They were all empty. The occupants had soon recognised what was at stake and had evacuated them. John ran back to the road. An elderly man hobbled up. John took him by the arm and gave him support.
“Where is the school here?” he asked quickly.
“Take the first alleyway on your left, young man. Then you’ll come straight to it. I can’t walk so fast. Don’t worry about me.”
“There’s no question of my leaving you!” said John – and promptly hoisted the old man onto his back. Rather out of breath, he reached the school building. A lamp was burning above the thick wooden door. Constable Jones was the only person standing outside.
“Hurry up, Inspector.”
He set the man down again and let him proceed on his own two feet.
“I’m going to run back again,” he called to the constable.
“For Heaven’s sake, Inspector!”
John Sinclair ran onto the main road again and raced the short way to the centre of the village. The lights were on in many houses, and reached through the windows out into the street.
And then John saw the dead coming. Up above at the entrance to the village, the first figures appeared. It was time for John Sinclair to move. He hastened back to the school. Constable Jones was still standing outside.
“At last!” he greeted the inspector, with relief in his voice. The two men ran into the school. It was an old stone building that had weathered many a storm. Jones locked the big entrance door and leaned against it.
“Now all we can do is pray,” he whispered.
John Sinclair nodded sombrely. Then the two men went into the largest of the classrooms, in which the inhabitants of the village had assembled. They were nearly all women and children. Most of the men were out at the scene of the train crash. The people in the schoolhouse looked at the two policemen with anxious faces.
“What’s going to happen?” sobbed a woman. “Are the dead really coming, Mr. Jones?”
The constable shrugged his shoulders uneasily.
“Calm yourself, Madam,” John smiled. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“No, sir. I don’t believe it. What’s going to happen to the men when they come back home, all unsuspecting?”
John Sinclair breathed in deeply. That thought had occurred to him too. They were going to run straight into the arms of those living corpses. All that one could do at this moment in time was hope that the military would be swifter.
“We’ll find a way,” John comforted the woman. “Very soon the soldiers will be here. Then everything will be fine.”
The woman looked at John with tear-stained eyes. “Yes,” she sobbed. “Then everything will be fine again.”
The other people had huddled together and were whispering excitedly to one another. Suddenly a woman let out a piercing scream. The people in the room gave a start. All eyes turned to this woman.
“Billy!” she screamed. “He is still at home. We forgot him!”
John Sinclair felt goose pimples run up and down his spine.
****************************************************
“Who is Billy?” John turned to the constable.
It took some seconds for Jones to shake himself out of the stupor into which he had fallen. He sobbed: “Billy is a ten-year-old orphan. He lives with his foster parents – the Patton family. Mrs. Patton is away, and her husband is lending a hand at the scene of the crash. Billy is all alone in the house.”
John made his decision within seconds. “Where do the Pattons live?”
“To the left of Paddy’s Inn. But you don’t seriously intend …”
“Yes, I do indeed intend,” John returned. “Unlock the door, Constable.”
The two men hastened to the entrance door, pursued by the anxious glances of the villagers. Trembling, Jones opened the door a slit – just wide enough for John to slip through. John Sinclair nodded to the constable as he stepped out into the open.
Middlesbury lay before him like a ghost town. Nothing indicated the presence of the dead. And yet John knew that they were there – somewhere.
With swift paces John ran in the direction of the main road. He carefully peered around the corner of a house. And then he saw them.
Nearly all of them had gathered in the centre of the village. The light that streamed from the houses illuminated the dreadful scene. The figures stood there like statues, as if waiting for a signal or a sign to set them in motion. John pondered: to reach the house, he had to cross the road – without being noticed, or at least as little as possible. John Sinclair braced his muscles – then sprinted across the road.
Luck was on his side: nobody noticed him as he crossed the road and squeezed himself into a doorway. John breathed in deeply. He could not possibly get into the house through the front door unnoticed. It had to be round the back. Damn, that was hard! How could he find the back of the house in the dark?
But the decision was taken out of his hands. Events took a completely different course – in a terrifying direction.
The sound of a motor reached John’s ears. John squinted and peered down the street. The delivery van! It was rumbling and bumping into the village! It stopped hard in front of the zombies.
A man and a woman got out. The man had to be Professor Orgow. And the woman? John had no idea.
He managed to work his way a few houses further along, so that he could get a better view. John saw that the professor speaking to the woman. Then the man stepped back a few paces.
Now the woman spoke. Yet she seemed to be speaking to the dead. At that precise instant, everything became clear to John and he suddenly understood all the interweaving connections.
The dead beings seemed to have understood the words of the woman and began to move, going in the direction of the houses.
“They’re looking for people,” John thought to himself, horrified. For him, too, the situation was critical now. But the prospects seemed even worse for young Billy, that was for sure. John had scarcely thought this when he jumped, as if struck by a powerful punch.
“Mummy, mummy! I want to get away from here! Please, take me away from here!” the plaintive voice of a child shrilled through the deathly still village. The hair on the back of John’s neck stood up, and he felt chill shudders run down his spine. John could not stay under cover any longer: he sprang out onto the street, pulled out his pistol and ran forward. As he ran, not for one second did he let the others out of his sight.
The necromancer, the woman and the zombies had all turned towards the house as if on command. The woman called out something, and then several of the corpses began to move and press into the house. And all the while, the pitiful voice of the little boy could be heard sounding out through the night.
John fired. Twice. Thrice. He saw the bullets pass straight through the dead men as if through paper. He had reached the first of the corpses. He next heard the professor bellowing and felt a doughy arm around his neck. He dropped his pistol back into its holster, swiftly raised his hands and pulled at the half-decayed dead thing’s hand. All of a sudden – John was holding the detached arm between his fingers.
This frightful moment did not last long. Revolted, he tossed the arm aside.
Orgow’s face now loomed up before him. John smashed his clenched right fist into this repellent man’s mug. From out of the corners of his eyes he saw the professor tumble back – but already a second zombie was clutching at John’s neck. The others had also realised that he was their chief enemy. They closed in on John, almost in a circle.
The thought of the boy lent John unsuspected strength. It was also fortunate that these corpses were only able to move in slow motion, as it were. John succeeded in shaking off this second attacker and ran into the house. Once inside, he slammed the door shut from within, then locked and bolted it as quick as a flash. At the same moment one of the dead must have jammed his arm in between. A virtually decomposed hand fell to the ground with a dull thud.
John Sinclair shook himself. Upstairs, little Billy was screaming like crazy. The zombies! They must have reached his room!
John saw the staircase that led upstairs. He thundered up the steps in massive strides and crashed headlong into a corpse. The dead man stared at him from out of empty eye sockets. Some of his hair still clung to his almost shiny skull. Half of the body, reeking of decay, hung over the banisters. John Sinclair overcame his feeling of nausea and slammed his fist into the barely existent face. The corpse was sent crashing over the banisters to the floor below.
John pressed on. The cries of the child told him which way to go. He found himself in a narrow corridor, at the end of which a door stood open. That must be Billy’s room. John bounded inside.
Three corpses were in the room. Two were standing by the wall, and one was leaning over Billy’s bed. The boy was cowering in a corner, screaming horribly, his eyes big with terror. John dashed forward. He grabbed the corpse by its doughy, unsubstantial hips, dragged it away from Billy’s bed and flung it diagonally across the room. But then the other two advanced towards him. John’s eyes darted around the room in search of a weapon. He knew that bullets were useless.
Then John Sinclair caught sight of a handicraft chest in a corner of the room. A spanner was sticking out of it. The inspector did not hesitate. He grabbed hold of the spanner and slammed it with all his might into the bloated, half-decayed face of the first attacker.
The dead man staggered back, the spanner leaving the contours of its form, like some horrid mark of Cain, on his forehead.
John dispatched the second dead being, a woman, across the room with a hefty swing of his arm.
Billy was still crying most pitifully. John bent over him. “It’s all right, Billy,” he tried to comfort the boy. “Come along, I’ll take you to your mummy.”
The boy still would not calm down when John reached out for him. He had barely touched Billy when he was shoved from behind. John spun round. It was the dead woman who sought to attack him. John Sinclair grabbed the spanner again, which he had put down on the bed. He struck with it again and again. Finally, bathed in sweat, he ceased. The dead woman lay in a strangely mangled position on the floor.
John looked at Billy once more. The boy had stopped crying and now stared at the inspector with wide-open eyes. John seized hold of the boy without further ado, ran from the room and dashed down the stairs carrying the living bundle in his arms.
Downstairs, dull thuds hammered against the front door. The zombies were tying to ram in the door. John could hear Orgow’s imperious voice penetrating right through into the house.
John ran with the boy through the nearest open door and found himself in the living room. Here, as everywhere, the light was on. John Sinclair was only interested in the window. Without further ado, he deposited the boy on the couch and opened the big window. The cold night air struck his flushed face. Billy suddenly seemed to have overcome his terror a little. He ran up to John of his own volition, and John Sinclair heaved the boy out into the open. Then he, too, clambered out through the window.
The two now found themselves at the back of the house. The inspector looked around cautiously to check that all was safe. Not a single zombie could be seen.
“Quiet!” the inspector whispered, taking Billy by the hand and running with him to a low garden fence, which demarcated the back of the neighbour’s garden. They jumped over it, cleared several other fences and hedges, managed to evade the unwelcome attentions of a dog and finally slipped out in the direction of the main road once again. John looked about him. The situation seemed grim. The dead men and women had now ranged themselves along the entire street. Little groups of them were combing through every single house. It would not take long before they reached the schoolhouse. And it would be impossible for John and the boy to enter the school unseen.
“You must run with me very fast now, Billy,” John whispered. “Can you do that?”
The boy nodded tensely.
“Good. Then – let’s go!”
John deliberately did not carry the boy. He had to reckon with the possibility of being attacked, and he knew that he would have more freedom of movement if he were not encumbered by the child.
The dead noticed the two fairly swiftly. Four or five corpses swayed towards them. And at that moment, Billy stumbled.
“Ah”, he cried. “My leg!”
John acted instinctively. He grabbed hold of the youngster as fast as lightning and ran before the first of the dead beings could attack. He ran for the school.
“Open up, Jones!” John shouted from afar. The door opened with a creak. Light fell upon John and the boy, as John ran with Billy into the school building. Helping hands took the child off him. Jones shut the door again immediately. Panting and bathed in sweat, John Sinclair leaned against the wall.
“What happened?” Constable Jones asked quickly.
Haltingly, John explained everything. Jones grew even paler than he already was. “My God,” he whispered over and over again. “What are we going to tell the villagers?”
“The truth,” retorted John. “As dreadful as it may be for them. We must be united now. We all have to support one another.”
Constable Jones nodded keenly. John Sinclair went into the great hall. The village folk all looked anxiously towards him. John took a deep breath, and said: “The dead will be here in a few minutes’ time …”
********************************************************************
After his words, all was still at first. But then tumult broke out. All the villagers ran screaming – as if acting upon a secret command – to the door.
“Quiet, damn it!” roared John Sinclair. “We have to stay quiet now!”
He and Constable Jones stood with their backs to the door and sought to diffuse the stormy panic of the terrified villagers. Gradually his words took effect. Slowly the people in the hall calmed down, albeit their faces still expressed fear, naked fear for their lives. But they were now looking at John Sinclair with more willingness to heed his instructions, and indeed were expecting a solution to come from him.
“Friends,” John said. “I know that we all find ourselves in a horrible situation. But no situation is so grievous that a way cannot be found to get out of it. In our case, ladies and gentlemen, this means that you should all go for the time being into the school boiler room.”
“And what about you?” a young woman asked.
“You need not worry about us, Miss. Constable Jones and I will give the dead the reception they deserve, you can depend on it.”
“I shall pray for you,” the young woman said.
The first of the assembled villagers were already running towards the cellar. John Sinclair himself had a look round the bare concrete room. The hide-away was truly good. The boiler room was secured by a great iron door. The only drawback relating to the room was that it was somewhat small. But the desperate villagers were prepared to put up with that.
The key was on the inside of the iron door. “Lock up behind me, and don’t take it into your heads to leave this boiler room,” John implored the occupants once more. Then he went back upstairs.
Constable Jones had turned out the lights and was standing at the window, staring out into the night. John came up behind him.
“I still can’t see anything yet, sir,” the constable reported. His voice trembled a little as he spoke. John smiled cheerfully and offered the man a cigarette. Jones quickly puffed away at it, gratefully.
“What are we going to do, sir?”
“Are there any tools here?” John answered his question with a counter-question.
“Certainly, sir. The caretaker has some for sure.”
“Do you know where, Constable?”
“Maybe down in the cellar? I’ll have to take a look.”
“Yes, do that.”
Jones hurried downstairs. Meantime, Jones stared through the window panes into the darkness outside. He still could not catch any glimpse of the walking corpses. John was concerned. Hopefully the people would all stay in their hiding place. If they were actually to come out and discover their own relatives amongst the dead …. My God! John dared not contemplate such an eventuality. There would be the most indescribable scenes.
Constable Jones returned. In his right hand he carried a tool chest.
“We’re in luck!” he said, blowing his cheeks out with relief. “No doubt the caretaker had some repair work today, and fortunately left his tool kit in the cellar.” Jones dropped the heavy box to the floor.
“What’s your plan then, sir?” he asked John.
“Constable, we’ve got to tear these zombies to bits, limb by limb –brutal as it may sound.”
“Oh no!” Jones shrank back.
“Listen, Jones,” John said firmly. “Bullets are of no use. And don’t forget what Ronald Winston said: he split the head of the dead girl open with an axe. He in fact found the only effective way.”
Jones shuddered. Almost embarrassed, he looked down at the tool chest. John bent over and rummaged around in the box. He found two small hatchets. He gave one of them to Jones. With the other tools it would be possible to keep the dead at bay, but not - paradoxically as it seemed – to “kill” them.
“Have you got another cigarette, Inspector?”
“Sure.” John lit one for himself too. Then the men stared out into the night.
“Can you understand all this that’s going on, Inspector?” Jones whispered.
John Sinclair nodded slowly. “I believe so, Constable.”
“Then you are a cleverer man than me!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Constable. It’s just that I’ve had to deal with a lot of cases like this – or similar to this, at least. I can even come up with an explanation for it.”
Jones looked at the inspector in surprise. “Really?”
“Yes, Listen. I’ll try to make things clear for you in a short and simple way. This Professor Orgow who lives up at Manor Castle possesses a medium. She has the capacity, once in a hypnotic state, to unfold unsuspected powers. Spiritual powers. And these powers can raise the dead. Mary Winston was her first success. It seems that she tried it with three other corpses, but failed. Those were the corpses that went missing, by the way.”
Constable Jones shook his head over and over again. “I simply can’t comprehend it. I’ve heard and read of those in Asia who can kill people just by speaking – “death-speakers”, yes – but what’s going on here is something else altogether” Jones shook himself involuntarily.
“Yes, it is indeed dreadful,” returned John. His eyes suddenly narrowed; he had caught a movement by the window.
“They’re coming, Constable,” John whispered. Jones nodded tensely.
The two men kept perfectly still. Their nerves were so much on edge that it seemed that they would explode at any moment. Suddenly Jones let out a cry.
A fearful figure appeared right in front of the window pane: a soft, bloated skull without any eyeballs or nose was staring at the two men. John saw this dead man slowly raise a not-yet fully decayed arm. The pane shattered amidst the sound of tinkling glass. The arm stretched into the room. Jones lost his nerve. With a scream, he raised the axe and struck out. He cut off the arm at its shoulder. It fell with a dull plump to the ground. Not a drop of blood appeared from the wound. It was terrible.
“Are you mad, Jones?” John gasped. “We won’t get the better of the zombies like that. Stay calm, for God’s sake.”
The dead being was still standing outside – swaying like a reed in the wind. Suddenly he simply dropped to the ground – and slid into the room through the broken window pane.
John Sinclair raised his hatchet. Damn! He had to do it – there was no other way. The razor-sharp blade cleaved the skull of the dead man in two. As if suffering an electric shock, the body reared up one last time, then grew limp, and turned into dust before the two men’s very eyes.
“That is the only effective method!” gasped John Sinclair.
The police constable stood like one thunderstruck. This whole incident was simply too much for his cognitive powers.
But the other corpses were already there. They pressed towards the window in their dozens.
“You must not spare them, Constable!” John cried. He himself had suddenly become coolly self-possessed. He stood there with his legs apart and the hatchet gripped in both fists.
Three, four more window panes shattered to pieces.
“Keep your position, Constable!” John bellowed. Then he had to turn his attention to the corpses. They streamed into the room like ants. John lay into them. More and more of these uncanny creatures were reduced to dust. But their numerical superiority was simply too great. The dead beings forced John back. The inspector risked a glance to the side. Two windows further along, he saw Constable Jones fighting like a man possessed. He was thrashing into the corpses indiscriminately.
“Strike at their skulls!” John called out to the constable. He could no longer lend him any succour. Two bony hands, to which patches of skin were still attached, seized hold of his arm. John spun round in utter revulsion and sent the corpse crashing diagonally across the room.
Renewed blows were hammering against the entrance door. How much longer would the door hold fast?
More and more dead creatures pushed their way into the room. John Sinclair raged like a man berserk. Suddenly he heard Constable Jones utter a cry. Four corpses were hanging upon him like chains around his neck. The hatchet lay just out of his reach on the floor.
“Sinclair!” John heard a gurgling sound. The inspector hurried to help. He saw one of the dead things clutching at Jones’s throat. John Sinclair launched a mighty upper cut into the creature’s lifeless face. But suddenly he felt himself being dragged to the ground by two of the zombies. John transformed his fall into a saving roll – but lost his hatchet in the process.
Already the next zombie was on the attack, trying with outstretched hands to grab at John’s face. The latter rammed his fist into the ghoul’s body. It felt as though he were punching a mass of dough. The dead man staggered back.
John caught his breath and looked for his axe. Damn it! It was no longer there! One of the dead creatures must have kicked it away.
At this point, Constable Jones lost his nerve. Suddenly letting out a fearful scream, he shook himself free from one of the zombies with a vigorous movement and then ran towards the door.
John saw this from the corner of his eyes. “Stop!” he yelled.
But Jones did not hear him. He ran like a madman towards the great entrance door, pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. John Sinclair heard a final, desperate scream – and then the corpses were upon their victim …
“You will be next!” John thought to himself. He had retreated to the wall, and the dead who had flooded through the entrance door were moving towards the boiler room, where all the people were …
Tears of fury and helplessness came to John’s eyes. He cast a quick glance at the windows.
And there he saw the grinning face of the necromancer. The man looked like Satan himself.
In a totally spontaneous reflex action, John snatched his pistol from its holster, aimed and fired.
But at the same instant, a mouldy hand grabbed his arm. The bullet ricocheted into the ground, missing its target. The satanic laughter from the insane professor penetrated to the furthest corner of the room.
John struck out with the butt of the pistol. Two corpses clutched at his hips and John stumbled back, lost his footing and fell to the ground.
In an instant, they were upon him. Hot panic welled up inside him. He felt the foul bodies on top of him. The stench of moulder, decay and the grave assailed his nose, and he was overcome with total revulsion.
But John Sinclair fought back. He fought as he had never fought in his life before. He thrashed about and lashed out wildly all about him. Karate and judo were useless here – the corpses could not be defeated by such methods. The right-hand sleeve of John’s jacket hung in tatters. He managed to slip out of it and thus get more air. He rolled across the floor and sprang to his feet again.
The piercing scream of a woman cut through the air like a knife. John Sinclair saw an elderly person who should actually have been in the boiler room – but she was suddenly standing in the room.
“Ernest!” She screamed over and over again. “Ernest! My husband …”
“Get away!” roared John.
But the woman did not hear him. Screaming and crying she ran towards the dead man with outstretched arms.
Now all is lost, thought John Sinclair …
***************************************************************
Two jeeps and two personnel carriers raced through the pitch-black night After John Sinclair’s phone call, Scotland Yard had alerted the military. The simple soldiers had no idea what it was all about: only their superiors were privy to what was transpiring. They had equipped all their units with flame-throwers, along with the usual weapons – just to be on the safe side.
“How much further is it now?” Captain Green, who sat in the first jeep, addressed his driver.
“Another six miles, sir,”
“Thank you.”
Maybe it was wrong not to tell the men what was real situation was, Captain Green considered. But would the soldiers have believed him? It could have led to insubordination in the ranks. And in any case, Captain Green did not really believe in the all this nonsense himself.
But he was a soldier, and soldiers have to carry out their orders. Captain Green was positively looking forward to the ghosts. He still couldn’t wait.
Yet soon enough, even he would learn the meaning of horror …
*******************************************************
John Sinclair ran towards the woman, desperate to save her. She must not be allowed to fall into the clutches of the dead.
The scene looked dreadful in the pale moonlight falling through the windows: the big empty classroom, full of the living dead, and then the woman, clinging to her dead husband.
John Sinclair dashed up and slammed his fists into the bloated back of the corpse. All three of them crashed to the ground. The woman let out a piercing scream. The man lay right on top of her.
John was on his feet again in an instant. He kicked the monster with his right foot, again and again. The dead man went skidding off away from his wife, who was suddenly watching the whole episode stiff with terror. John Sinclair dragged the woman to her feet. “Have the others also left the boiler room?” he interrogated her. But John was not able to hear her reply: suddenly several other figures tugged at his body.
“Run for your life!” John called out to the woman, before resuming his battle with the dead. A blow struck him on the cranium. John Sinclair staggered forward. The blow had not been particularly hard, but it was painful. The dead did not relent.
“You must go back!” The thought pounded through John’s mind.
Once again the zombies were on the attack. They surged forward towards John in almost unimaginable uniformity. Suddenly John felt the window sill behind him, and before him stood the dead, ready to descend upon him and destroy him.
The night air touched John’s sweat-drenched back. He had no time to think. He acted. With a giant swing he leapt backwards through the smashed window pane. He hit the ground hard, rolled over and jumped to his feet again, the hideous faces of the dead still staring at him. John suddenly felt an insane anger towards the figures. For a moment he almost lost his nerve.
He noticed several stones nearby. As quick as a flash, he picked them up and hurled them with all his might into the monstrous mask-like faces of the dead. The zombies were sent tumbling back by the force of the stones. They fell over like stiff dolls.
“Damn!” whispered John. He looked around him: everywhere the dead were wandering like ghosts through the village. They forced their way into houses, ransacked apartments and stuck their skulls through windows.
John Sinclair set off in search - of Professor Orgow and his medium. John saw that his only chance lay in such a move. He had to force the two to call off the dead.
He crept along the narrow alleyway, pressing himself tightly against the walls of the houses. On the main road he recognised three figures who were staggering about like drunks. A window crashed out above him. John ducked and jumped to one side. Slivers and splinters of glass came tinkling down to the ground beside him. The inspector was almost at the point of nervous collapse, when the sound of engines caused him to spin round.
Help?
John ran out onto the road. Blazing headlamps and searchlights could be seen at the entrance to the village. Vehicles raced into the place.
The military.
Rescue!
John felt his knees trembling when the first jeep stopped beside him. The other cars pulled up to its rear. John tore open the door of the jeep.
“I am Inspector Sinclair,” he panted. “You are just in time!”
A wiry captain jumped out of the vehicle. “Is it really true that …” The captain stopped and swallowed. “Damn!” he whispered, as his gaze was arrested by two dead beings coming out of a side alleyway and making straight for a group of humans. Captain Green acted within seconds.
“Everyone out! Flame-throwers at the ready!” his voice resounded through the village.
Meanwhile the walking corpses had reached the jeep, and while the soldiers got into their formations, one of the dead beings attacked the petrified captain.
John Sinclair put all his strength into a fearsome blow that sent the corpse flying backwards. The same occurred with the second corpse.
A sergeant came running up. “Reporting for duty, sir …”
“Right, Sergeant!” shouted Captain Green. “Let the men go and hunt the dead. Every corpse must be burned to shreds with the flame-throwers.”
“Yes, sir!” the sergeant stammered.
“Here Inspector. I’ve got two more flame-throwers in the jeep,” the captain informed John Sinclair. Ten seconds later, John was holding this weapon of choice in his hand. And just in time: a group of five corpses had banded together and were advancing on the men.
“Now!” shouted John. “If these also fail …”
These flame-throwers had only recently been developed by the army and were specially intended for combat at close quarters. The men raised their weapons and fired almost simultaneously. Spitting jets of fire hissed out of the openings right into the pack of the dead. And the flames were not without effect. The sight of what happened now even turned the stomach of the hard-boiled inspector from the Yard. The bodies of the zombies caught fire. The undead thrashed about wildly, but there was no escape for them. Their bodies simply melted away, and only a great puddle remained behind, and a penetrating stench.
“My God!” Captain Green whispered. “I’ve seen a lot in my time, but this …”
The sergeant of a few minutes before came running up. His face displayed the terror of the last few minutes. “Sir!” he panted. “The dead. They are simply melting away. I …”
“Now listen carefully, Sergeant,” John intervened in a no-nonsense tone. “I know it is terrible. But do you think that we have it any better here? Damn it! See this thing through. Let your soldiers know that it is about more than their own fear.”
“Yes, sir!” the sergeant replied and disappeared. John turned to the captain.
“You now know the score, sir,” he said. “I think it best if you stay with your men. Don’t have any scruples about the dead. Burn every corpse you see. This village must be purged of the entire brood. By the way, the villagers are in the boiler room of the school. They’re relatively safe there. Only let them come out when all the corpses have been destroyed.”
The captain nodded. “May I know what you intend to do, Inspector?”
John gave a cold smile. “I am a criminologist, Captain. I’m going to take care of the person who initiated this horror.” John could well imagine where he would find the necromancer and his medium: in the delivery van. The inspector ran off. He looked back briefly: behind him he saw an extensive fire-glow. The soldiers were in action. They would comb through the entire village and purge it of the dead.
Suddenly five of the horrific figures appeared and blocked his path. The inspector from Scotland Yard saw no other option than to turn his flame-thrower upon them. The dead shrank back. John unrelentingly followed.
One of the zombies caught fire and a few seconds later ignited his fellows, who suffered a similar fate.
Without troubling further about the undead, John hastened on his way. He crashed through thick bushes and reached the road. He heard the sound of a motor starting up. Professor Orgow! He must be at the wheel of his delivery van. John saw the red rear lights of the van go on and then disappear into the night.
The inspector ran even faster, panting and gasping. The arduous hours that had preceded this were now telling on him. But finally he reached his Bentley. He swiftly flung open the door – but at the very moment, two living dead advanced towards him. John, who had placed the flame-thrower on the roof of his car, involuntarily started back when he felt something make contact with his neck. Instinctively, he grabbed hold of his weapon again. Something whizzed past his head. The wooden pole only strafed his skull without doing any damage and was brought smashing down onto the roof of the car. John dropped to his knees, but did not let go of the flame-thrower. The dead man was still holding the pole in both hands and raised his arm for a renewed attack. Simultaneously, the other one attempted to throw himself at John.
John Sinclair half lay on the ground, with his back leaning against the car door. He saw the mouldy, stinking, rotting bodies straight before him, looked into their indescribably horrid faces – and pressed the trigger of the flame-thrower.
A huge jet of fire was released. Within seconds, the dead melted away. After that, there was almost total silence, apart from the sound of the wooden pole, as it crackled and burned.
John Sinclair pulled himself up onto his car and fell into the driver’s seat – making sure to toss the flame-thrower onto the passenger seat beside him. Once again he got a grip on himself and regained his presence of mind. He knew where the necromancer was making for: Manor Castle …
****************************************************************
The soldiers did a truly thorough job. Every corpse was attacked with the flame-throwers. Finally, all the zombies were annihilated.
In the school, Captain Green stumbled over one particular dead man. It was Constable Jones. The living corpses had throttled him to death. The soldiers carried Jones’s dead body away. Then Captain Green went down to the boiler room. He banged with both fists on the iron door.
“Open up!” his voice reverberated through the vault. “You are safe now.”
It took several minutes before the anxious villagers opened the door. Horror was still etched on their faces as they left the school building and returned to their homes.
Captain Green lit himself a cigarette. His deputy, a young lieutenant, joined his superior.
“Do you understand any of this, Captain?”
Green shook his head. “No, Loomis. We’ve done our duty, that’s all. I think it’s best for you to tell the men to forget all about it as soon as possible. That’s my advice.”
Lieutenant Loomis nodded, lost in thought. “But where is this Inspector Sinclair?” he asked.
“He’s on the track of the originator of all these crimes,” the captain responded. “Let’s hope that luck’s with him. God knows he deserves it. He’s quite some fellow, this John Sinclair.”
********************************************************************
John sat behind the wheel of his car wearing an expression of dogged determination. He revved up the Bentley to its maximum strength and thundered round the narrow turnings, needing every ounce of his skill as a driver in order not to land in a ditch or crash into a tree.
He passed a little wood and was now on the direct route to Manor Castle. The narrow road spiralled up like a coiled serpent to the castle, and far up above him, John occasionally saw the lights of the delivery van shining out in the darkness. John put his foot down hard.
A few minutes later he reached the creepy castle. The inspector hastily got out of his car, and ran up on hands and knees to the great entrance gates. Once inside the castle’s inner courtyard he pressed himself against the wall and listened. No suspicious sound reached his ears. He could hear nothing but his own heartbeat.
A burst of maniacal laughter suddenly made John start. It came from the castle - undoubtedly from Orgow. This man must have lost his mind, John Sinclair thought to himself.
He moved a few paces forward and came up against the heavy entrance door. John pressed down on the cast-iron handle. The door was open! The inspector slipped silently into the castle’s great hall.
The candles were still burning. The light from them fell upon the necromancer and his medium. Orgow stood there like a statue. Not a muscle stirred in his waxen face.
John Sinclair slowly took a step forward and then drew in his breath. He had done it. The two were delivered into his hands.
At the same moment he felt a draught of air. Instinctively, he jumped to one side. A sword swished diagonally over him with immense force. I forgot the bodyguard! John thought, as he rolled across the floor.
The thug with the sword was amazingly fast. He was suddenly holding the murder instrument like a spear in his hand and was about to launch it at John’s chest. But John Sinclair pulled his pistol from its holster and fired – a fraction of a second sooner. The bullet struck the man in the arm. He still managed to throw the sword at the last moment, but it only whistled harmlessly through the air, crashing against the wall and clattering noisily to the floor.
John was on his feet again in no time, with his weapon levelled. The shot bodyguard was squatting in a corner, nursing his bleeding arm.
John leapt sideways towards Orgow and the medium.
“Where is the other guy?” he demanded of the professor. Orgow remained silent. But his face was distorted with hate.
“Speak!” John hissed at him. The necromancer mumbled something incomprehensible. It must have been a signal to his medium, for the woman suddenly began to move. Slowly, she came towards John.
“Stay where you are!” the inspector commanded.
But the medium just smiled, and carried on walking.
John moved back. Damn it! What devilry were the unholy pair up to now? Suddenly the woman stood stock still.
“My name is Lara,” she said in mellifluous tones. John cast a glance at Professor Orgow, who was observing the scene with the keenest of interest.
Lara gazed into John’s eyes. Fire seemed to issue from the medium’s eyes. John felt as though an invisible current of energy were trying to take possession of his soul. A feeling of total emptiness began to overpower him. Unaware of what he was doing, he lowered his weapon. And then Lara began to speak: strange, song-like sounds issued from her lips. Yet they struck John like the blows of a heavy club.
Hypnosis! This thought flashed through John’s mind. His head began to swim. No! It was not hypnosis. It was something far worse. John had long heard of the death-speakers – those who could kill through the use of their voices. They were mainly natives who lived in South-East Asia. Death-speaking! Lara was attempting to kill him with her words!
John winced as though in great pain. Once again he summoned up the last ounce of his will power to resist this uncanny force. He felt cold sweat forming like searing hoarfrost all over his body.
Lara went on speaking. Her voice rose, grew stronger, more insistent.
John Sinclair let out a groan. The words of the medium almost caused him physical pain. He staggered. His weapon fell from his hand. In his subconscious mind, he registered the burst of laughter that issued from the necromancer: mocking, triumphant. John moaned again. Lara’s words were penetrating him like some deadly electricity.
Unconsciously he dug his fingernails into the balls of his thumbs. Pain pulsed through his arm. But this pain brought him back to reality.
John felt his heart beating faster and the blood pulsing violently through his veins. Orgow must have noticed this change. He let out a curse.
Lara, too, stopped speaking.
John staggered forwards. Lara shrank back with her face all distorted.
You must strike this mad professor down – the thought pummelled against John’s brain over and over again.
At that moment, the entrance door was flung open with a crash. Orgow’s second bodyguard erupted into the room. With one glance, he surveyed the situation. Roaring like a lunatic, he leapt at the inspector. John, not yet fully master of his muscles or equilibrium, was sent crashing back by the force of the impact. He flew halfway across the room, sending a knight’s suit of armour flying and clattering to the ground.
John did not know why this man had remained outside for so long. He only knew that he had to fight for his very life.
A kick in the ribs sent John spinning. The pain cut like a knife into his body. Above him he heard the panting of his opponent.
He was able to deprive the next kick of its force by a quick turn. He even managed to seize hold of his opponent’s leg. The heavy man went crashing to the ground with a dull thud.
Hasty footsteps. As John was struggling to his feet, he saw the necromancer scrambling for John’s weapon.
Only one course of action was open to John. He darted towards his previous assailant, who was just getting to his feet, and threw him back down again. The two men, locked in each other’s grip, rolled across the floor.
Orgow let out a crazed laugh.
From out of the corner of his eyes, John saw the professor standing in the middle of the room, pistol in hand.
A shot rang out.
John felt his opponent wince, groan and then grow limp.
The necromancer had shot his own man.
“Get up!” the maniac screamed. “Now it is your turn!”
Very slowly, John rose from the floor. He stood there with his legs spread apart and gasping for breath. He suddenly realised that it was all over for him. He saw his own pistol sparkling and shining brightly in Orgow’s hand.
“Why don’t you shoot, Orgow? Are you afraid?” John taunted him.
“Orgow’s face became contorted, as if from an electric shock. His bloodless lips gurgled a flood of incomprehensible words. Diagonally behind him, Lara stood in readiness. She had been watching the contest of the two men without any emotional participation.
Orgow squeezed the trigger of the gun.
Click! Nothing happened.
At that same instant, John threw himself forward. The sound of the empty weapon had penetrated his brain like a dart.
He landed with a bump on the hard floor, knocking his knee against a heavy candleholder as he fell.
Footsteps dashed past him. As John painfully struggled to his feet, he saw Orgow and Lara running towards the staircase that led down into the sinister laboratory.
John hobbled after them, his knee paining him badly. He almost toppled down the stone steps, but at the last moment he was able to get a steady handgrip on the rough and fissured wall. In front of him he heard the hurrying steps of the two escaping him.
It grew dark. The light of the candles from the hall did not extend very far. John Sinclair groped his way down, step by cautious step.
Then it was suddenly light again. Some candles must have been lit down in the laboratory. John descended more rapidly. Whatever happened, he must not let the two escape. They had already brought enough harm to humanity and must not continue.
John reached the laboratory. It was empty. The inspector went into the adjoining room. The stench of decay and corruption almost took his breath away. John swallowed and pressed on. Then he saw the opening in the wall. Only by bending could he gain entrance.
John found himself in a long passageway. He did not know that it was the same passage along which Ann Baxter had been pursued by the strangler, shortly before her death.
It suddenly became dark again. John clicked on his cigarette lighter. The flame flickered in the stale air. John crept on, shielding the flame with his hand.
Where were Lara and Orgow?
Then John Sinclair spied the end of a spiral staircase. The air became ever more starved of oxygen. The flame of his cigarette lighter was suddenly extinguished.
John stopped and listened. Somewhere he could hear drops of water. Then steps. Creeping, dragging steps. And suddenly a maniacal laugh. A shudder ran down his spine.
“Kill him!” Orgow’s voice shrieked.
Two ice-cold murderous hands suddenly placed themselves around John’s throat. Hot, panting breath touched his face.
The hands squeezed without mercy.
John Sinclair swiftly pushed up his arms and grabbed the wrists of the strangler. He pressed with his thumb on a crucial spot. The instant reaction was an animal-like scream. The grip of the strangler relaxed.
John freed himself from the wall and delivered a massive right hook, in which he invested every last ounce of his strength. No, he did not need to exercise consideration for others in such a situation! John Sinclair’s punch landed well. The strangler was sent flying backwards. There was a strange, dull sound. Then only silence.
John took a deep breath. Once again he took out his cigarette lighter. He tried to ignite it and – wonder of wonders – it worked! In the flickering light of its flame he saw Lara lying on the ground. She had been the strangler. Lara was breathing shallowly. John’s fearsome blow had knocked her quite unconscious.
A shuffling sound caused John to spin round. The necromancer was standing before him, holding a massive stone high above his head with both hands.
“To Hell with you!” the demented professor yelled and brought the stone crashing down. John dodged to one side as fast as lightning. The stone plummeted down with immense force on the exact spot where John had just stood. And that is where Lara still lay …
John heard a dreadful sound. He dropped his lighter, groped in the dark and seized hold of the skeletal body of the necromancer. He pulled the black magician onto his own body and smashed his right fist upwards into Orgow’s scrawny neck. He felt the professor go limp. John grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him into the laboratory. There he left him lying on the floor.
He leaned against the wall and felt his knees tremble. The past few hours had taken their toll. John was exhausted, not only physically but also mentally.
Orgow still did not stir. He lay on his back, and the flickering light from the candles cast bizarre patterns and shapes upon his body.
A noise on the staircase made John jump. Was the battle, then, not yet over? A shadow appeared. John saw the form and distorted face of the shot bodyguard. The man was staggering like a drunk down the stairs. John saw the flash of a sword in his uninjured hand. But blood was streaming incessantly from the wound in his shoulder. The man raised the sword. Only five more steps and the brute had reached his prey ….
John darted back and positioned himself more favourably for renewed battle. But then it happened: the man stumbled. With a cry, he fell down the final steps and crashed onto his own sword. It was a gruesome scene. John turned away …
But now Professor Orgow was moving again. At first he gazed around in bewilderment, but then he caught sight of John. His face became distorted and twisted as he uttered a furious curse. The necromancer then pulled himself up with the support of a table. John looked at him, this Satan incarnate.
“Why did you do all this?” the inspector asked quietly.
Orgow’s eyes sparkled as he replied. “I wanted my revenge. Revenge on those people who mocked me, who did not take me seriously, who did not believe in my research. But I have shown them – one and all!”
Orgow broke out into silent laughter. John shook himself. This man was insane. He belonged in an asylum.
“Where did you first meet Lara?” John asked further.
“Lara?” The necromancer spoke very quietly now. He seemed to be far away. “In my homeland, in Rumania, where the castle of Count Dracula still stands: I first encountered her there. I brought her with me from her village in the Carpathians to England, where I awakened her secret powers.”
“Was Lara a death-speaker?” John wanted to know.
“That too. But her chief virtue was that the dead obeyed her. Before that, however, she needed to imbibe my special drink. It gave her the necessary power.”
“You realise, of course, Professor, that I shall have to arrest you and take you with me?”
Orgow looked at John in a strangely transfigured way. “Take me with you? No. Where I am going, you certainly will not take me with you.”
Orgow suddenly took a few steps back.
“Stop!” hissed John.
But the necromancer merely laughed, plunging his hand as fast as lightning into his coat pocket and fetching out a little capsule, which then disappeared between his teeth. It all happened so swiftly that John could not prevent it.
Professor Orgow laughed. “You will never get me. I go alone. Poison! Yes, I have taken poison. But I shall return. I shall re …” His voice failed. Orgow clutched at his throat and began to totter. John wanted to support him – but the professor slipped from his hands.
With a dull thud he dropped to the floor.
“I – I – shall – return …” The words passed across his lips like a final death-sigh.
John Sinclair felt goose pimples running up and down his spine. He looked at the professor: his empty eyes were staring at him, cold and lifeless.
John Sinclair turned away. As he mounted the stairs to the castle hall above, the words of the necromancer still echoed in his mind.
******************************************************************
A glorious sunrise greeted John as he stepped out in front of the castle. The terrors of the night had passed, and a radiant day seemed to have wiped all the horror away.
John breathed in deeply. Slowly he walked to his Bentley. He had to get back to the village – they were surely waiting for him there.
Before John got into his car, he took one last look around him. The castle still towered up like a threat …
John shook off this uneasy feeling and sat himself down behind the wheel.
Then, he started up the engine.
THE END
e to edit.
By Jason Dark
(Translated by Dr. Tony Page; begun 7 August 2007, finished 4 September 2007)
Midnight.
An ancient delivery van rumbled along a bumpy country lane.
In the driver’s cab sat three men.
The man at the steering wheel was Professor Ivan Orgow. He stared out into the night from deep-set dark eyes, only sparsely illuminated by the light from the two headlamps.
Ivan Orgow’s thoughts were fixed fully upon the task before him. His eyes flickered at the thought of the power over which he presided. He, Ivan Orgow, had dominion over the dead. And this very night a deceased person would be restored to life.
The two men beside him could no longer think clearly – they were not masters of their minds any longer. Professor Orgow had placed them under a hypnotic spell. All they could do was blindly carry out his orders.
The old delivery van reached its destination and stopped in front of the old, wrought-iron gates of the cemetery. Professor Orgow turned off the headlights. Then he pushed the door open and jumped out.
The mist had thickened. It bore down upon the chest like an oppressive suit of armour and impeded the breathing.
Professor Orgow beckoned to his two helpers. He pulled forth a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the primitive lock of the cemetery gates. They squeaked as he pushed them open. Silently the three men slipped into the graveyard, and soon the mist had swallowed them up. Only the delivery van remained vaguely visible, standing, temporarily vacated, close to the fissured wall.
Ivan Orgow knew his way around. With singleness of purpose he made his way towards the old house of mourning, which was constructed of thick stones and served additionally as a mortuary.
The professor also had a key for the heavy wooden door. He took a deep breath as he unlocked the door. He was gripped by a strange sense of excitement - the feeling of excitement one gets on the brink of an all-decisive event.
Orgow hesitated momentarily. He concentrated his mind on what was soon to occur. Then he pushed against the solid door. With a creak, it swung open.
Orgow fetched out a torch from the side-pocket of his long, dark overcoat. He advanced a step forward into the mortuary and switched on his torch. Its beam of light flitted like a lost soul through the little chamber. Orgow groped his way along the walls, which were festooned with box-tree sprigs and whose fragrance he breathed in as though it were balsam. Ivan Orgow let the light of his torch dart further around. The cold marble floor of the chamber partially reflected the light and painted reflections on the professor’s gaunt, grey face. Orgow directed the torch at the opposite wall.
And there it was – what he was looking for. A coffin!
It was an expensive oak coffin, resting on a small pedestal and adorned with wreaths and flowers. The funeral ceremony was appointed for the following day.
The professor’s eyes darted round like will-o’-the-wisps as he slowly advanced towards the casket. His free left hand twitched feverishly. Orgow could scarcely contain his excitement.
Suddenly he tossed the flowers and wreaths aside in a wild, uncontrolled gesture, and supported himself with both hands on the coffin lid, panting heavily.
“I’ll restore you,” he muttered. “You will return from the realm of the dead. You will bring devastation upon mankind, and I shall be your master. I have the might and the power to restore all the dead, and then they will wreak vengeance upon the living.”
Orgow straightened himself up, bathed in sweat. Undiluted madness flickered in his eyes. He stretched his arms out wide like a vampire and laughed. But it was a maniacal laugh and seemed inspired by the Devil himself.
His two assistants stood motionless like tin soldiers at the door. Not a muscle twitched in their faces.
It was some time before the professor had recovered himself. When he had, he turned his gaunt, hollow face towards the two men.
“Come on!” he whispered roughly. “Get to work!”
Like two automata, the pair began to move. They were almost of the same height and both mightily built. Beneath their shabby jackets they wore checked shirts and old corduroy trousers covered their legs.
“The tools!” Orgow flashed a fierce look at the men. They reached into their pockets and pulled out two chisels, which they then wedged beneath the locks of the coffin lid. After a short while the first lock was cracked open. The second lock likewise did not last long.
“Lift up the lid!”
The men obeyed their master. Slowly they raised the heavy coffin lid, while Professor Orgow waited and watched with half-open mouth and outstretched hands like claws. The torch in his right hand trembled. Only very slowly could the coffin lid be pushed aside, but finally the men accomplished their purpose. The coffin was open!
A deep sigh escaped from the professor’s throat as he looked inside. Yes, there she lay: Mary. Barely twenty years old when she died, three days ago, of heart failure.
Even in death the girl looked wondrously beautiful. Her curly black hair framed her pale face like a fleece. Her shroud was of pure silk and the inside of the coffin was adorned with dark-red velvet. Mary had her hands folded across her breasts. Professor Orgow gently passed his bony fingers across this lifeless bosom.
“Soon you will live again, Mary,” he whispered. “I promise you. But first you must come with us to the castle. There you will find restoration.”
Professor Orgow’s face twitched and bore testimony to immense inner excitement.
“What’s going on here, then?” a voice sounded from the door.
The professor and his two accomplices jerked round. In the mortuary entrance stood an old man - the cemetery attendant. He was holding a table lantern in his right hand. The flickering light of the candle was refracted on the walls and cast long shadows upon the ground.
Slowly Professor Orgow moved menacingly towards the curious cemetery attendant. The old man withdrew a few paces, trembling. Indefinable sounds came from his toothless mouth.
“Kill him!” Orgow suddenly ordered, his hand shooting forth like a dart.
The two assistants began to move, still clutching their chisels in their hands. The old man stood rooted to the spot in utter shock. He still did not comprehend the deadly danger which confronted him. And by the time he did – it was too late.
The two men raised their weapons aloft …
The cemetery attendant staggered back, collapsing to the ground. In a flash the uncanny assistants were upon him.
When they straightened themselves up again, the old man lay on the floor in a pool of blood. His life had been snuffed out as quickly as the candle in his table lantern.
“He should not have disturbed us,” said Professor Orgow in a hollow voice. Then he turned to his two assistants again. “Lift the dead woman out of the coffin.”
They obeyed his order like two robots.
“Don’t handle her so roughly!” Orgow snapped in a forceful whisper.
The murderers lifted Mary out more gently.
“Now to the van, quickly,” Orgow whispered.
The three men left the mortuary with the dead woman in their grasp.
Meanwhile the mist had grown ever denser. One could scarcely see one’s hand in front of one’s face. Professor Orgow brought up the rear of the little group and suddenly stopped in front of a family vault. He slowly extended his right hand.
“You will also return to life soon,” he whispered. “You will leave your coffins. Satan himself will bring you back to life. Very soon the graves everywhere will open up. Very soon …” The professor turned aside. He followed his assistants, muttering to himself.
They had reached the delivery van and were now heaving the dead girl into the back of the vehicle. The professor sat down behind the steering wheel once more and, as he started up the engine, a satanic fire was blazing in his eyes …
********************************************************
The castle was named Manor Castle and had been built well over five hundred years before. It stood between wind-swept cliffs and rocks, like a dreadful threat. The superstitious inhabitants of the surrounding coastal villages kept well clear of the place. For centuries rumours had abounded that Manor Castle was haunted.
Professor Orgow had purchased the castle almost two years before at a song. He had set up a laboratory in the cellar for himself, where he devoted himself exclusively to his occult researches.
The delivery van groaned and rattled as it struggled up the narrow road to the castle. The mist had lifted somewhat, and so visibility was now relatively good.
The ancient entrance gates were open and swinging and creaking backwards and forwards in the slight wind. The great castle courtyard was covered with cobblestones. Weeds grew in profusion between the cracks.
The shaky vehicle ground to a halt. Orgow turned off the headlights and clambered out of the van. The castle was enveloped in total darkness. A strong wind had suddenly sprung up and whistled and howled, driving masses of dark cloud before it, and losing itself in the corners and turrets of the castle.
Professor Orgow flicked his torch on again. He approached the entrance door with hasty steps. A sense of impatience overcame him. He seemed unable to await the great moment of truth …
His two companions fetched the dead girl from the payload of the van, and together carried Mary’s corpse into the interior of the castle. Meanwhile, Orgow had lighted three thick wax candles which were suspended in heavy holders on the walls. Their flickering light disclosed a huge hall, in which a long table and a number of chairs were standing. The lower half of a great staircase could also be made out.
“Place the dead girl carefully on the table, then go upstairs,” Professor Orgow gave his orders. The two men obeyed. Orgow now advanced towards the dead girl and stroked her hair with skeletal, gout-ravaged fingers.
“Yes, you are beautiful,” he whispered. “And your beauty will be preserved for long to come.” Orgow grasped the dead girl under her knees with one hand and under her back with the other. Gently and effortlessly he lifted Mary up. No one would ever have credited this man with such strength. Slowly, step by step, he proceeded with the corpse to a certain spot on the wood-panelled wall.
It was a ghostly picture that presented itself: the arms of the dead girl dangling down limply from both sides of her body and her head, with its long black hair, lolling far back. Ivan Orgow bent his knees slightly and pulled one of the heavy candles out of its holder. Then he pressed against a special spot on the wooden wall. A secret door swung inwards with a creepy creak. Orgow gazed upon a flight of stone steps leading down into darkness. The flickering light of the candle stirred up a few startled bats, which flew off in wild profusion. Step by step Professor Orgow climbed down the stairs with the dead girl in his arms. He was taking her down into his own realm.
The realm of the Devil and of darkness. The realm of the dead …
A musty, oppressive odour – the foul stench of centuries – bore down upon the cellar vault. The stale air threatened to extinguish the candle. After precisely nineteen steps, Professor Orgow had reached his goal. The dancing light of the candle illuminated a laboratory. Test tubes and glass receptacles containing coloured fluids stood on old, worm-eaten tables, and a sickly-sweet aroma hung in the air. The stench of corpses …
With great solicitude, Professor Orgow laid the dead woman on a massive stone table. He carefully folded her hands over her breast once again.
“Soon you will live once more,” Orgow whispered and slowly turned around. The hand that was holding the candle trembled as he moved towards a narrow opening at the front of the eerie laboratory. Orgow now entered a dungeon. The foul stench of decomposition and decay was even stronger here.
The candle illuminated a ghastly scene. Three corpses were lying in a corner. They were already in an advanced state of decay, and their hairless skulls shone with a ghostly glow in the light of the candle.
But the candle disclosed something further: an open sarcophagus!
A woman was lying within – still almost a girl. Her hands were tightly pressed against her seemingly fragile body.
Orgow came closer, shone the candle on the girl and mumbled some words in a strange tongue. Then he wedged the candle in a cleft in the rock and circled both hands above and around the woman’s head.
Suddenly the girl’s eyes shot open. Orgow took a step back.
“Yes, come,” he whispered, “come out of your coffin, Lara. Do you hear me?”
The girl, Lara, sat up erect, staring at the professor from deep, dark eyes.
Orgow took hold of the candle again. “Get up. It is time. You must bring her back. She is waiting for you.”
With the movements of a marionette, the girl left her sarcophagus. Step by stilted step she followed the professor into the laboratory.
Orgow stuck the candle into a support on the wall, and with trembling fingers poured a red, syrup-like liquid into a vessel. This he handed to Lara.
“Drink! The juice will give you sovereignty over life and death. Only you can bring her back. None but you. Drink!”
Lara took hold of the goblet with both hands. Swiftly she raised it to her mouth and consumed its contents in long, thirsty gulps.
“That’s right. Good!” Orgow praised her, pressing his back against the cold rock wall.
At first nothing transpired with Lara. But suddenly she seemed to grow. Her sunken face glowed and blossomed; lights began to dance in her dark eyes, and a dreadful scream was wrung out of the girl’s throat. Orgow breathed heavily. His eyes twitched, as if in fever. He knew that Lara had succeeded. At last!
“Bring them back, Lara! Bring back the dead!” Orgow shouted wildly. “Look at me. You must obey me now. I am your master. Bring them back, Lara. Now!”
And Lara, the medium, obeyed.
Suddenly she was standing beside the dead Mary. Her hands moved across the stiff body. While making these gestures she murmured incomprehensible words, which grew louder, more crazed. Her whole body became convulsed, as if she were in a state of utter intoxication.
In thrall to the sight that confronted his eyes, Professor Orgow stared at his medium. He knew that she would fulfil his purpose.
Lara’s lean body seemed to be shaken by volts of electric current. She threw her arms around uncontrollably, backwards and forwards. Then came a last, desperate scream, and Lara collapsed in upon herself.
Professor Orgow jumped forward, paying no heed to his medium. He had eyes solely for dead Mary. His bloodless lips twitched convulsively. And then – a demented cry issued forth from the throat of the professor. The dead woman had moved!
Orgow’s heart raced, and everything darkened before his eyes. It was all too much for the old man. Orgow sank to the ground, overcome by a violent fit of the ague. The professor no longer saw what played itself out in his presence. He was powerless to stop the horror from unfolding …
********************************************************************
Mary was alive again!
As if in slow motion, she opened her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Some strange power propelled her as she sat up: she could not think, nor feel – only some unknown force drove her forward. Her feet touched the ground, yet she did not register the coldness of the stone. Mary began to walk, with half-outstretched hands like a somnambulist. Single-mindedly focussed upon her goal, she steered herself towards the staircase and commenced climbing the steps, as though in a trance. Her movements were strangely jerky. Despite the darkness she found her way about the hall as if she had always been at home there.
The door!
Orgow had left it open.
Mary stepped out into the open air. The cold wind whistled through her shroud, but the living dead felt nothing. With faltering steps Mary walked across the inner courtyard of the castle. A stone cut into her foot – but no blood flowed from the wound. Mary stumbled on. The same unknown irresistible urge drove her on. The wind caused her shroud to billow out.
Suddenly, Mary groaned. All of a sudden she was able to think again. Yet her thoughts were of a gruesome nature.
“You must kill,” a voice whispered. “Kill – kill …”
Satan had taken possession of Mary’s soul.
Mary’s steps grew faster. She hurried down the castle pathway. Yes, all at once she knew her destination. Not far from here – that was where she had to go. That was where the village lay. A big house, people lived inside. Who were these people?
Mary’s thoughts became diffuse – but one remained clear and focuses: Kill the people – kill the people!
Mary ran. The compulsion inside her grew ever stronger. She sensed that she had almost reached her destination. The first houses …
Mary halted. She was only interested in one house in particular. And she knew where to find it. She pressed on. The village street lay deserted before her. Not a single light burned anywhere in sight. But no! Behind the window of one particular house Mary saw a bright glow.
This house was her destination …
*********************************************************************
Mr. and Mrs. Winston could not sleep. Tomorrow was the funeral of their eldest daughter. This event had already cast its long shadow over them.
Mrs. Winston was lying on the couch, tossing and turning restlessly. Again and again she started up in fright: she simply could not come to terms with the death of her daughter.
Mr. Winston was sitting at the table, staring into empty space. Every time his wife moved, he gave a convulsive start. In the last few days he had aged years. They had all been very attached to Mary. Jack and Jenny, too – the twins, who were sleeping upstairs. They had coped best of all with what had happened, perhaps because they did not really comprehend it.
“What time is it?” Caroline Winston asked her husband.
“What?” Ronald Winston gave a start.
The woman repeated her question. Ronald Winston looked, with reddened eyes, at his watch. “Nearly two in the morning.”
“My God!” whispered his wife. “You need to get some sleep too, Ron.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Please try, at least.”
“No.” Ronald Winston shook his head. His wife let out a deep sigh. She sank back on the couch and stared at the ceiling with expressionless eyes. There was a big lump in her throat – yet she could not cry. Mrs. Winston had already shed too many tears over recent days.
Ronald Winston got up.
“Where are you going?” his wife asked.
“To get something to drink.” Ronald Winston disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Caroline was alone in the large living room. The stillness bore down heavily upon the room. All that could be heard was the monotonous ticking of an old wall clock. The Winstons were accustomed to this sound. They didn’t even notice it any more.
A scratching noise at the front door made Caroline Winston jump.
“Is that you, Ron?” At the same moment she realised that her husband was in the kitchen at the other end of the house. Now she heard a knocking at the front door. Heavy blows. Caroline Winston frowned. Who could that be at this hour …?
There was renewed knocking. This time even stronger. Caroline Winston got up. Fear gripped hold of her heart.
“Ronald!” she called. “There’s someone knocking at the door.”
“Open the door, then,” her husband shouted back. “I can’t get to the door at the moment.”
Caroline went with uncertain steps to the front door. Again there was a thunderous knock on the wood.
“All right, I’m coming, I’m coming!” Her voice sounded slightly irritated. Caroline Winston first had to unlock the door. She hastily turned the key in the lock. As always, the door jammed a little.
“I just need to …” All further words literally stuck in Caroline Winston’s throat as she saw who was outside.
“Mary! No. But this is imposs …. – no, no ….!” Only now did Caroline Winston comprehend that her dead daughter was indeed standing right before her. She tumbled back with a scream. At the same instant, dead Mary entered the house.
Ronald Winston heard his wife’s scream. “What is it?” he yelled.
Caroline gave no reply. She was lying on the floor. Her body twitched convulsively, as though in a fit. She felt nothing when two dead hands placed themselves around her neck and pressed together mercilessly. The last sound that came from Caroline’s mouth was the death rattle. Then her body grew limp.
Mary straightened herself up. Her hair hung dishevelled across her forehead. Her hands were stretched out like claws. Her face was pasty and bloated. The reek of decay issued from her.
Heavy footsteps could be heard coming towards the hall.
“Caroline, what’s the matter?” Ronald Winston came running up. At the same moment, Mary began to mount the staircase that led upstairs – to where the twins were sleeping …
Ronald Winston saw his wife lying in front of the open front door.
“Caroline!” Winston’s cry sounded more like a groan. He threw himself down beside his wife and caressed her face.
“Caroline, please! Answer me, please!” But Mrs. Winston would never make answer again. She was dead. As soon as her husband realised this, he collapsed in a heap, sobbing pitifully.
Meanwhile, the “dead” girl had reached the children’s room on the first floor. Cautiously she pressed down the handle. The door swung gently open. Mary’s hand groped for the light switch. The sudden illumination frightened the twins from their dreams.
“Is that you, Mum?” Jack asked in a sleepy voice, sitting up in bed. He blinked into the bright light, rubbing his eyes and suddenly jumping for joy.
“Mary!” he cried joyously, and extended his little arms. The dead woman approached his bed. She moved like a puppet – jerkily, in the manner of a marionette.
“Jenny, wake up, Mary has come!” Five-year-old Jack jumped up and down excitedly in his bed. Now the dead woman had reached the child. Her claw-like hands were stretched out for the little boy’s neck.
“Carry me downstairs, Mary, will you?” Jack looked at his big sister expectantly. Then her hands closed around the little boy’s throat. She squeezed, without mercy …
Jenny, meantime, was now fully awake. It was only a matter of seconds before she understood what was going on. She saw Mary’s horrid face, saw her brother’s little legs kicking and jerking, and she screamed, screamed, screamed with all her might …
Her screams roused Ronald Winston to his senses and brought him back into action. “The children!” he whispered without any expression as he pelted upstairs. When he crashed into the children’s room, he thought that he had lost all reason. He saw the scene before him, but could not take it in. He saw his dead daughter bending over Jack’s bed, her hands fastened around the little boy’s throat.
Ronald Winston acted out of pure instinct. He leapt forward with one mighty bound and smashed his fist into Mary’s back. It felt to him as if he were pounding his fist into a piece of dough. But it had the desired effect: Mary let go of Jack. She now turned her attention to her new attacker. As Ronald Winston looked into the face of his daughter, he nearly took leave of his senses. From the pale, bloated skin of this re-animated corpse two bloody eyes shone out at him, and long, pointed fingernails moved towards his neck. Ronald Winston saw his little son lying bloody in the bed and knew that he had arrived too late. But one thought dominated his brain: You must kill this monster!
Winston spun round, just in time, as Mary’s razor-sharp fingernails sliced past his neck, missing by just a hair’s breadth. The dead woman staggered and fell against the doorjamb. But she quickly caught herself and set off in pursuit of her father, who was pounding down the stairs as if pursued by furies. With a few giant strides, Winston reached the kitchen. The axe! For three days it had lain in the kitchen. He had kept intending to return it to the cellar, but had completely forgotten about it in the turmoil of the past few days. The hatchet was standing behind the cupboard. Ronald Winston seized it with both hands.
With a creak, the kitchen door swung open. She was coming! Like some jerky automated marionette, Mary lunged towards Ronald Winston. The man raised the axe above his head. His brain was functioning clearly again now.
Mary still had her hands extended before her. Ronald Winston knew exactly what had to be done. He was no murderer. Mary was already dead!
Ronald Winston brought the axe crashing down, and staggered back. From out of his fear-widened eyes he watched what now occurred.
The dead creature sank to the ground with a cry defying all description. Her eyes suddenly became huge, and with a pitiful and pleading expression they turned their gaze upon the man.
Ronald Winston trembled. The dead woman shrivelled up, dissolved away and turned to dust. A smell of burning hung in the air.
Ronald Winston mopped the sweat from his brow. His lips formed the shapes of silent, incomprehensible words. He could not grasp what he had just witnessed. Only a pile of ashes remained of the dead monstrosity.
Ronald Winston reeled about the kitchen and flung the axe into a corner.
In the doorway stood little Jenny. “Jacky. He’s bleeding so badly!” she said in a faltering voice - with tears streaming down her face …
********************************************************************
Professor Orgow awoke as if from a dream. He pulled himself up with great effort, using the stone table as a support. The foul air suddenly caused him trouble. He staggered.
After a few minutes he had recovered himself. His glance fell upon the table.
It was empty!
Mary had vanished!
Professor Orgow trembled. He sensed that her disappearance could have horrific consequences.
Lara! Where was Lara, the medium?
Orgow tumbled into the little room. What good fortune! Lara lay in her sarcophagus. She had climbed into it again by herself.
Professor Orgow did not lose a moment. As quickly as he could, he ran upstairs. When he heard the howling of the wind, he knew that Mary had disappeared through the open door. His first impulsive reaction was to dash outside. But then he thought better of it. No, why should he search for Mary? It would only arouse suspicion. And that was undesirable. They would get onto his tracks. And he had so much more to do. As yet, nobody knew that it was he who had removed the dead woman from the mortuary. And the old cemetery attendant would not be saying anything any more. The police would rack their brains over the whole affair. But nobody could link him with it. And in any case, Constable Jones, the village policeman, was a bit of a duffer. He could at best clear up a case of chicken rustling – that was about all.
Reassured by these reflections, Professor Orgow closed the entrance door. What he needed now was sleep. He had to get some rest, for great tasks lay before him on the morrow’s eve …
******************************************************************
“And you expect me to believe this, Mr. Winston?” Constable Jones asked sceptically.
Ronald Winston sobbed. “It is the truth. Really. I can’t tell you anything different. I did not kill my wife and my son. It was my dead daughter who did it. I swear it, as surely as I am standing here.”
The constable tapped the side of his head. “I’ve always regarded you as a normal person, Mr. Winstone. Not as a nutter, like most of the villagers are. But what you’re trying to tell me now – well, no reasonable man would believe a single word of it.”
Ronald Winston sank exhausted onto a kitchen chair. With a trembling hand he pointed to the pile of ashes on the floor. “That’s all that’s left of my daughter.”
Constable Jones dismissively waved the idea aside. He thought of himself as a realist and had always distanced himself from the nonsense gossiped by the villagers. To him, the case was clear: Ronald Winston had strangled his wife and son in a sudden fit of madness. On the other hand, though, one would normally expect to find traces of skin under the fingernails. But there was none. The policeman had examined Winston’s hands most carefully. Oh well, the murder squad would doubtless find out more.
“For the time being, you stay here in the kitchen,” said Constable Jones, leaving the room.
Winston nodded feebly and watched him go, with dull eyes.
Meantime, the two corpses had been removed. They were to be housed in the fire station until the murder squad had completed their work.
Constable Jones rolled himself a cigarette and inhaled the smoke with sybaritic pleasure. The more he thought about the case, the more uncertain he grew. Damn it! He had known Robert Winston for a number of years, and he simply was not capable of murder. But who could see into the soul of another human being?
Nevertheless, Jones wanted to give the unhappy man a chance. He went back into the kitchen. Ronald Winston was still squatting on the chair, a veritable picture of misery. He was staring with glassy eyes at the ashes.
“This was her, “ he whispered, barely audibly. “This was Mary, my daughter. I had to kill her. With the axe …”
Constable Jones got goose pimples at these words. Involuntarily he stared at the heavy weapon in the corner. But he could discover no blood on it. Are you starting to go round the bend? he thought.
The policeman gave himself a jolt. He placed his giant’s paw on Winston’s shoulder. “Come with me, Winston.”
Ronald Winston had not understood his words. Instead, he asked, “Where is Jenny?”
“She’s in safe hands, with Sister Elisabeth.”
Winston nodded automatically. “What time is it?”
“Six o’clock in the morning.”
“My God! So late? I must hurry. It’s Mary’s funeral today. I …” Ronald Winston was totally confused. The shock had hit him too forcibly. With a despairing gesture, he pressed his hand against his head. “Where is my wife?”
Constable Jones gave a sad sigh. This man had lost his mind. He was getting everything muddled up.
Winston looked at the constable with wide-open eyes. “I did not kill my wife, no! It wasn’t me. You must believe me!”
Jones mopped the sweat from his forehead. God damn it! This was an accursed situation. Then he remembered what he had said a moment before.
“Come with me, please, Mr. Winston.”
“Where to?”
“To the cemetery. We can see there whether you’re right or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain it to you once we’re there.”
A minute later, the two men stepped out into the cool morning air. In the east it was slowly getting light. Nosey neighbours had gathered in front of Winston’s house. News of the event had spread like wildfire. Cold, pitiless eyes stared at Ronald Winston. One man spat at his feet and called out “murderer!”
Winston winced. With a shiver of cold, he pulled his jacket over his shoulders. Constable Jones stood squarely in front of the silent crowd. He was respected in the village. With his square skull, sparse blond hair, sickle-shaped moustache and massive build he was the very epitome of a man who claimed and gained respect. The uniform did the rest.
“Go home, people,” he called in stentorian tones. “There’s nothing to see here. Get going, vanish!”
And indeed the crowd dispersed. Constable Jones grinned with satisfaction. He turned once more to Winston. “Let’s go.”
It took about ten minutes on foot to reach the cemetery. During that time, Ronald Winston did not speak a single word. His gaze was lowered, as he shuffled along beside the policeman.
The constable frowned when he saw the cemetery gates open. Had old Kinny forgotten to lock them? No doubt he’d got drunk again. Constable Jones shrugged his shoulders and entered the cemetery grounds. Ronald Winston followed him, albeit hesitantly. He seemed frightened of something.
“Come along, Mr. Winston,” he urged. “I’ve got other work to do. After all, I’m doing you a favour by coming out all this way to take a look.”
The two men walked along the paths that led to the mortuary, and which were laid out like a chessboard between the rows of gravestones. The smell of brackish water and rotting vegetation hung heavily in the air. Constable Jones cleared his throat. An unpleasant feeling had crept up on him. But meantime, the sky was growing lighter.
Jones’s eyes narrowed when he saw the open door of the mortuary swinging to and fro in the wind. Something’s happened here, the policeman thought and automatically quickened his pace. His blood almost froze in his veins when he all but stumbled over poor old dead Kinny.
“My God! That’s …”
Jones didn’t get any further. Ronald Winston, who had cast a glance over Jones’s shoulder, gave a sudden shout. He tore past the constable like a lunatic, throwing himself down on his knees before the oak coffin. “She’s gone,” he stammered, “she’s gone!”
Constable Jones squinted, to accustom himself to the early morning light. He felt as though an icy finger were tracing a track down his spine. Slowly he approached the coffin.
“You are right!” he whispered. “Mary is no longer here.”
Ronald Winston had collapsed. He cowed on the stone ground, whimpering silently to himself. It was also some little while before Constable Jones was able to overcome his fright. For several minutes he simply stood there motionless. Suddenly something occurred to him. He remembered a circular that he had received a few days previously. It had said that three corpses from neighbouring villages had been stolen. To date they had not been found. And Mary’s was evidently the fourth. But who was stealing the dead bodies? And what was the grave robber’s purpose? Or was more than one person involved? Poor old Kinny had obviously surprised them – and paid the price.
Constable Jones’s face grew thoughtful. The story which Winston had told him suddenly did not seem so fantastic after all. Perhaps he really had seen his daughter …
Jones shook his head. No, no, that was impossible. After all, Mary was dead. Or did the thieves perhaps show him his dead daughter, causing Winston to lose his mind in consequence? Rubbish! This was most unlikely. And he would hardly have done away with his wife on this account. Jones turned over this and that possible explanation in his mind, but could arrive at no firm conclusion.
“This is all beyond me,” he muttered and tapped Winston on the shoulder. “Come on.”
Winston got up automatically. With head bowed he accompanied the constable back to the village.
The murder squad met some two hours later. The members of the squad listened to the story but did only the bare minimum, just that which was absolutely necessary. By mid-afternoon, they had already disappeared again.
But the case kept going round and round in Constable Jones’s head. The officials of the murder squad had taken Ronald Winston into custody. One of their inspectors was going to interrogate him.
In all honesty, Constable Jones did not invest too much faith in the local country constabulary. And so, late that evening, he reached a decision, wrote a seven-page report and sent it off to Scotland Yard …
*******************************************************************
Four corpses disappeared!
That was the headline in the “Carlisle News”, a provincial rag of the tabloid type.
Ann Baxter, a London journalist on a motoring holiday in Scotland, deposited the newspaper on the passenger’s seat with a shake of the head. What would her colleagues here dream up next! No doubt they still believed in ghosts!
Ann Baxter was a “modern miss”. She was a great believer in female emancipation and had little time for the petit bourgeoisie. Her sporty trouser suit emphasised her well-formed figure, and her short pageboy haircut made her look like a college girl. Ann was twenty-five years old and not yet married. She had no intention of drifting into the marriage harbour until she was at least thirty.
As Ann Baxter turned out of the exit from the small petrol station, she put her foot down hard on the accelerator. The engine of her bright-red MG roared impressively. The petrol pump attendant looked after her as she raced off, and began to feel nocturnal desires …
The country road was in a pretty good state of repair, so Ann could let her fast little car show what it could do.
“It’s time you looked for a hotel,” she muttered to herself and put her foot down even harder. The next village – she knew from the map – was called Middlesbury, and that was where Ann Baxter would spend the night.
The hilly and forested Scottish landscape exerted a special charm over Ann Baxter. Somehow she felt free, liberated from the oppressive weight of the daily round.
“I’m going to have myself a marvellous holiday,” Ann thought.
A signpost flashed by: Middlesbury - 2 miles.
A short time later the car pulled up in the village. It was a cosy little nest, with friendly-looking houses and a large main road – although Ann Baxter could not help but notice that very few people were actually out and about in the open. She had no problem parking. She stopped her snappy little vehicle in front of an inn. “Paddy’s Inn”, it said on the sign in red lettering above the entrance. Ann Baxter manoeuvred herself out of the MG, picked up her light suitcase, placed it on the pavement and locked the car. As she was straightening herself up again, her gaze chanced to turn northwards. Now, just before sunset, the air was particularly clear. So Ann Baxter got a good view of the gloomy castle that was perched high up on the rocks above.
My Goodness, does that place look haunted! Ann Baxter thought to herself and felt goose pimples involuntarily creep up her skin. Rubbish! She scolded herself at once for such silly thoughts, and gave a little laugh. Shaking her head, she entered the inn.
Ann Baxter found herself stepping into a dark parlour which houses a long wooden bar and a number of tables. The chairs were likewise of wood, and free of all upholstery. No guests were to be seen in the little pub.
“Hallo!” Ann Baxter called out. “Custom!”
Nobody answered.
Ann knitted her brows.
“Is there anybody here?” This time her voice was louder.
Shuffling steps approached. From out of a door beside the bar stepped a rather elderly man. Ann rested her suitcase on the floor and stood there with her arms on her hips.
“About time, mister! Don’t you want to earn money?”
The man looked at her in surprise. He was small, with a bald head and thick, bushy eyebrows and a potato-style conk of a nose.
“What do you want here?” he asked in an almost comically high voice.
Ann Baxter shook her head. “Something to eat, something to drink, and a bed for the night, of course. Is that so strange to you? I thought this was meant to be a guesthouse!”
“To be sure,” the old man smiled. “Certainly. My apologies, Miss. But we’re not used to strangers here. Especially women. I’ll get your room ready for you right away.”
“Good,” said Ann. “But bring me something to drink first. Fruit juice, if you’ve got any?”
“Certainly, Miss, certainly,” the landlord replied obsequiously.
Ann received her fruit juice and sat down at one of the tables. Then she ordered something to eat: scrambled eggs with ham and bread.
The young journalist had chosen her place well. She was sitting directly next to the window and could comfortably overlook the street.
The twilight slowly began to fall. The shadows of dusk already lay across the village. Ann Baxter was more and more surprised that she couldn’t see anybody in the street. Nor did any guest enter the pub.
“Funny,” thought Anne and lit herself a cigarette.
“Your meal, Miss.”
The landlord had crept almost inaudibly up to Ann’s table. The girl thanked him with a friendly nod of her head, stubbed out her cigarette and applied herself to the food with relish.
When the landlord returned a quarter-of-an-hour later to clear away the things, Ann detained him.
“Tell me, Mr. ….?”
“McDuff. Paddy McDuff.”
OK, right, McDuff. What’s going on here?”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand you, Miss.”
“Let me express myself more clearly: why are there no people here? Why are the streets all empty? And why no customers here at the inn? I don’t understand.”
“You’re right: you wouldn’t understand,” the landlord said quickly and attempted to move off.
“Just a moment.” Ann grabbed hold of the sleeve of the man’s jacket. “I want to know, now.”
The landlord looked at her thoughtfully. Then he sat down. “Very well, I’ll tell you, Miss. The dead have come back to life.” He spoke the last sentence in a mere whisper. Ann, who had just been sipping an after-dinner whisky, spluttered.
“What did you say?”
The landlord’s face clouded over. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“No, I do, I do – I believe you,” Ann attempted to mollify the old man. “But it came as too much of a surprise for me just now. I am actually very interested in the story. Would you do me the favour of telling it to me?”
The wall lights, which by this time were turned on, cast dark shadows upon the old man’s face. There was almost total silence. Ann Baxter suddenly shivered. She found the atmosphere constricting.
The landlord nodded. “I’ll tell you the story, Miss. But it is not a good story. Listen.”
And the old man began to report. He told of the Winston family, whose dead daughter had come back to life and committed the most horrific murders. Ann Baxter, the level-headed, realistic girl from London, felt shiver after shiver run down her spine. To be sure, she had read her share of ghost stories; but the way the old man delivered his tale had something of the truth about it. After he had finished speaking, there was a moment’s silence. Then Ann put on a somewhat inhibited smile and asked, “But you’re surely not serious, Mr. McDuff?”
“I am utterly serious, Miss …?”
“Baxter. Ann Baxter. Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner.”
“It all happened just as I’ve told you,” the old man continued. “And there will be more dead to come back. Believe me, Miss Baxter.”
Ann did not know what to make of the story. She remembered the newspaper that was lying on the passenger seat of her car. Four corpses had vanished, said the headline. Could there really be a connection between that newspaper report and the old man’s tale?
Ann was too much of a reporter not to feel interested in this story.
“I’ll stay, Mr. McDuff. I’ll take the room for a week.”
The landlord nodded.
“I don’t wish to pry into your affairs, Miss Baxter. But does your staying on here maybe have something to do with the events that have occurred in this part of the world?”
“Indeed it does, Mr. McDuff. I should very much like to meet one of the dead folk who spook about this area …”
The old man gave Ann a serious look. “If I were you, I’d drive away from this place as far as you can get, Miss.”
“No, no, my dear sir. There can be no question of that. Maybe I can help clear up the murder of the cemetery attendant. I’ve always been interested in criminology.”
“You know best, Miss.”
Ann Baxter laid her hand on McDuff’s arm. “And now tell me how I get to the castle.”
The landlord jumped as if he had just received an electric shock. “For God’s sake! The castle is cursed. None of the villagers dares go up there.”
“But I’m not one of the inhabitants here,” smiled Ann. “By the way, who does the castle belong to?”
The landlord stirred uneasily on his chair. “We don’t really know that ourselves. A stranger bought the castle. He has never come down to us in the village. Only once a month a car from the main town in the district delivers food to the place. A few people have spoken with the driver. But he wasn’t able to tell us much, either. He is only allowed to drive into the castle courtyard and unload the provisions. We don’t want to know any more, in any case.”
“But I do,” said Ann Baxter, and got up from her chair. The landlord warned her again.
“Turn back, Miss Baxter. Drive away to some other place. Don’t stay here, don’t start making enquiries. It’s in your own best interest not to do so.”
Ann slapped the man jovially on the shoulder. “Have no fear, Mr. McDuff. I am not so easily intimidated. Good night!”
Ann Baxter went up to her room and immediately threw herself onto the bed. But she could not sleep. All night long, the insistent words of the old man kept going round and round in her head, like some haunting spirit …
*******************************************************************
New Scotland Yard!
A police organisation in which tradition is paired with progress.
The new building towered up into the overcast sky like the point of a dagger.
John Sinclair, thirty years young, of dark-blond hair, blue eyes and almost six feet three inches in height, had just sat down in the canteen over his lunch when the announcement came over the Tannoy that he was to report to his boss immediately.
With a sigh, John left his roast beef, winked across at the pretty waitress, and got into the lift, which took him to the tenth floor.
Superintendent Powell sat behind his writing desk like a giant baboon and cast a sharp glance at the Inspector through the thick lenses of his glasses as he entered. Powell was a lean type, who suffered from asthma and abhorred alcohol. Still, it took all sorts to make a world! Despite everything, he was a born tactician and organiser.
“Take a seat and have a look at this letter, John,” Powell said, handing the Inspector several closely typed sheets of paper.
John Sinclair read the letter with great attentiveness. After about twenty minutes, he placed the sheets of paper on the writing desk.
“Well?” said Superintendent Powell, with emphasis. “What do you think?”
John grinned, somewhat ruefully. “Normally I would say that this Constable Jones here has rather too fertile an imagination. But as things stand – I mean with the disappeared corpses – there really must be something to the whole affair.”
“Exactly,” his superior returned. “John, I want you to handle this case. You are just the right man for the job.”
John Sinclair was the right man indeed. During the years of his studies, he had occupied himself, amongst other things, with parapsychology, that fringe area of psychology. To be sure, he was a realist, but he also knew that there are things which conventional learning cannot explain. This was especially the case with science.
“Do you really believe that my travelling up to Middlesbury will be crowned with success, sir?”
“Yes, I do” Powell replied, getting up from his chair. “It would be best, I think, if you got going today. But be careful, John. I’ve a funny feeling about this case. I would not like to lose my best man! Good luck to you.” The two men shook hands.
John Sinclair was used to this kind of job. And to date, he had always returned in one piece.
First John drove to the national archive centre. The place smelled of dusty old files and floor polish. He had put Constable Jones’s letter in his pocket, and now he took it out again, to read the name of the castle that was mentioned in it.
“Manor Castle?”, the archivist muttered, scratching the back of his bald head. “I’ll have it for you in a second.” He disappeared into the back of the huge archival hall, mumbling to himself. Three minutes later he returned, with a loose-leaf binder in hand. He blew the dust off it and handed the file to John. “I had a quick look myself, sir. If you ask me, it looks like the castle is haunted!” he sagely opined, shaking his head.
“I’m fond of ghosts,” John grinned, and disappeared.
Back at his soberly furnished office, John looked through the file. The contents were partially made up of newspaper articles and old documents. Many of the sheets of paper were already yellow with age. John passed his eye swiftly over the initial history of the castle. But the last few pages aroused his interest. They stated that a certain Professor Orgow had acquired the castle some two years before for a mere ten thousand pounds. Orgow hailed from Rumania, but had long lived in England and gave himself over – so the file said – to the academic study of magic and its problems. His colleagues regarded him as a crackpot and had broken off all contact with him. The students at the university where he had formerly lectured had given him the nickname of “the necromancer”. It seemed that he had indeed met with some considerable success in his researches, but his results had never been acknowledged by the scientific Establishment. Quite the contrary - they had actually laughed at him. Apparently bitter and filled with a fervent hatred for mankind, he had withdrawn to the creepy castle, the perfect backdrop to his mysterious investigations. What he was engaged in now, however, could not be determined from the documents.
Thoughtfully, John snapped the file to again. He regarded this Professor Orgow as in no way a crackpot. In fact, he was convinced that the nickname of “the necromancer” was completely justified in the case of this seemingly mad scientist. Even if the man gave the impression of being rather peculiar, even bizarre, John knew that precisely these types can display abilities with which they astonish those around them or even plunge them into fear and terror. Probably that was the case here too. Everything pointed to it, anyway.
John wedged the file under his arm, got into his silver-grey Bentley – the only luxury he could afford – and drove home. Without further ado he packed a suitcase and half an hour later set off for the north – for Scotland. He spent the night at an inn, and arrived in Middlesbury the following morning.
The little village made a sleepy kind of impression upon him – quite unlike the girl who ran across John’s path as he was looking for a hotel. John stopped the car, let down the window and politely enquired after a hotel. The girl furled her brow when she saw the Bentley.
“Are you lost, mister?”
“Not at all,” John smiled. “I want to take a holiday here.”
“A man of your income bracket usually flies off to the south or the Bahamas. But a holiday here in Scotland ….?!”
“It’s a matter of taste,” John replied. “May I ask, then, why you are here, Miss, er, …?”
“Baxter. Ann Baxter,” the girl returned. “I’m on holiday here too.”
And they both burst out laughing.
“You can stay the night at Paddy’s Inn,” Ann Baxter explained. “I’m staying there myself. Why don’t you take me along with you? I’ve just finished my morning walk and am looking forward to breakfast.”
“But of course, with pleasure, Miss Baxter,” John responded, opening the car door. “My name is John Sinclair, by the way,” the inspector introduced himself. “I’m interested in old castles and fortresses. I have practical dealings with such things.”
“So you are not here on holiday, then!” Ann observed.
“Whatever!”
“I am a reporter, Mr. Sinclair,” Ann said during the short drive to the hotel. “I’m just here for a bit of relaxation. To get away from the never-ending hectic pace of the editorial office. Even a horse couldn’t stand that for too long!”
John smiled. He did not believe Ann Baxter – purely instinctively. She was not the type who hid away in the wilderness when she went on holiday.
John stopped the Bentley in front of Paddy’s Inn. When the two got out, the villagers who were in the street all stuck their heads together and started to whisper. John paid them no heed, but entered the inn with Ann Baxter, settled the formalities with the landlord and likewise ordered breakfast.
They had barely swallowed their first morsel of food when a man came rushing and wheezing into the hostelry.
“Paddy!” he called. “Paddy!”
“What’s wrong, Buck?” the landlord asked grumpily.
The man had to catch his breath first before he could speak any further.
“He’s hanged himself,” the man gasped.
“Who?”
“Ronald Winston. Yes, he’s hanged himself in his cell. Paddy, I tell you, the Winston family is cursed.” The man confided the last words in a whisper.
John Sinclair noticed how Ann Baxter shuddered. What did she know about this Winston family? John put down his knife and fork. He turned to Ann Baxter, who was sitting there as if frozen to her chair. “Who was this Ronald Winston?”
“A villager.”
John Sinclair looked at Ann sceptically. “You know a thing or two, don’t you, Miss Baxter? You seem to have been in this place some time already.”
Ann’s manner grew even more dismissive. “Why are you interested in this?”
John smiled. “I was observing you, Miss Baxter. The death of this man seemed very much to affect you. You started visibly. I seriously doubt that you are really just on holiday here. Maybe there’s something else …”
“Oh, you’re imagining all this,” Ann Baxter retorted, pertly. She stood up. “Goodbye, Mr. Sinclair.”
John wanted to hold her back, but then decided against it. By this time, Buck – who had delivered the news of Winston’s death – had grown calmer. He was already downing his third whisky. John went over and sat beside him at the bar. There was no sign of the landlord for that moment.
“Strange things seem to be going on round here,” John said.
Buck nodded vigorously. “You can say that again, mister. Things that are not just strange, but uncanny.”
“How do you mean?”
Buck leaned forward. “The dead are returning to life,” he whispered.
“But that’s impossible.”
“No it’s not. Mary Winston, who was meant to be buried three days ago, came back and murdered her mother and her little brother. And then there was the old cemetery attendant: the dead ones in the mortuary did for him. I heard all about it from an acquaintance of mine.”
John shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“But it’s true: the dead ones did it. The murder squad couldn’t even find any fingerprints. Constable Jones told me so himself.”
“The murderers might have worn gloves.”
“No,” Buck declared emphatically. “It was the dead ones, believe me. The uncanny one himself is bringing them back to life.”
“And who might this ‘uncanny one’ be?” John asked, amused.
“The professor up at the old castle,” Buck whispered fearfully. “People say he’s a vampire, a warlock, a necromancer! Nobody dares enter his castle.”
John laughed out loud. “But that’s all fairy tales to frighten the children.”
At that moment, the landlord returned. He called over to Buck, asking him to give him a hand in the cellar.
John Sinclair went out too. Outside, the sky was clear and the air fresh. A pale autumn sun shone in the sky. John Sinclair walked to the end of the village. His gaze passed over the countryside and came to rest on the gloomy old castle on top of the rocks. The inspector studied Manor Castle for quite a while. But he could discern no movement there. He resolved to pay this strange ancient ruin a visit that very night. Then he went back again and asked one of the villagers the way to the police station. Strangely enough, the little stone building was situated in a side street. The heavy entrance door was open. John Sinclair immediately found himself in the waiting room. A filing cabinet and its contents, a picture of the Queen, two chairs and an old writing desk were all the furniture that it was able to boast. Behind the writing desk sat a bear of a man, who got up as John entered.
“I’m Constable Jones,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr. …?”
“My name is John Sinclair. Inspector Sinclair, Scotland Yard, Constable.”
“Oh!” The policeman immediately and involuntarily stood to attention.
“No need for any ceremony,” John smiled and sat down on a hard office chair. Jones likewise resumed his seat.
“We received your letter,” John began. “And we read it with much interest, I can tell you. It was immediately clear to us that there was something in what you say. That’s why I’m here, Constable. I suggest that you tell me everything again, in exact detail.”
Constable Jones nodded eagerly and began his report. John listened attentively. Not once did he interrupt Jones, not even with a single word. When the policeman had finished, John nodded. “Of course, there are a few questions I’d like to ask you, Constable.”
“Please go ahead, sir.”
“Did the murder squad examine the ashes of the dead woman?”
Jones went red. “No,” he admitted. “When I returned to the house to secure the evidence, the ashes had vanished.”
“How so?”
“The neighbours had come into the kitchen out of sheer curiosity,” the constable said. “After that, the ashes had been removed – and nobody would admit responsibility for their disappearance.”
“Pity,” said John. “But carry on. Have you already received the murder-squad reports from Carlisle?”
“No, sir. My colleagues say they are overloaded with work at present. So much has happened recently. In addition to Mary Winston, other corpses have also disappeared. And all these cases are being handled by my colleagues in Carlisle.”
“But these other dead bodies have not suddenly re-appeared, I take it?” John surmised.
“Correct. At least, we’ve heard nothing about it if they have.”
“You talk as though you yourself believed in the return of the dead!” said John.
The constable stirred uncomfortably on his chair.
“Well, almost,” he finally confessed. “Things happen here that truly are inexplicable. Look sir, I grew up here. The inhabitants of these parts really do believe in the supernatural. Me too. And recent events have proven me right.”
“Nothing has been proven yet.”
“Nevertheless, sir. I have the feeling that something dreadful is going to happen …”
“There’s no room for apprehension here,” said John. “In any case, I intend to take a closer look at the castle – this very night.”
The constable swallowed. “Isn’t that too dangerous? I mean – I fear that you might be … running to your own death., sir.”
“That’s a risk I am prepared to take. But if, contrary to my expectations, I should not be back by tomorrow, inform Scotland Yard. Right, now I’ve got another question for you. Who or what is this Ann Baxter? I have just encountered her.”
“She is a journalist,” Jones replied.
“That’s what she told me, too. But I can’t escape the feeling that she’s doing more than just having a holiday here. The suicide of this Mr. Winston seemed to affect her quite a bit.”
The constable shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t really had much to do with the lady. She just came to me recently and enquired about the castle and its owner – pretty intensively, I must say. She also asked around in the village, and naturally the inhabitants will have told her about the uncanny goings-on here in Middlesbury.”
At the same moment the door of the little police station opened, and Ann Baxter rushed into the room.
“Constable, I …”
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw John sitting there on the chair.
“What’s going on here?” she asked in amazement. “It was about this man that I wanted to speak to you, Constable.”
Jones was about to answer her, when John gave him a warning look.
“Did you want to make a complaint about me, Miss Baxter?” He gave her a broad smile.
Ann Baxter felt embarrassed. “Not exactly, but your – your …”
She suddenly stuttered.
John Sinclair laughed. “Have no fear, Miss Baxter. I really am a harmless fellow. I was just asking Constable Jones about the castles and fortresses in this area. You know, I deal in such things.” John deliberately concealed his true profession. Now Constable Jones also knew what he was pretending to be.
“In any case, I’m leaving tomorrow, Miss Baxter. So I won’t be a burden to you any longer.”
Ann went red. “I didn’t mean that, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Me neither,” John smiled. Then he turned to the constable once again. “Many thanks for your advice, sir. I’ll drive further on to Aberdeen.” As he spoke these last words, he gave Jones a wink. He also took his leave of Ann Baxter.
He stopped for a moment in front of the door. So he involuntarily heard Ann Baxter’s words:
“I’m going to pay a visit to that Manor Castle. And not even you can stop me, Constable!”
******************************************************************
The shadows of twilight already lay heavy across the land as Ann Baxter approached the castle. She was going on foot, having left her car down below in the village. Nobody was to see her arrival.
The path leading up to the castle was steep. Ann was sweating, despite the cold wind that always blew in this coastal region.
It had already grown dark when she reached Manor Castle. The rusty iron gates were open and were squeaking to and fro in the wind. Ann Baxter slipped inside the interior courtyard of the castle. She listened attentively. Somewhere an owl was screeching in tones of lamentation. Then a raven flew over her head, squawking discordantly. Weeds and gnarled bushes grew in profusion in the inner courtyard, and the wind whispered through the twigs.
Ann’s eyes soon grew accustomed to the darkness. She scanned the great courtyard once more, then ran quickly across to the castle. She pressed herself close to the cracked wall. She wanted to try to enter the castle through a side entrance; so she crept further, always keeping close to the wall. A few minutes later she reached the east side of the castle, and therewith one of the four towers.
Ann quickly switched on her pen torch and made out an old wooden door, through which she could gain entry into the tower. She hesitated for a moment. An uneasy feeling had suddenly come upon her. Goose pimples ran up and down her flesh like pointed needles. “Don’t do it,” an inner voice told her. “Go back, quickly!”
Ann ignored the warning. She took a deep breath, thereby giving herself more courage, and pressed resolutely down upon the heavy handle. With a sustained groan, the door swung open. Ann involuntarily pulled in her head as she entered the tower. Spiders’ webs tickled her face, and bats started up in fright.
Ann stopped still. It was as silent as the grave. The journalist wryly thought to herself that anyone miles away would be able to hear her heart beating. But she plucked up courage and switched on her torch again.
She saw the first few steps of a winding staircase. It led both upwards and downwards. Ann’s hands trembled as she mounted the staircase. The journalist decided to go down. She took the stone steps singly, one by one, always keeping to the inner edge of the staircase. Unconsciously she counted the steps. “Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven …” With a loud crash, the door to the tower above slammed to. As if lashed by a whip, Ann Baxter jumped back. She knew for a fact that she had left the door open. Was it merely the wind that it had blown it shut, or …?
An eruption of sudden, crazy laughter struck Ann as though with physical force. The laugh reverberated uncannily throughout the tower, growing louder and returning as an echo.
Noises up above on the steps. Footsteps! Ann Baxter was seized by panic. She spun round and clicked on her torch …
“Aaaahh!”
Ann’s scream rang throughout the tower. The beam of her little torch revealed an eerie figure. Ann Baxter only saw the frightful face and the upper torso, but that was enough to propel her as if pursued by furies down the steps. She held the little torch in a desperate grip. She could easily have tumbled down the steps and broken her neck; but she had no such thoughts at that time – the only thing that mattered to her was: escape!
Despite gasping for breath, Ann could hear the footfall of the man behind her.
Luck was on Ann’s side, however: she reached the end of the spiral staircase in one piece.
But where to now? No door, no passage – nothing.
And the uncanny figure was creeping ever closer.
Ann pressed her back against a cold, stone wall. Shudders of terror ran down her whole body. Her hands and legs shook like jelly.
Tap, tap, tap. The steps grew louder, closer.
Then they ceased altogether.
Ann did not dare raise her arm with the little torch. Suddenly there was the maniacal laughter again. The tiny torch slipped from Ann’s trembling fingers and landed on the ground, where it continued to shine.
The laughter broke off abruptly. Ann Baxter shrank back, step by step. “You must try to get to the back of this monster,” she said to herself, “and then run up the steps again.”
Ann darted forward. A shadow darkened the circle of torchlight. Then the torch was crushed underfoot with a chilling crunch.
Total darkness!
And in the darkness a crazed giggling.
Unconsciously, Ann opened her eyes wide. She was suddenly no longer capable of thought.
Hot breath strafed her face. The eerie creature had reached her. And the giggling came again – as two hands placed themselves about Ann’s neck. Ann Baxter felt the cold fingers squeezing without mercy. She could not get any more air. Choking, Ann Baxter began to cave in upon herself. Her hands flailed about wildly and out of all control.
And the strangler continued to giggle like a lunatic.
Veils of mist rose up before Ann’s vision – veils of unconsciousness. And suddenly – the pressure upon her throat eased and Ann was able to breathe freely again. The stuffy, stale air seemed like pure ozone to her.
A voice uttered some words that Ann did not understand. A harsh light struck her eyes. Ann Baxter looked up. She saw a hand holding a torch, the light of which dazzled her.
“Get up!” the voice commanded.
Automatically, Ann obeyed. Her knees trembled.
“Follow me!” The man turned around. Ann slowly followed behind him. The uncanny person who had almost strangled her likewise followed behind. His torch shed sufficient light for Ann to be able to see her surroundings relatively clearly. She could also see from where the man had come. A block of rock in the stone wall had moved to one side and disclosed a secret passage.
Stooping, the three persons passed along this passageway. A few minutes later they reached a laboratory. Ann looked about her, anxiously. Big thick wax candles were flickering on wooden tables. They diffused an odd smell. Fresh air penetrated the eerie laboratory through some shaft or other.
The man with the torch turned round. Ann Baxter saw a gaunt face, across which the skin was stretched as taut as a parchment. An uncanny fire was burning in the deep-set eyes. The man was dressed in a black cloak, and his skeletal hands twitched nervously.
Ann Baxter attempted a smile. “Many thanks for rescuing me from this monster,” she croaked. Her throat still hurt her, and speaking was difficult.
The man placed the torch on a table.
“You entered my realm,” he suddenly said, with a voice that seemed to rise up from the grave. “I, Professor Orgow, the necromancer, am master of life and death. But you will leave my realm once again.”
Ann breathed a sigh of relief. Lucky once more, it appeared. But the journalist had not noticed the threatening undertone in Orgow’s voice. Ann Baxter had no idea of the terror which the next few minutes would bring her …
*******************************************************************
The necromancer advanced slowly towards the journalist. The flickering candlelight distorted his face into what looked like a terribly hideous mask. Ann involuntarily shrank back against the wall.
“You are going to die,” Orgow whispered, menacingly. Every syllable of his sentence cut into Ann’s brain like a glowing sword. The words had sounded too resolute and firm. Everything began to whirl before Ann’s eyes. Once again, the journalist screwed up all her courage …
“But – but why did you rescue me just now?” she stammered.
Professor Orgow gave her a cruel smile. “I need more information from you: your name, where you are from, and what they say about me down in the village. Go on - talk!”
Ann’s eyes darted across to the strangler, who was crouching down in the corner, staring at her.
“I – I …,” she began.
“Talk!”
Orgow stepped right up to the journalist. His black eyes shone with fiery demonic light.
“I – I am from London,” Ann panted, in a suffocated tone of voice. “I wanted to have a holiday here in Middlesbury. This castle – it interested me. I …”
“What did they tell you in the village?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Ann responded, in torment.
“You are lying.” The necromancer stared at the journalist with eyes that seemed to penetrate right to her soul. A weird fire seemed to radiate from those eyes. Hypnosis! The thought suddenly shot into Ann’s mind. She looked down at the ground. Her hands dug into the rough-hewn stonework like claws. Ann felt her fingernails breaking off and her fingertips bleeding.
An ice-cold, bony hand placed itself around her throat. Involuntarily, Ann turned her head aside. Now she saw the eyes of the professor right before her. His narrow, dry lips opened. Spittle trickled from the corners of his mouth.
Those dead-cold hands! The blood in Ann’s veins seemed to chill.
“Come with me,” the professor whispered. “Come with me into Lara’s realm.”
The fingers released their grip on Ann’s throat.
“Trough there!” The professor’s arm pointed to a slender opening that was scarcely the size of a man. Ann obeyed as if under external compulsion. Step by step she moved towards the opening. Behind her, Orgow muttered incomprehensible words. Ann stopped short. A feeling of vertigo had suddenly come over her.
“Go on!”
Ann obeyed. Hesitantly she stopped in front of the pitch-dark room. She turned round briefly. Professor Orgow was standing behind her with a candle in his hand. The flickering light was just enough to make out part of the room. Orgow jabbed Ann in the back with his bony fingers. The journalist took a few more steps forward. A sickly-sweet smell struck her nose …
Now Orgow, too, had entered the room. Full of horror, Ann let out a scream. Her glances passed over the three corpses and remained fixed on the open sarcophagus.
Ann’s scream faded into quiet, pitiful whimpering. She pressed her hands against her eyes with a violent movement. Close beside her she felt Orgow’s breath.
“Look! Look at the sarcophagus,” he whispered. “Lara lies there. She alone has the power to awaken the dead. It was she who brought Mary back to life. Mary Winston – you know of her, don’t you?”
Ann nodded, sobbing.
“That is good. That is very good. Have you seen Mary?”
Ann shook her head. “I have – I have – heard about her,” she managed to get out, panting. “She - turned to dust, people say.”
Orgow burst out into shrill laughter. “That is good. Nobody will be able to find Mary any more. And nobody knows who brought her back to life.”
Suddenly the necromancer seized Ann by the shoulders. His sharp fingernails dug into her flesh.
“Listen. Lara has grown strong. She will prove her strength this very night. And she will begin with you!”
Begin, begin: the word struck against Ann’s consciousness like the blows of a hammer. And then she comprehended: Lara could not in the least begin with her, as she, Ann, was not yet dead. Dead? What was it that Orgow had said?
“I don’t want to die!” Ann yelled, with all the strength that remained to her. “I don’t want to die!” She threw out both fists – straight into the necromancer’s face. Orgow staggered back from the force of the blow. But Ann no longer saw anything. Like some hunted animal she dashed through the narrow defile, ran into the laboratory, heard Orgow’s screaming behind her and – stopped dead in her tracks, as if struck by lightning, right in front of - the strangler!
Driven by murder-lust, he lurched towards Ann and blocked her way to the liberating steps.
The woman was overcome by panic. At a loss to know what to do, Ann cast about, trying to grab hold of anything with which to defend herself …
And then the man threw himself at her. Ann Baxter crashed to the ground, stiff as a board, banging the back of her head painfully as she did so. She wanted to say something, but her voice was paralysed.
Two shovel-like hands made a move for her throat and slightly lifted her head. Once again Ann was looking into the eyes of the strangler. Ann knew that this time there would be no escape. A terrible pain suddenly bit into the nape of her neck, and then the shadows of death descended upon her.
The gruesome figure slowly straightened up. He stared with dull, expressionless eyes at Ann Baxter, whose neck he had just snapped …
******************************************************************
That afternoon, John Sinclair went back to the inn. It was fairly busy, which suited the inspector. He sat down at a table with several villagers, ordered a large whisky and tried to fall into conversation with the men.
But these people were too fearful. As soon as John steered the topic of conversation towards the strange events of recent days, they lapsed into a stubborn silence.
Only one of them said, “These are things, mister, that no one can explain. The powers of darkness have come upon us.”
“Well in that case – there’s probably nothing to be done,” John smiled and got up from his seat. “Anyway, many thanks.”
The men nodded – and said nothing.
Paddy, the landlord, was keeping himself busy, with a sour face, behind the big wooden bar. It was quite evident that he did not particularly like John and especially his constant questioning.
“Is Miss Baxter still in her room?” John enquired in a friendly manner.
Paddy looked at him grumpily and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“But Paddy! Don’t be so stubborn. You can’t stand me, OK. But please answer me this one question, and then you’ll be rid of me.”
Paddy thought for a moment. Then he condescended to reply. “She has gone off.”
John started. That was not at all to his liking. He would not have thought that Ann Baxter would disappear so soon. God damn it! The girl was in mortal danger.
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No.”
The last question was superfluous, since John already knew Ann’s destination. Nevertheless, he wanted to make sure that Ann had not perhaps driven off to some other place.
John Sinclair thanked the landlord and went to his room. There he got changed. He slipped on a dark polo-neck jumper, put on a pair of shoes with stout crepe soles, slipped into his short black leather waistcoat, put a number of things in his pocket and last of all slid his pistol, his Beretta, into its holster. Then John pelted downstairs again.
His car was still parked in front of the inn. He wedged himself behind the steering wheel and drove off. All his instincts told him that every second counted …
****************************************************************
Wheezing, the necromancer rose to his feet. He had fallen upon the sarcophagus and banged his elbow. Orgow now cast a glance at Lara. She had registered nothing of the struggle. Now as before she lay in a deep hypnotic trance.
The uncanny professor staggered into his laboratory. A devilish grin played about his lips when he saw Ann - dead before him. His accomplice was leaning against the wall, staring vacantly into empty space with expressionless eyes. His huge shovel-like hands were twitching nervously.
“You have done well,” the professor praised him. “Pick up the dead woman now and place her on the table.” The murderer obeyed.
“Go upstairs,” the professor continued. “Take your friend with you and see that no one disturbs us.” Like a robot, the man obeyed his orders. Orgow looked after him. His two assistants were mere putty in his hands. He had brought them with him from Rumania many years back, just as he had Lara. They didn’t want him in his homeland; they had no understanding for his research. Even here in Scotland, he had been rejected. And now he was going to take a terrible revenge. He, Professor Orgow, the necromancer, would show them. Horror would swoop down upon the land.
Professor Orgow stepped up to a wooden bench and took hold of a beaker filled with thick, red fluid. He stirred the mixture again and put the glass to one side. He then stalked with stiff steps into the adjoining room. The candle in his hand trembled as he bent over Lara.
Sotto voce, he mumbled some incomprehensible words, until Lara began to stir. As if in slow motion, she opened her eyes, met the hypnotic gaze of the professor and slowly eased herself up. Carefully she rose from her sarcophagus.
“Come,” Orgow whispered. “Come with me.”
The hypnotised medium followed him into his laboratory. Orgow hurried over to the wooden bench and picked up the beaker full of red fluid. He extended his arm to Lara, who was standing next to dead Ann.
“Drink!” Orgow breathed heavily. “Drink it all up!”
Lara, the medium with the bloodless face and the long black hair, drank. The viscous liquid ran slowly down her throat. A few drops dribbled down her chin. It resembled blood.
Then the glass was empty. Lara simply dropped it to the ground, where it shattered into a thousand splinters.
But a change was now transpiring in the medium. She was beginning to blossom and bloom. Currents of energy seemed to pulse through her body. Little lights danced in her eyes.
Professor Orgow groaned: yes, he had done it! This time Lara would have sufficient strength not only to awaken one but hundreds of dead. That very night. It would indeed turn out to be the night of the living dead.
“Awaken her!” Professor Orgow whispered, huskily.
Lara turned towards dead Ann. Indefinable sounds issued from Lara’s throat, as she made strange circular motions over the poor woman’s corpse with her hands. Lara’s voice grew louder, more insistent. Orgow’s eyes were glued to her lips, as if by magic.
And then – Ann moved! Her face began to twitch, her fingers to stir, and all the while, Lara was speaking her mysterious words of invocation at her.
Professor Orgow stepped back. The spectacle fascinated him. The first time it had been too much for him, but now …
Ann Baxter stood up. Like a puppet, with a strangely twisted neck.
Lara drew back before the dead woman. Her voice grew quieter, and then fell silent.
Professor Orgow pulled himself out of his state of numbness and walked towards the dead woman.
“Go out!” he said quietly.
And Ann Baxter went.
Like a sleepwalker, she found her way to the staircase. She mounted the first steps stiffly and clumsily. Her arms swung pendulously at her side.
“Go further!” Orgow whispered.
Ann obeyed like an automaton.
Lara, the medium, stayed behind, with Professor Orgow. They could now leave Ann to herself …
****************************************************************
Ann Baxter soon reached the top of the staircase. There, up above, Orgow’s assistants were waiting. They had lit several candles and now looked at dead Ann. Yet no muscle twitched in their faces. Automatically, they opened the heavy door.
The dead woman stepped out into the great courtyard.
The nightwind was whistling around the castle. The shrubs and bushes were rustling, and a pale moon shed its illumination upon the ghostly scene. Ann Baxter walked on, into the darkness. An inexplicable compulsion drove her forward.
A torch was suddenly and briefly ignited. Light! Light meant life. And life had to be destroyed.
Ann lurched to the left. She had seen the light coming from that direction. A shadow appeared before her. The beam of a torch framed her figure.
“Hallo, Ann,” a voice whispered.
It belonged to John Sinclair.
Ann made no reaction. Inexorably, she advanced towards the inspector.
“Ann, what is the matter?” John asked in surprise. He threw all caution to the winds. A few steps further and Ann would reach him. “Something’s not right here,” John thought to himself.
Ann was directly in front of him now. John hesitated. A creepy feeling overcame him. The sharp light from his torch illuminated the journalist – and suddenly it struck John Sinclair like a whiplash: he knew what had bothered him. It was incredible, horrifying.
Ann Baxter was no longer breathing!
John had no time to ponder this phenomenon any further. Two ice-cold hands were gripping him by the throat. The hands squeezed tight, mercilessly, displaying preternatural strength.
John Sinclair dropped his torch to the ground. In a fraction of a second he realised the dreadful truth: he had to fight for his life with a female corpse!
John Sinclair swiftly raised both fists, groped for the fingers of the dead woman and tried to bend them downwards. He failed.
Already John Sinclair could barely breathe. He dropped to the floor. Ann, who stuck to him as hard as a bur, was dragged down with him. She fell down on the ground beside him. As a result, her grip slightly loosened. With his last ounce of strength, John ripped her hands from his throat. Gasping, he jumped to his feet. Ann still lay on the ground. Yet she, too, was attempting to rise to her feet.
John bent down to reach for his torch. Then he saw the two men, rushing towards him almost soundlessly.
Ann Baxter was unaware of any of this. She had meanwhile clambered up and was continuing on her way. She left the inner courtyard of the castle and passed down the narrow pathway.
People: she sought people. People - whom she could kill …
************************************************************
“OK, all the best, then,” Jim Burns said to his predecessor, depositing his briefcase in the corner and sitting down at the little table.
Jim Burns was a signalman. The little signal house with its many switches and panels was situated on the Carlise-Aberdeen stretch of the line at milestone 36.
Jim made his entries into the signalman’s book, compared times, and lit himself a cigarette. He leaned back in his chair and made himself comfortable. The night shift was not so bad, after all. Not many trains ran at night, and you even had time to read a good detective yarn.
There was a clatter from the telephone. The man from the other station gave notice of an upcoming train. Jim jotted down the times, hung up, and pulled down one of the huge levers. Somewhere along the line the points would now have changed.
The train arrived four minutes later. Jim leaned out of the window and waved to the train driver as he sped by.
Then all was peaceful again. Jim had plenty of time before the next train – the express from Aberdeen to Carlisle. Jim Burns had to change the points for that one too. But first he tucked into his sandwich and had some tea from his thermos flask. Milly, his wife, made good tea. Jim Burns was wholly at peace with himself and the world.
A knocking at the door made him wake up from his meditations. Jim started. Did someone want him for something at this late hour?
There was renewed knocking. The blows on the metal door resounded throughout the little room.
“I’ll bet it’s one of those dossers again,” Jim muttered. “Now just you wait, mate – I’ll show you.”
Jim Burns yanked open the door with a no-nonsense thrust. He already had his greeting ready in his mind and on his lips – when he started back.
In front of him stood a girl. She was blond and sportily dressed and struck Jim as a traveller who had lost her way. The girl did not utter a word. “Maybe she’s too shy,” Jim Burns thought. So he broke the ice for her: “You can come in, Miss, no problem. Please come right in.” Jim Burns knew very well that he was now breaching the rules of his job, but who cared? There was no one to complain, or to condemn him.
The girl stepped inside, in ungainly fashion, with teetering steps. She suddenly halted in the middle of the room – as rigid as a statue.
Jim Burns shut the door. He went over to the little table and cleared away the remnants of his sandwich. Then he asked the girl, “Tell me, miss, are you unable to speak? I can imagine that you …”
He didn’t get any further. Two ice-cold hands suddenly laid themselves about his throat and squeezed without mercy.
Jim felt sharp fingernails penetrating into his flesh, felt the breath leaving his lungs, and then found himself falling forwards to the floor. But the homicidal hands continued to squeeze, giving no quarter and showing no mercy. Jim Burns tried to grab hold of the woman and push her hands away from his throat. All in vain.
Jim Burns’ eyes were almost popping out of their sockets now. His tongue was lolling out of his mouth. Yet – he was still just about able to think: “The train. There will be a catastrophe!” Then he plunged into the dark shaft of death …
It was another two minutes before Ann Baxter let go of her victim. She moved towards the door like a marionette, and soon disappeared into the darkness of the night.
The living dead was in search of new victims …
************************************************************
John Sinclair had no time to concern himself further with Ann Baxter. A murderous punch to the pit of his stomach threw him back. John crashed painfully against the wall of the inner courtyard. But he immediately sprang up again and rammed his head against the chest of his opponent, storming towards him. There was a dull thud as the two men clashed together. John Sinclair saw stars in front of his eyes and felt giddy.
But his opponent was faring no better. He lay on the ground and was gasping for air.
John moved towards him. He wanted to give the man a good grilling and question him about the professor and above all about Ann Baxter.
John was half bent over when the blow struck the back of his neck with the force of a steam hammer. John let out a short groan and fell upon his groggy opponent. Then he knew nothing.
When John came round, he was looking into the face of the man with whom he had fought. The inspector looked further around and saw that he was lying in a great castle hall that was only sparsely lit by a few burning candles.
John’s neck pained him. In a flash, he remembered everything. “I forgot about the second man. What an idiot!” he scolded himself quietly.
Fortunately, he had not been tied up. John moved cautiously. Immediately his guard placed a heavy foot on his chest. John gasped. He had the feeling that the man wanted to smash his rib cage in. John did not move again. He did not want to provoke the man further.
But where was the second ruffian? And above all, where was the professor?
John Sinclair heard footsteps. Then he saw the second man appear at the back of the hall. He resembled his companion down to a T.
The foot was removed from John’s chest. The two men spoke briefly with each other – but so softly that John could not comprehend a single word.
He felt the energy returning to his body. He gently propped himself up on his elbows. From out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the men draw a knife. So, they wanted to do away with him! John suddenly felt icy cold.
The man with the knife glided towards him. At the same moment, John rolled over onto his side and kicked the fellow in the shins with both feet. Caught unprepared by this assault, the man let out a howl of pain. As quick as a flash, John was on his feet again. He knew that every second counted now.
His hefty swing at the man hit home and resounded throughout the knife-wielding villain’s jaw. The fellow flew diagonally through the air and fell crashing against a table.
But now the second man was on the attack. He was swinging a wrought-iron candlestick, intent on smashing John’s skull. John, practised karate and Judo fighter that he was, evaded with a side step. The candlestick whistled past him at a hair’s breadth. The attacker could no longer check the force of his blow and stumbled forward.
John’s karate chop caught him in the nape of the neck. The man gasped, choked and landed floundering on the stone floor.
Meanwhile, attacker Number One had recovered. John saw the movement of his arm from out of the corner of his eye. With a pike-dive, the inspector slid across the hall. The knife whistled past him like a silver flash of lightning and clattered against the wall. John was immediately by the side of the knife-wielder. Before the man knew what was happening, John had knocked the breath out of his lungs with two mighty blows. Panting and gasping, and without cover, the knife man stood before him. John delivered a textbook karate blow. His opponent had nothing to offer in return. He lay himself down to sleep ….!
John now dealt with the other thug, and then tied the two assailants up with the cords hanging down beside the thick curtains at the windows.
John wiped the sweat from his brow. He had seen off two men. Good. But he was not one step closer to his actual goal. Where was Professor Orgow? And where had the dead Ann Baxter disappeared to?
John no longer had any doubt that Ann was indeed dead. But who had turned her into this living dead? And above all, how?
John Sinclair walked across the hall and discovered the staircase leading to down below. He took out his pistol and climbed down the first few steps. The deeper he descended, the worse the air became. John had the feeling of climbing down into the realm of the dead. It was still. Unnaturally still. All of a sudden he had the feeling of being the only human being in the entire castle.
What was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps?
John Sinclair was actually disappointed when he saw just the laboratory. He had almost expected it. He looked at everything very carefully, and discovered the narrow opening leading to the adjacent room. As there were candles burning down here and John’s torch was lying upstairs in the courtyard, he took hold of one of the burning candles and inserted it through the narrow opening leading into the next-door room.
He stopped short, as if he had run into an invisible wall. His gaze was riveted by the sarcophagus and the three corpses in the corner. John’s stomach rebelled. The inspector turned away and went back into the laboratory.
What dreadful scene had played itself out in this little room? For whom was the sarcophagus intended? John began to calculate. The three corpses in the corner, plus Mary Winston – if one added her - : that made four. What had the newspapers said? Four corpses had disappeared. John was certain that he had just found three of them.
But where was Professor Orgow? What was he planning?
John suddenly sensed that the terrors of the night were still far from over …
***********************************************************
While John Sinclair was fighting in the castle courtyard with the two men, the necromancer had been making his preparations. He had induced Lara to drink all of the remaining fluid that he still possessed. Then he had crept with his medium along the secret passageway into the castle tower. The two swiftly mounted the staircase, Orgow driven by a sinister compulsion. He knew all too well that the decisive moment was approaching. He would strike this very night.
Orgow opened the door of the tower with trembling hands. Cautiously he peered about him. The courtyard was empty. A diabolical smile played about Orgow’s thin lips as he beckoned to Lara to follow him.
The two glided swiftly across the courtyard like shadows. Once beyond the wall, they turned to the right. Orgow had hidden his old delivery van there. It was well camouflaged amongst the bushes.
Orgow and Lara climbed into the driver’s cab. The motor started up immediately, and then the van rumbled down the castle road.
Their destination: Middlesbury Cemetery …
**********************************************************
The Aberdeen to Carlisle express raced through the night. The train driver sat with a tense face behind his panel of dials and levers. True, he could cover this stretch of track in his sleep, but nevertheless – rushing along the rails was always a new adventure.
He knew from the guard that the train was not even half full. After all, who likes travelling at night?
The train’s lights burned their way through the darkness. Hills, woods and little villages flitted by, like illustrations out of a picture book. The train driver knew all these places. The next would be Middlesbury. After that there were two more villages where the train likewise did not stop, and then they would be in Carlisle. At 3.15a.m. - if he kept the timetable.
The train driver lit a cigarette. Really smoking was prohibited, but nobody bothered about that rule, especially not at night.
The engine driver only saw the blond woman by chance. She was standing there beside the track, transfixed to the spot. Something must have happened, thought the driver, as the train raced by.
A few moments later, Jim Burns’s signalman’s box appeared. The train driver was wondering why Jim was not there, waving to him as usual - when the train suddenly tore down a sidetrack.
The engine driver reacted just seconds later. He braked and simultaneously seized hold of the telephone to contact Carlisle.
Too late. The express smashed with unbelievable force into several stationary goods wagons. There was a screeching of metal; goods wagons and train carriages piled onto and into each other like matchboxes. People screamed and windows shattered with ear-splitting force.
Then everything was quiet. Only the groaning of the injured passengers could be heard.
An hour later all the police, ambulances and fire brigades of the nearby villages were on the scene. Voluntary helpers had also rallied to lend their support.
But the villages were now completely open and defenceless …
****************************************************************
The jarring ring of the telephone jolted Constable Jones out of his sleep. He just about managed to mumble his name into the receiver.
“Full-scale alarm! A train crash at …” The precise location was given. “The fire brigade has been notified,” the hasty voice informed him.
Constable Jones hung up the phone at once and leapt out of bed. His wife, who had also been woken up, looked at him questioningly. As he got dressed, he explained the situation to her.
He buttoned up his uniform jacket on his way to the garage. Already the howl of the fire brigade sirens could clearly be heard. Constable Jones jumped into his Morris and shot off. He drove out of the village, made a small bend and approached the disaster site by short cuts that were impassable to larger vehicles.
Trees and bushes whizzed past in the light of his headlamps. Jones stared concentratedly through the windscreen. He knew that he was driving riskily, but this was a matter of life and death, where every second counted.
The policeman only saw the figure by the side of the road at the last moment. He slammed his foot down hard on the brake. The Morris skidded, but kept to the road.
The figure slowly approached the car – and Jones opened the passenger-seat door.
“What are you doing here at this hour, Miss Baxter?” he asked in surprise. “Come on, get in. I’m in a hurry. There’s been a train crash. I’m sure you can make yourself useful by helping with the rescue efforts.” As he spoke, Jones re-started the engine, which had previously stalled.
Ann Baxter sat down in the passenger seat with stiff, ungainly movements. With her left hand she slammed the door shut. Constable Jones drove off again.
“I really can’t think how this accident could have happened,” he said. “What do you think, Miss Baxter?”
The journalist gave no reply.
Jones knitted his brows. Why didn’t the girl answer?
“Miss Baxter. I …”
Two throttling hands cut short his words. Jones felt the fingers closing about his throat like claws. A dull rattling sound issued from his mouth. Unconsciously, Jones let go of the steering wheel but inadvertently put his foot down on the accelerator. The engine gave a roar. The car sprang forward like a kangaroo, came off the road, collided with a bush and then ran headlong into a tree.
Constable Jones, half unconscious, was thrown forward. His chest smashed painfully against the steering wheel. The windscreen shattered into a shower of splintered glass, which ran down the back of Jones’ neck.
As a result of the fierce impact, the woman’s strangulating grip loosened somewhat. Ann Baxter was thrown off her seat and lay beside it. Little flames were leaping from the engine. Feeling like a trapped animal, Jones cast a quick glance to one side. His gaze met a face that no longer possessed anything human about it. Ann Baxter’s pretty face had become a grotesque and distorted parody of its former self. The journalist was trying to sit up and was stretching out her claw-like hands.
Constable Jones did not understand anything any more. He just acted instinctively. He launched a desperate punch into that twisted face and simultaneously tried to push open the door. Jammed!
You must get out of here! This thought kept thundering through his head. Once again the journalist attempted to attack him. At the same moment, Jones saw the spreading flames. He summoned all his strength one more time and threw himself against the door. Fortunately it gave way, and Jones fell backwards out of the car. His trouser legs were scuffed up and he felt a sharp pain in his right calf. In addition, the woman’s fingernails had scratched him.
Constable Jones rolled over a few times and landed in some bushes. Thorns lacerated his skin.
His car was in bright flames.
The woman! You must save the woman! This was the thought that dominated the policeman’s mind.
He struggled to his feet. But there was nothing more to be done. A circle of fire engulfed the Morris. It was only a question of time before the car exploded.
Then Jones saw Ann Baxter. She was lying across the two front seats. Constable Jones could still make out her distorted face and even her half-open mouth through the dancing flames. The journalist attempted to raise an arm. Jones then saw the flames swallow her up. Her body doubled up, writhed – and then melted away like fat. A soft, mournful and melancholy sound issued from the car.
Jones stood there rooted to the spot. That eerie sound cut to his very quick.
The next moment, the car exploded.
Constable Jones was caught by the shock wave, tossed up into the air and sent crashing head-first against something hard. Then everything went black before his eyes, and he submerged into a deep, dark tunnel …
***************************************************************
The necromancer raced with Lara through the night. They had left the van a short way from the cemetery and now stood before the rusty entrance gates.
Orgow fetched a key from out of his overcoat pocket with shaking hands. Nervously he unlocked the gates and dragged Lara in by the hand after him. They ran past the mortuary, onto the main gravel pathway, and shortly afterwards found themselves standing in front of the graves. Orgow let go of Lara’s hand. His eyes shone as they felt their way along the gravestones. The moon cast its ghostly light upon the cemetery and revealed the foremost graves quite clearly.
The necromancer stood there, still as a statue.
A tawny owl let out a dolorous screech into the night. A breeze sprang up. Whistling and rustling, the wind moved amongst the alder bushes and weeping willows, throwing up autumnal leaves into the air.
Professor Orgow’s lips began to move – yet no sound came from his mouth.
Yes, this was the hour for which he had waited almost his entire life.
Orgow turned to Lara. The girl resembled some horror figure from out of a Dracula film. Her long black hair was fluttering in the night wind, and her white dress shone like a bright speck in the darkness. Lara was replete with strength and energy. Now she could carry out her mission.
“Speak!” the necromancer whispered. “Bring back the dead. You have the power, Lara.”
The medium raised her head, concentrated fully upon her master’s voice and then looked with shining eyes at the graves. She took a few steps to one side and breathed in deeply. Then she began to speak. Slowly, in an unknown language.
Lara raised both hands. The wind caused her dress to billow up.
Professor Orgow held his breath. With fixed gaze he stared at the grave, waiting for the dead body to rise up from out of its stinking, mouldering earth ….
*******************************************************************
John Sinclair ran back into the hall of the castle. The two men with whom he had fought still lay tied up on the ground. John seized one of them by the collar, yanked him up and tossed him onto the nearest chair.
“Now listen well, my friend,” John Sinclair hissed. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”
The thickset thug just stared at him. Now John realised that this man was in a hypnotic trance. Damn! John did not know the “password” to release him from this state. It was the same with the second ruffian.
How could John find Orgow? Where was he? Maybe in Middlesbury? Possibly. At all events, he would have to give it a try.
John Sinclair left the gloomy castle and ran across to his Bentley, which he had parked in a little side path.
During his drive down into the village, he suddenly saw the rotating light of a fire engine. It was leaving Middlesbury in a westerly direction.
What had happened? Did it perhaps have something to do with the creepy professor? John decided to follow the fire engine. The rotating light showed him the way. The siren howled loudly through the night. Behind the fire engine, on the country road, other rescue vehicles were racing along too. An ambulance overtook him.
John was one of the first to reach the scene of the accident. The extent of the disaster could not yet be fully assessed. The police searchlights illuminated a veritable scene of horror. Heavy train compartments had concertinaed into one another like parts of toys. People had been flung through the smashed windows and unhinged doors and either lay still or quietly groaning on the ground. In the train, too, one could hear the moans of the injured.
More and more helpers arrived. John Sinclair did not dither. Through a torn-open train door he managed to get inside one of the carriages, which had half tipped over onto its side. Seeking support from the luggage racks, John pushed himself forward along the compartment. A plangent groaning made John’s ears prick up. A woman was lying on one of the seats with her child. The woman’s head was bleeding and her arm was also badly injured. The child seemed unharmed.
“Please, help us,” the woman begged.
“Of course,” John smiled at her soothingly. He beckoned through one of the open windows to a helper and got him to take the child.
Other assistants entered the carriage. They were trained rescue workers and took care of the badly injured woman.
John Sinclair left the carriage. So many rescue workers had now arrived that he could see to his own affairs.
He found Constable Jones. The policeman was swaying like a drunk towards the scene of the crash. John ran up to him.
“For God’s sake, Jones! What’s wrong?”
The constable looked at him out of flickering eyes. His breathing was stertorous.
“Sinclair! My God, I can’t understand it. I saw her!”
“Who?” John asked quickly.
“The journalist. Ann Baxter. She tried to strangle me.”
“Tell me what happened, Jones,” John demanded.
The constable reported his experience in halting, hesitant words.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked when he had concluded his account.
“I do, Jones. I believe you indeed,” John returned, seriously. “Ann Baxter, who tried to strangle you, was already dead before she was burned up in your car.”
“No!” Constable Jones involuntarily shrank back and put his hand to his throat. “Then – then – what Ronald Winston said about his dead daughter was true after all. I haven’t been able to believe it until now.”
“Yes, it was true,” John Sinclair replied.
Jones covered his eyes with his hand. “I simply cannot comprehend it. My God!”
John Sinclair seized his arm. “We have no time to wonder now how all this came about. We have to do something!”
“But what, Mr. Sinclair?” Jones shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. He was confronted by a situation which he had never experienced before. It was all simply too much for him.
“Listen,” John said hastily. “We’ve got to find this Professor Orgow. They don’t need us so urgently here at the crash site. They’ve got enough rescue workers already. Jones, you know the area better than I. So: where might the Professor have fled to?”
“You mean – he – he might be somewhere in Middlesbury …?”
“It’s possible,” John Sinclair replied. “But where? Does Orgow have any acquaintances in the village?”
“No. He used to have contact with old Smitty. But Smitty’s been dead these past three months.”
“Just a moment. You’ve given me an idea. Dead, you say? To be sure, Orgow is attracted to the dead. Jones, he’ll surely be at the cemetery. Come on!” John Sinclair was already moving as he hastily spoke these words.
The two men ran to the Bentley. “Let us hope that we are not too late,” John thought. “Let us hope and pray …”
****************************************************************
Lara’s voice grew louder, more insistent. Her hands, previously stretched out, now tensed up and became clenched, as if in a shivering fever. Her lips moved in a rhythm that grew faster and ever faster.
The necromancer stared at the burial spot like one transfixed. When would the dead body finally rise up from its grave?
Orgow’s blood was pounding in his ears. The crosses on the gravestones in the cemetery suddenly spun before his eyes, became distorted caricatures, shadows that melted into one another.
Lara’s voice rang out piercingly. Would the dead hear it?
There! The damp earth on the grave began to move!
The necromancer stood rooted to the spot, with his mouth open in a silent cry.
Suddenly all was still again. The grave lay quiet as before. Had it all been a hallucination?
Lara was speaking again.
Once again, the earth began to stir, only this time more vigorously. Little clumps of earth fell to one side. The whole upper layer of earth that covered the grave commenced a sinuous motion. Two empty flower vases toppled over. Brackish water flowed out. Now the heavy wooden cross swayed to one side. It seemed as if the Devil incarnate were about to emerge from that grave.
Orgow trembled. His eyes were riveted to the spot. Suddenly the professor gave a cry and involuntarily shrunk several paces back.
Slowly, as if pulled by a string, a bony, skeletal hand pushed its way up and out, onto the surface of the earth. At the same time a strong gust of wind swept across the pathways and murmured amongst the bushes.
Further and further, the dead body emerged from the depths of the grave. An arm followed, part of a shoulder, the neck, the face …
It was indeed a night of horror.
The dead man had not yet wholly decomposed. Parts of his cheeks were still intact. Tatters of his shroud hung like specks upon his partially fleshless body.
Now the dead man had left his grave. He paused and listened attentively to Lara’s voice.
“He is to go into the village,” Orgow whispered excitedly.
Slowly the corpse began to walk. With small steps, his arms swinging pendulously on both sides, he lurched towards the main pathway.
Orgow drew a deep breath. He had done it. His gaze fell upon the cemetery. The necromancer started, as if stunned by an electric shock. Not only had this corpse alone left its grave. No! Everywhere, the graves were opening up and the dead were rising from their coffins!
The pale moonlight shone upon the eerie figures, who, as if driven by a hidden compulsion, had been brought back into the world of the living.
Not a sound could be heard as the all-but fleshless figures shuffled across the cemetery.
It was, truly, the night of the living dead …
*****************************************************************
John pushed his motor to its utmost limits. Beside him sat Constable Jones with pasty face, hanging on tightly to a safety strap. His lips moved and he muttered, “I still can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it.”
John did not say a word. He had to concentrate wholly on the road ahead of him. The way to the cemetery appeared in his headlights. John braked abruptly and pulled the steering wheel over to the left. The Bentley skidded elegantly onto the cemetery path. John accelerated again. The cemetery wall was already in sight – and so was the old delivery van.
“That van – it belongs to Orgow,” Constable Jones said hurriedly.
“Then our deductions were right,” John Sinclair returned, and braked just in front of the cemetery gates.
The two men swung themselves out of the car and – jumped back in horror.
“But that’s impossible,” Constable Jones groaned, staring with wide-open eyes at the spectacle that presented itself to them. Even John Sinclair, who had seen a thing or two in his life, shuddered at the sight which confronted him.
Uncanny figures were stepping almost silently through the open cemetery gates. They moved like marionettes. John involuntarily reached for his pistol. Constable Jones supported himself against the bonnet of the Bentley. His eyes were fixed, as though hypnotised, upon the dead, whose numbers grew ever greater.
“God, I know most of them,” the constable whispered. “None of them has been under the earth for more than one or two years at the most. Many of them are from the neighbouring villages.”
The dead revenants paid no heed to the two men. They seemed to be going in a pre-determined direction.
“The village!” John Sinclair suddenly exclaimed. “Damn it! They’re making straight for the village.”
Constable Jones stared at the inspector, his eyes wide open in terror.
“Come on, Jones. We have to get to Middlesbury. We must try to save what can still be saved.” John literally threw himself behind the wheel of his Bentley. He was already driving off as Jones tore open the door to the passenger seat. The constable likewise threw himself onto the seat. John sped off.
“The road!” cried Constable Jones. “The road to the village: it’s full of these dead!”
“We can’t worry about that,” John declared, putting his foot down on the accelerator. He simply drove straight into the zombies. Like puppets, they were tossed to all sides. In a fraction of a second the two men saw gruesome, half decayed faces staring at them through the car windows and trying to cling to the Bentley. One dead man coiled his skeletal fingers around the car aerial. He was dragged along for a short stretch of the road, but then went smashing into a tree trunk at the next bend.
The first houses sprang into view. Sounding his hooter wildly, John sped into the village. Seconds later, the first frightened faces showed themselves at the windows. John Sinclair stopped outside Paddy’s Inn, which was the approximate centre of the village. The two men leapt out of the car.
“Listen, Jones,” John explained, hastily. “Round up all the inhabitants. Have you got a secure building here?”
“The school house.”
“Then get them all inside as quickly as possible. Don’t leave anyone out.”
“They are nearly all women and children here,” Jones realised, dismayed. “All the men are helping out with the rescue work. Shall we send a messenger?”
“No. He might run into the clutches of the corpses. I’ll telephone to Carlisle from your police station. Give me the key!”
Jones handed it to him with shaking hands. Meanwhile a number of the inhabitants had gathered around the two men. They had heard John’s last words, and a wave of panic now threatened to sweep over them.
“Try to calm down the people down!” John Sinclair called out to the constable, as he ran off.
He swiftly opened the door of Jones’ little police station, dashed inside, turned on the light and reached for the telephone at once. He knew the number of the Carlisle police station by heart. It seemed to John to take an eternity before somebody at the other end finally answered.
“John Sinclair, Scotland Yard,” the inspector quickly announced himself. “Now, listen to me very carefully.” In a few concise sentences, John explained the whole situation.
“Are you drunk?” the man in Carlisle asked, dryly. “You’re surely having me on. Sleep it off, man ….”
“No, God damn it!” shouted John impatiently. “All hell has broken out here. Send a hundred police officers over here at once. You can drum them up from the neighbouring towns, too.”
“You must be mad,” the man retorted. “We’ve had a train disaster near here. And anyway …”
“Alert the army,” said John – but his interlocutor had already hung up.
Inspector John Sinclair mopped his brow. Exasperated, he threw the telephone receiver back onto its cradle. There was only one thing to do: he had to telephone Scotland Yard.
As good luck would have it, he got through immediately. The man on night duty was an acquaintance of John’s. He did not ask any major questions. John had explained the whole situation to him within five minutes, and his colleague promised to mobilise the military in the vicinity of Carlisle. John Sinclair concluded the conversation and then ran outside.
The inhabitants of the village were all assembling and gesticulating wildly. John found Constable Jones coming out of a neighbour’s house.
“Can you manage?” called the inspector.
“Yes. The people here understand, thank God. I’ve only got three more houses to visit.”
“I’ll see to that, Constable. You go on ahead to the school.”
“Thanks”.
John Sinclair ran through the houses. They were all empty. The occupants had soon recognised what was at stake and had evacuated them. John ran back to the road. An elderly man hobbled up. John took him by the arm and gave him support.
“Where is the school here?” he asked quickly.
“Take the first alleyway on your left, young man. Then you’ll come straight to it. I can’t walk so fast. Don’t worry about me.”
“There’s no question of my leaving you!” said John – and promptly hoisted the old man onto his back. Rather out of breath, he reached the school building. A lamp was burning above the thick wooden door. Constable Jones was the only person standing outside.
“Hurry up, Inspector.”
He set the man down again and let him proceed on his own two feet.
“I’m going to run back again,” he called to the constable.
“For Heaven’s sake, Inspector!”
John Sinclair ran onto the main road again and raced the short way to the centre of the village. The lights were on in many houses, and reached through the windows out into the street.
And then John saw the dead coming. Up above at the entrance to the village, the first figures appeared. It was time for John Sinclair to move. He hastened back to the school. Constable Jones was still standing outside.
“At last!” he greeted the inspector, with relief in his voice. The two men ran into the school. It was an old stone building that had weathered many a storm. Jones locked the big entrance door and leaned against it.
“Now all we can do is pray,” he whispered.
John Sinclair nodded sombrely. Then the two men went into the largest of the classrooms, in which the inhabitants of the village had assembled. They were nearly all women and children. Most of the men were out at the scene of the train crash. The people in the schoolhouse looked at the two policemen with anxious faces.
“What’s going to happen?” sobbed a woman. “Are the dead really coming, Mr. Jones?”
The constable shrugged his shoulders uneasily.
“Calm yourself, Madam,” John smiled. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“No, sir. I don’t believe it. What’s going to happen to the men when they come back home, all unsuspecting?”
John Sinclair breathed in deeply. That thought had occurred to him too. They were going to run straight into the arms of those living corpses. All that one could do at this moment in time was hope that the military would be swifter.
“We’ll find a way,” John comforted the woman. “Very soon the soldiers will be here. Then everything will be fine.”
The woman looked at John with tear-stained eyes. “Yes,” she sobbed. “Then everything will be fine again.”
The other people had huddled together and were whispering excitedly to one another. Suddenly a woman let out a piercing scream. The people in the room gave a start. All eyes turned to this woman.
“Billy!” she screamed. “He is still at home. We forgot him!”
John Sinclair felt goose pimples run up and down his spine.
****************************************************
“Who is Billy?” John turned to the constable.
It took some seconds for Jones to shake himself out of the stupor into which he had fallen. He sobbed: “Billy is a ten-year-old orphan. He lives with his foster parents – the Patton family. Mrs. Patton is away, and her husband is lending a hand at the scene of the crash. Billy is all alone in the house.”
John made his decision within seconds. “Where do the Pattons live?”
“To the left of Paddy’s Inn. But you don’t seriously intend …”
“Yes, I do indeed intend,” John returned. “Unlock the door, Constable.”
The two men hastened to the entrance door, pursued by the anxious glances of the villagers. Trembling, Jones opened the door a slit – just wide enough for John to slip through. John Sinclair nodded to the constable as he stepped out into the open.
Middlesbury lay before him like a ghost town. Nothing indicated the presence of the dead. And yet John knew that they were there – somewhere.
With swift paces John ran in the direction of the main road. He carefully peered around the corner of a house. And then he saw them.
Nearly all of them had gathered in the centre of the village. The light that streamed from the houses illuminated the dreadful scene. The figures stood there like statues, as if waiting for a signal or a sign to set them in motion. John pondered: to reach the house, he had to cross the road – without being noticed, or at least as little as possible. John Sinclair braced his muscles – then sprinted across the road.
Luck was on his side: nobody noticed him as he crossed the road and squeezed himself into a doorway. John breathed in deeply. He could not possibly get into the house through the front door unnoticed. It had to be round the back. Damn, that was hard! How could he find the back of the house in the dark?
But the decision was taken out of his hands. Events took a completely different course – in a terrifying direction.
The sound of a motor reached John’s ears. John squinted and peered down the street. The delivery van! It was rumbling and bumping into the village! It stopped hard in front of the zombies.
A man and a woman got out. The man had to be Professor Orgow. And the woman? John had no idea.
He managed to work his way a few houses further along, so that he could get a better view. John saw that the professor speaking to the woman. Then the man stepped back a few paces.
Now the woman spoke. Yet she seemed to be speaking to the dead. At that precise instant, everything became clear to John and he suddenly understood all the interweaving connections.
The dead beings seemed to have understood the words of the woman and began to move, going in the direction of the houses.
“They’re looking for people,” John thought to himself, horrified. For him, too, the situation was critical now. But the prospects seemed even worse for young Billy, that was for sure. John had scarcely thought this when he jumped, as if struck by a powerful punch.
“Mummy, mummy! I want to get away from here! Please, take me away from here!” the plaintive voice of a child shrilled through the deathly still village. The hair on the back of John’s neck stood up, and he felt chill shudders run down his spine. John could not stay under cover any longer: he sprang out onto the street, pulled out his pistol and ran forward. As he ran, not for one second did he let the others out of his sight.
The necromancer, the woman and the zombies had all turned towards the house as if on command. The woman called out something, and then several of the corpses began to move and press into the house. And all the while, the pitiful voice of the little boy could be heard sounding out through the night.
John fired. Twice. Thrice. He saw the bullets pass straight through the dead men as if through paper. He had reached the first of the corpses. He next heard the professor bellowing and felt a doughy arm around his neck. He dropped his pistol back into its holster, swiftly raised his hands and pulled at the half-decayed dead thing’s hand. All of a sudden – John was holding the detached arm between his fingers.
This frightful moment did not last long. Revolted, he tossed the arm aside.
Orgow’s face now loomed up before him. John smashed his clenched right fist into this repellent man’s mug. From out of the corners of his eyes he saw the professor tumble back – but already a second zombie was clutching at John’s neck. The others had also realised that he was their chief enemy. They closed in on John, almost in a circle.
The thought of the boy lent John unsuspected strength. It was also fortunate that these corpses were only able to move in slow motion, as it were. John succeeded in shaking off this second attacker and ran into the house. Once inside, he slammed the door shut from within, then locked and bolted it as quick as a flash. At the same moment one of the dead must have jammed his arm in between. A virtually decomposed hand fell to the ground with a dull thud.
John Sinclair shook himself. Upstairs, little Billy was screaming like crazy. The zombies! They must have reached his room!
John saw the staircase that led upstairs. He thundered up the steps in massive strides and crashed headlong into a corpse. The dead man stared at him from out of empty eye sockets. Some of his hair still clung to his almost shiny skull. Half of the body, reeking of decay, hung over the banisters. John Sinclair overcame his feeling of nausea and slammed his fist into the barely existent face. The corpse was sent crashing over the banisters to the floor below.
John pressed on. The cries of the child told him which way to go. He found himself in a narrow corridor, at the end of which a door stood open. That must be Billy’s room. John bounded inside.
Three corpses were in the room. Two were standing by the wall, and one was leaning over Billy’s bed. The boy was cowering in a corner, screaming horribly, his eyes big with terror. John dashed forward. He grabbed the corpse by its doughy, unsubstantial hips, dragged it away from Billy’s bed and flung it diagonally across the room. But then the other two advanced towards him. John’s eyes darted around the room in search of a weapon. He knew that bullets were useless.
Then John Sinclair caught sight of a handicraft chest in a corner of the room. A spanner was sticking out of it. The inspector did not hesitate. He grabbed hold of the spanner and slammed it with all his might into the bloated, half-decayed face of the first attacker.
The dead man staggered back, the spanner leaving the contours of its form, like some horrid mark of Cain, on his forehead.
John dispatched the second dead being, a woman, across the room with a hefty swing of his arm.
Billy was still crying most pitifully. John bent over him. “It’s all right, Billy,” he tried to comfort the boy. “Come along, I’ll take you to your mummy.”
The boy still would not calm down when John reached out for him. He had barely touched Billy when he was shoved from behind. John spun round. It was the dead woman who sought to attack him. John Sinclair grabbed the spanner again, which he had put down on the bed. He struck with it again and again. Finally, bathed in sweat, he ceased. The dead woman lay in a strangely mangled position on the floor.
John looked at Billy once more. The boy had stopped crying and now stared at the inspector with wide-open eyes. John seized hold of the boy without further ado, ran from the room and dashed down the stairs carrying the living bundle in his arms.
Downstairs, dull thuds hammered against the front door. The zombies were tying to ram in the door. John could hear Orgow’s imperious voice penetrating right through into the house.
John ran with the boy through the nearest open door and found himself in the living room. Here, as everywhere, the light was on. John Sinclair was only interested in the window. Without further ado, he deposited the boy on the couch and opened the big window. The cold night air struck his flushed face. Billy suddenly seemed to have overcome his terror a little. He ran up to John of his own volition, and John Sinclair heaved the boy out into the open. Then he, too, clambered out through the window.
The two now found themselves at the back of the house. The inspector looked around cautiously to check that all was safe. Not a single zombie could be seen.
“Quiet!” the inspector whispered, taking Billy by the hand and running with him to a low garden fence, which demarcated the back of the neighbour’s garden. They jumped over it, cleared several other fences and hedges, managed to evade the unwelcome attentions of a dog and finally slipped out in the direction of the main road once again. John looked about him. The situation seemed grim. The dead men and women had now ranged themselves along the entire street. Little groups of them were combing through every single house. It would not take long before they reached the schoolhouse. And it would be impossible for John and the boy to enter the school unseen.
“You must run with me very fast now, Billy,” John whispered. “Can you do that?”
The boy nodded tensely.
“Good. Then – let’s go!”
John deliberately did not carry the boy. He had to reckon with the possibility of being attacked, and he knew that he would have more freedom of movement if he were not encumbered by the child.
The dead noticed the two fairly swiftly. Four or five corpses swayed towards them. And at that moment, Billy stumbled.
“Ah”, he cried. “My leg!”
John acted instinctively. He grabbed hold of the youngster as fast as lightning and ran before the first of the dead beings could attack. He ran for the school.
“Open up, Jones!” John shouted from afar. The door opened with a creak. Light fell upon John and the boy, as John ran with Billy into the school building. Helping hands took the child off him. Jones shut the door again immediately. Panting and bathed in sweat, John Sinclair leaned against the wall.
“What happened?” Constable Jones asked quickly.
Haltingly, John explained everything. Jones grew even paler than he already was. “My God,” he whispered over and over again. “What are we going to tell the villagers?”
“The truth,” retorted John. “As dreadful as it may be for them. We must be united now. We all have to support one another.”
Constable Jones nodded keenly. John Sinclair went into the great hall. The village folk all looked anxiously towards him. John took a deep breath, and said: “The dead will be here in a few minutes’ time …”
********************************************************************
After his words, all was still at first. But then tumult broke out. All the villagers ran screaming – as if acting upon a secret command – to the door.
“Quiet, damn it!” roared John Sinclair. “We have to stay quiet now!”
He and Constable Jones stood with their backs to the door and sought to diffuse the stormy panic of the terrified villagers. Gradually his words took effect. Slowly the people in the hall calmed down, albeit their faces still expressed fear, naked fear for their lives. But they were now looking at John Sinclair with more willingness to heed his instructions, and indeed were expecting a solution to come from him.
“Friends,” John said. “I know that we all find ourselves in a horrible situation. But no situation is so grievous that a way cannot be found to get out of it. In our case, ladies and gentlemen, this means that you should all go for the time being into the school boiler room.”
“And what about you?” a young woman asked.
“You need not worry about us, Miss. Constable Jones and I will give the dead the reception they deserve, you can depend on it.”
“I shall pray for you,” the young woman said.
The first of the assembled villagers were already running towards the cellar. John Sinclair himself had a look round the bare concrete room. The hide-away was truly good. The boiler room was secured by a great iron door. The only drawback relating to the room was that it was somewhat small. But the desperate villagers were prepared to put up with that.
The key was on the inside of the iron door. “Lock up behind me, and don’t take it into your heads to leave this boiler room,” John implored the occupants once more. Then he went back upstairs.
Constable Jones had turned out the lights and was standing at the window, staring out into the night. John came up behind him.
“I still can’t see anything yet, sir,” the constable reported. His voice trembled a little as he spoke. John smiled cheerfully and offered the man a cigarette. Jones quickly puffed away at it, gratefully.
“What are we going to do, sir?”
“Are there any tools here?” John answered his question with a counter-question.
“Certainly, sir. The caretaker has some for sure.”
“Do you know where, Constable?”
“Maybe down in the cellar? I’ll have to take a look.”
“Yes, do that.”
Jones hurried downstairs. Meantime, Jones stared through the window panes into the darkness outside. He still could not catch any glimpse of the walking corpses. John was concerned. Hopefully the people would all stay in their hiding place. If they were actually to come out and discover their own relatives amongst the dead …. My God! John dared not contemplate such an eventuality. There would be the most indescribable scenes.
Constable Jones returned. In his right hand he carried a tool chest.
“We’re in luck!” he said, blowing his cheeks out with relief. “No doubt the caretaker had some repair work today, and fortunately left his tool kit in the cellar.” Jones dropped the heavy box to the floor.
“What’s your plan then, sir?” he asked John.
“Constable, we’ve got to tear these zombies to bits, limb by limb –brutal as it may sound.”
“Oh no!” Jones shrank back.
“Listen, Jones,” John said firmly. “Bullets are of no use. And don’t forget what Ronald Winston said: he split the head of the dead girl open with an axe. He in fact found the only effective way.”
Jones shuddered. Almost embarrassed, he looked down at the tool chest. John bent over and rummaged around in the box. He found two small hatchets. He gave one of them to Jones. With the other tools it would be possible to keep the dead at bay, but not - paradoxically as it seemed – to “kill” them.
“Have you got another cigarette, Inspector?”
“Sure.” John lit one for himself too. Then the men stared out into the night.
“Can you understand all this that’s going on, Inspector?” Jones whispered.
John Sinclair nodded slowly. “I believe so, Constable.”
“Then you are a cleverer man than me!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Constable. It’s just that I’ve had to deal with a lot of cases like this – or similar to this, at least. I can even come up with an explanation for it.”
Jones looked at the inspector in surprise. “Really?”
“Yes, Listen. I’ll try to make things clear for you in a short and simple way. This Professor Orgow who lives up at Manor Castle possesses a medium. She has the capacity, once in a hypnotic state, to unfold unsuspected powers. Spiritual powers. And these powers can raise the dead. Mary Winston was her first success. It seems that she tried it with three other corpses, but failed. Those were the corpses that went missing, by the way.”
Constable Jones shook his head over and over again. “I simply can’t comprehend it. I’ve heard and read of those in Asia who can kill people just by speaking – “death-speakers”, yes – but what’s going on here is something else altogether” Jones shook himself involuntarily.
“Yes, it is indeed dreadful,” returned John. His eyes suddenly narrowed; he had caught a movement by the window.
“They’re coming, Constable,” John whispered. Jones nodded tensely.
The two men kept perfectly still. Their nerves were so much on edge that it seemed that they would explode at any moment. Suddenly Jones let out a cry.
A fearful figure appeared right in front of the window pane: a soft, bloated skull without any eyeballs or nose was staring at the two men. John saw this dead man slowly raise a not-yet fully decayed arm. The pane shattered amidst the sound of tinkling glass. The arm stretched into the room. Jones lost his nerve. With a scream, he raised the axe and struck out. He cut off the arm at its shoulder. It fell with a dull plump to the ground. Not a drop of blood appeared from the wound. It was terrible.
“Are you mad, Jones?” John gasped. “We won’t get the better of the zombies like that. Stay calm, for God’s sake.”
The dead being was still standing outside – swaying like a reed in the wind. Suddenly he simply dropped to the ground – and slid into the room through the broken window pane.
John Sinclair raised his hatchet. Damn! He had to do it – there was no other way. The razor-sharp blade cleaved the skull of the dead man in two. As if suffering an electric shock, the body reared up one last time, then grew limp, and turned into dust before the two men’s very eyes.
“That is the only effective method!” gasped John Sinclair.
The police constable stood like one thunderstruck. This whole incident was simply too much for his cognitive powers.
But the other corpses were already there. They pressed towards the window in their dozens.
“You must not spare them, Constable!” John cried. He himself had suddenly become coolly self-possessed. He stood there with his legs apart and the hatchet gripped in both fists.
Three, four more window panes shattered to pieces.
“Keep your position, Constable!” John bellowed. Then he had to turn his attention to the corpses. They streamed into the room like ants. John lay into them. More and more of these uncanny creatures were reduced to dust. But their numerical superiority was simply too great. The dead beings forced John back. The inspector risked a glance to the side. Two windows further along, he saw Constable Jones fighting like a man possessed. He was thrashing into the corpses indiscriminately.
“Strike at their skulls!” John called out to the constable. He could no longer lend him any succour. Two bony hands, to which patches of skin were still attached, seized hold of his arm. John spun round in utter revulsion and sent the corpse crashing diagonally across the room.
Renewed blows were hammering against the entrance door. How much longer would the door hold fast?
More and more dead creatures pushed their way into the room. John Sinclair raged like a man berserk. Suddenly he heard Constable Jones utter a cry. Four corpses were hanging upon him like chains around his neck. The hatchet lay just out of his reach on the floor.
“Sinclair!” John heard a gurgling sound. The inspector hurried to help. He saw one of the dead things clutching at Jones’s throat. John Sinclair launched a mighty upper cut into the creature’s lifeless face. But suddenly he felt himself being dragged to the ground by two of the zombies. John transformed his fall into a saving roll – but lost his hatchet in the process.
Already the next zombie was on the attack, trying with outstretched hands to grab at John’s face. The latter rammed his fist into the ghoul’s body. It felt as though he were punching a mass of dough. The dead man staggered back.
John caught his breath and looked for his axe. Damn it! It was no longer there! One of the dead creatures must have kicked it away.
At this point, Constable Jones lost his nerve. Suddenly letting out a fearful scream, he shook himself free from one of the zombies with a vigorous movement and then ran towards the door.
John saw this from the corner of his eyes. “Stop!” he yelled.
But Jones did not hear him. He ran like a madman towards the great entrance door, pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. John Sinclair heard a final, desperate scream – and then the corpses were upon their victim …
“You will be next!” John thought to himself. He had retreated to the wall, and the dead who had flooded through the entrance door were moving towards the boiler room, where all the people were …
Tears of fury and helplessness came to John’s eyes. He cast a quick glance at the windows.
And there he saw the grinning face of the necromancer. The man looked like Satan himself.
In a totally spontaneous reflex action, John snatched his pistol from its holster, aimed and fired.
But at the same instant, a mouldy hand grabbed his arm. The bullet ricocheted into the ground, missing its target. The satanic laughter from the insane professor penetrated to the furthest corner of the room.
John struck out with the butt of the pistol. Two corpses clutched at his hips and John stumbled back, lost his footing and fell to the ground.
In an instant, they were upon him. Hot panic welled up inside him. He felt the foul bodies on top of him. The stench of moulder, decay and the grave assailed his nose, and he was overcome with total revulsion.
But John Sinclair fought back. He fought as he had never fought in his life before. He thrashed about and lashed out wildly all about him. Karate and judo were useless here – the corpses could not be defeated by such methods. The right-hand sleeve of John’s jacket hung in tatters. He managed to slip out of it and thus get more air. He rolled across the floor and sprang to his feet again.
The piercing scream of a woman cut through the air like a knife. John Sinclair saw an elderly person who should actually have been in the boiler room – but she was suddenly standing in the room.
“Ernest!” She screamed over and over again. “Ernest! My husband …”
“Get away!” roared John.
But the woman did not hear him. Screaming and crying she ran towards the dead man with outstretched arms.
Now all is lost, thought John Sinclair …
***************************************************************
Two jeeps and two personnel carriers raced through the pitch-black night After John Sinclair’s phone call, Scotland Yard had alerted the military. The simple soldiers had no idea what it was all about: only their superiors were privy to what was transpiring. They had equipped all their units with flame-throwers, along with the usual weapons – just to be on the safe side.
“How much further is it now?” Captain Green, who sat in the first jeep, addressed his driver.
“Another six miles, sir,”
“Thank you.”
Maybe it was wrong not to tell the men what was real situation was, Captain Green considered. But would the soldiers have believed him? It could have led to insubordination in the ranks. And in any case, Captain Green did not really believe in the all this nonsense himself.
But he was a soldier, and soldiers have to carry out their orders. Captain Green was positively looking forward to the ghosts. He still couldn’t wait.
Yet soon enough, even he would learn the meaning of horror …
*******************************************************
John Sinclair ran towards the woman, desperate to save her. She must not be allowed to fall into the clutches of the dead.
The scene looked dreadful in the pale moonlight falling through the windows: the big empty classroom, full of the living dead, and then the woman, clinging to her dead husband.
John Sinclair dashed up and slammed his fists into the bloated back of the corpse. All three of them crashed to the ground. The woman let out a piercing scream. The man lay right on top of her.
John was on his feet again in an instant. He kicked the monster with his right foot, again and again. The dead man went skidding off away from his wife, who was suddenly watching the whole episode stiff with terror. John Sinclair dragged the woman to her feet. “Have the others also left the boiler room?” he interrogated her. But John was not able to hear her reply: suddenly several other figures tugged at his body.
“Run for your life!” John called out to the woman, before resuming his battle with the dead. A blow struck him on the cranium. John Sinclair staggered forward. The blow had not been particularly hard, but it was painful. The dead did not relent.
“You must go back!” The thought pounded through John’s mind.
Once again the zombies were on the attack. They surged forward towards John in almost unimaginable uniformity. Suddenly John felt the window sill behind him, and before him stood the dead, ready to descend upon him and destroy him.
The night air touched John’s sweat-drenched back. He had no time to think. He acted. With a giant swing he leapt backwards through the smashed window pane. He hit the ground hard, rolled over and jumped to his feet again, the hideous faces of the dead still staring at him. John suddenly felt an insane anger towards the figures. For a moment he almost lost his nerve.
He noticed several stones nearby. As quick as a flash, he picked them up and hurled them with all his might into the monstrous mask-like faces of the dead. The zombies were sent tumbling back by the force of the stones. They fell over like stiff dolls.
“Damn!” whispered John. He looked around him: everywhere the dead were wandering like ghosts through the village. They forced their way into houses, ransacked apartments and stuck their skulls through windows.
John Sinclair set off in search - of Professor Orgow and his medium. John saw that his only chance lay in such a move. He had to force the two to call off the dead.
He crept along the narrow alleyway, pressing himself tightly against the walls of the houses. On the main road he recognised three figures who were staggering about like drunks. A window crashed out above him. John ducked and jumped to one side. Slivers and splinters of glass came tinkling down to the ground beside him. The inspector was almost at the point of nervous collapse, when the sound of engines caused him to spin round.
Help?
John ran out onto the road. Blazing headlamps and searchlights could be seen at the entrance to the village. Vehicles raced into the place.
The military.
Rescue!
John felt his knees trembling when the first jeep stopped beside him. The other cars pulled up to its rear. John tore open the door of the jeep.
“I am Inspector Sinclair,” he panted. “You are just in time!”
A wiry captain jumped out of the vehicle. “Is it really true that …” The captain stopped and swallowed. “Damn!” he whispered, as his gaze was arrested by two dead beings coming out of a side alleyway and making straight for a group of humans. Captain Green acted within seconds.
“Everyone out! Flame-throwers at the ready!” his voice resounded through the village.
Meanwhile the walking corpses had reached the jeep, and while the soldiers got into their formations, one of the dead beings attacked the petrified captain.
John Sinclair put all his strength into a fearsome blow that sent the corpse flying backwards. The same occurred with the second corpse.
A sergeant came running up. “Reporting for duty, sir …”
“Right, Sergeant!” shouted Captain Green. “Let the men go and hunt the dead. Every corpse must be burned to shreds with the flame-throwers.”
“Yes, sir!” the sergeant stammered.
“Here Inspector. I’ve got two more flame-throwers in the jeep,” the captain informed John Sinclair. Ten seconds later, John was holding this weapon of choice in his hand. And just in time: a group of five corpses had banded together and were advancing on the men.
“Now!” shouted John. “If these also fail …”
These flame-throwers had only recently been developed by the army and were specially intended for combat at close quarters. The men raised their weapons and fired almost simultaneously. Spitting jets of fire hissed out of the openings right into the pack of the dead. And the flames were not without effect. The sight of what happened now even turned the stomach of the hard-boiled inspector from the Yard. The bodies of the zombies caught fire. The undead thrashed about wildly, but there was no escape for them. Their bodies simply melted away, and only a great puddle remained behind, and a penetrating stench.
“My God!” Captain Green whispered. “I’ve seen a lot in my time, but this …”
The sergeant of a few minutes before came running up. His face displayed the terror of the last few minutes. “Sir!” he panted. “The dead. They are simply melting away. I …”
“Now listen carefully, Sergeant,” John intervened in a no-nonsense tone. “I know it is terrible. But do you think that we have it any better here? Damn it! See this thing through. Let your soldiers know that it is about more than their own fear.”
“Yes, sir!” the sergeant replied and disappeared. John turned to the captain.
“You now know the score, sir,” he said. “I think it best if you stay with your men. Don’t have any scruples about the dead. Burn every corpse you see. This village must be purged of the entire brood. By the way, the villagers are in the boiler room of the school. They’re relatively safe there. Only let them come out when all the corpses have been destroyed.”
The captain nodded. “May I know what you intend to do, Inspector?”
John gave a cold smile. “I am a criminologist, Captain. I’m going to take care of the person who initiated this horror.” John could well imagine where he would find the necromancer and his medium: in the delivery van. The inspector ran off. He looked back briefly: behind him he saw an extensive fire-glow. The soldiers were in action. They would comb through the entire village and purge it of the dead.
Suddenly five of the horrific figures appeared and blocked his path. The inspector from Scotland Yard saw no other option than to turn his flame-thrower upon them. The dead shrank back. John unrelentingly followed.
One of the zombies caught fire and a few seconds later ignited his fellows, who suffered a similar fate.
Without troubling further about the undead, John hastened on his way. He crashed through thick bushes and reached the road. He heard the sound of a motor starting up. Professor Orgow! He must be at the wheel of his delivery van. John saw the red rear lights of the van go on and then disappear into the night.
The inspector ran even faster, panting and gasping. The arduous hours that had preceded this were now telling on him. But finally he reached his Bentley. He swiftly flung open the door – but at the very moment, two living dead advanced towards him. John, who had placed the flame-thrower on the roof of his car, involuntarily started back when he felt something make contact with his neck. Instinctively, he grabbed hold of his weapon again. Something whizzed past his head. The wooden pole only strafed his skull without doing any damage and was brought smashing down onto the roof of the car. John dropped to his knees, but did not let go of the flame-thrower. The dead man was still holding the pole in both hands and raised his arm for a renewed attack. Simultaneously, the other one attempted to throw himself at John.
John Sinclair half lay on the ground, with his back leaning against the car door. He saw the mouldy, stinking, rotting bodies straight before him, looked into their indescribably horrid faces – and pressed the trigger of the flame-thrower.
A huge jet of fire was released. Within seconds, the dead melted away. After that, there was almost total silence, apart from the sound of the wooden pole, as it crackled and burned.
John Sinclair pulled himself up onto his car and fell into the driver’s seat – making sure to toss the flame-thrower onto the passenger seat beside him. Once again he got a grip on himself and regained his presence of mind. He knew where the necromancer was making for: Manor Castle …
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The soldiers did a truly thorough job. Every corpse was attacked with the flame-throwers. Finally, all the zombies were annihilated.
In the school, Captain Green stumbled over one particular dead man. It was Constable Jones. The living corpses had throttled him to death. The soldiers carried Jones’s dead body away. Then Captain Green went down to the boiler room. He banged with both fists on the iron door.
“Open up!” his voice reverberated through the vault. “You are safe now.”
It took several minutes before the anxious villagers opened the door. Horror was still etched on their faces as they left the school building and returned to their homes.
Captain Green lit himself a cigarette. His deputy, a young lieutenant, joined his superior.
“Do you understand any of this, Captain?”
Green shook his head. “No, Loomis. We’ve done our duty, that’s all. I think it’s best for you to tell the men to forget all about it as soon as possible. That’s my advice.”
Lieutenant Loomis nodded, lost in thought. “But where is this Inspector Sinclair?” he asked.
“He’s on the track of the originator of all these crimes,” the captain responded. “Let’s hope that luck’s with him. God knows he deserves it. He’s quite some fellow, this John Sinclair.”
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John sat behind the wheel of his car wearing an expression of dogged determination. He revved up the Bentley to its maximum strength and thundered round the narrow turnings, needing every ounce of his skill as a driver in order not to land in a ditch or crash into a tree.
He passed a little wood and was now on the direct route to Manor Castle. The narrow road spiralled up like a coiled serpent to the castle, and far up above him, John occasionally saw the lights of the delivery van shining out in the darkness. John put his foot down hard.
A few minutes later he reached the creepy castle. The inspector hastily got out of his car, and ran up on hands and knees to the great entrance gates. Once inside the castle’s inner courtyard he pressed himself against the wall and listened. No suspicious sound reached his ears. He could hear nothing but his own heartbeat.
A burst of maniacal laughter suddenly made John start. It came from the castle - undoubtedly from Orgow. This man must have lost his mind, John Sinclair thought to himself.
He moved a few paces forward and came up against the heavy entrance door. John pressed down on the cast-iron handle. The door was open! The inspector slipped silently into the castle’s great hall.
The candles were still burning. The light from them fell upon the necromancer and his medium. Orgow stood there like a statue. Not a muscle stirred in his waxen face.
John Sinclair slowly took a step forward and then drew in his breath. He had done it. The two were delivered into his hands.
At the same moment he felt a draught of air. Instinctively, he jumped to one side. A sword swished diagonally over him with immense force. I forgot the bodyguard! John thought, as he rolled across the floor.
The thug with the sword was amazingly fast. He was suddenly holding the murder instrument like a spear in his hand and was about to launch it at John’s chest. But John Sinclair pulled his pistol from its holster and fired – a fraction of a second sooner. The bullet struck the man in the arm. He still managed to throw the sword at the last moment, but it only whistled harmlessly through the air, crashing against the wall and clattering noisily to the floor.
John was on his feet again in no time, with his weapon levelled. The shot bodyguard was squatting in a corner, nursing his bleeding arm.
John leapt sideways towards Orgow and the medium.
“Where is the other guy?” he demanded of the professor. Orgow remained silent. But his face was distorted with hate.
“Speak!” John hissed at him. The necromancer mumbled something incomprehensible. It must have been a signal to his medium, for the woman suddenly began to move. Slowly, she came towards John.
“Stay where you are!” the inspector commanded.
But the medium just smiled, and carried on walking.
John moved back. Damn it! What devilry were the unholy pair up to now? Suddenly the woman stood stock still.
“My name is Lara,” she said in mellifluous tones. John cast a glance at Professor Orgow, who was observing the scene with the keenest of interest.
Lara gazed into John’s eyes. Fire seemed to issue from the medium’s eyes. John felt as though an invisible current of energy were trying to take possession of his soul. A feeling of total emptiness began to overpower him. Unaware of what he was doing, he lowered his weapon. And then Lara began to speak: strange, song-like sounds issued from her lips. Yet they struck John like the blows of a heavy club.
Hypnosis! This thought flashed through John’s mind. His head began to swim. No! It was not hypnosis. It was something far worse. John had long heard of the death-speakers – those who could kill through the use of their voices. They were mainly natives who lived in South-East Asia. Death-speaking! Lara was attempting to kill him with her words!
John winced as though in great pain. Once again he summoned up the last ounce of his will power to resist this uncanny force. He felt cold sweat forming like searing hoarfrost all over his body.
Lara went on speaking. Her voice rose, grew stronger, more insistent.
John Sinclair let out a groan. The words of the medium almost caused him physical pain. He staggered. His weapon fell from his hand. In his subconscious mind, he registered the burst of laughter that issued from the necromancer: mocking, triumphant. John moaned again. Lara’s words were penetrating him like some deadly electricity.
Unconsciously he dug his fingernails into the balls of his thumbs. Pain pulsed through his arm. But this pain brought him back to reality.
John felt his heart beating faster and the blood pulsing violently through his veins. Orgow must have noticed this change. He let out a curse.
Lara, too, stopped speaking.
John staggered forwards. Lara shrank back with her face all distorted.
You must strike this mad professor down – the thought pummelled against John’s brain over and over again.
At that moment, the entrance door was flung open with a crash. Orgow’s second bodyguard erupted into the room. With one glance, he surveyed the situation. Roaring like a lunatic, he leapt at the inspector. John, not yet fully master of his muscles or equilibrium, was sent crashing back by the force of the impact. He flew halfway across the room, sending a knight’s suit of armour flying and clattering to the ground.
John did not know why this man had remained outside for so long. He only knew that he had to fight for his very life.
A kick in the ribs sent John spinning. The pain cut like a knife into his body. Above him he heard the panting of his opponent.
He was able to deprive the next kick of its force by a quick turn. He even managed to seize hold of his opponent’s leg. The heavy man went crashing to the ground with a dull thud.
Hasty footsteps. As John was struggling to his feet, he saw the necromancer scrambling for John’s weapon.
Only one course of action was open to John. He darted towards his previous assailant, who was just getting to his feet, and threw him back down again. The two men, locked in each other’s grip, rolled across the floor.
Orgow let out a crazed laugh.
From out of the corner of his eyes, John saw the professor standing in the middle of the room, pistol in hand.
A shot rang out.
John felt his opponent wince, groan and then grow limp.
The necromancer had shot his own man.
“Get up!” the maniac screamed. “Now it is your turn!”
Very slowly, John rose from the floor. He stood there with his legs spread apart and gasping for breath. He suddenly realised that it was all over for him. He saw his own pistol sparkling and shining brightly in Orgow’s hand.
“Why don’t you shoot, Orgow? Are you afraid?” John taunted him.
“Orgow’s face became contorted, as if from an electric shock. His bloodless lips gurgled a flood of incomprehensible words. Diagonally behind him, Lara stood in readiness. She had been watching the contest of the two men without any emotional participation.
Orgow squeezed the trigger of the gun.
Click! Nothing happened.
At that same instant, John threw himself forward. The sound of the empty weapon had penetrated his brain like a dart.
He landed with a bump on the hard floor, knocking his knee against a heavy candleholder as he fell.
Footsteps dashed past him. As John painfully struggled to his feet, he saw Orgow and Lara running towards the staircase that led down into the sinister laboratory.
John hobbled after them, his knee paining him badly. He almost toppled down the stone steps, but at the last moment he was able to get a steady handgrip on the rough and fissured wall. In front of him he heard the hurrying steps of the two escaping him.
It grew dark. The light of the candles from the hall did not extend very far. John Sinclair groped his way down, step by cautious step.
Then it was suddenly light again. Some candles must have been lit down in the laboratory. John descended more rapidly. Whatever happened, he must not let the two escape. They had already brought enough harm to humanity and must not continue.
John reached the laboratory. It was empty. The inspector went into the adjoining room. The stench of decay and corruption almost took his breath away. John swallowed and pressed on. Then he saw the opening in the wall. Only by bending could he gain entrance.
John found himself in a long passageway. He did not know that it was the same passage along which Ann Baxter had been pursued by the strangler, shortly before her death.
It suddenly became dark again. John clicked on his cigarette lighter. The flame flickered in the stale air. John crept on, shielding the flame with his hand.
Where were Lara and Orgow?
Then John Sinclair spied the end of a spiral staircase. The air became ever more starved of oxygen. The flame of his cigarette lighter was suddenly extinguished.
John stopped and listened. Somewhere he could hear drops of water. Then steps. Creeping, dragging steps. And suddenly a maniacal laugh. A shudder ran down his spine.
“Kill him!” Orgow’s voice shrieked.
Two ice-cold murderous hands suddenly placed themselves around John’s throat. Hot, panting breath touched his face.
The hands squeezed without mercy.
John Sinclair swiftly pushed up his arms and grabbed the wrists of the strangler. He pressed with his thumb on a crucial spot. The instant reaction was an animal-like scream. The grip of the strangler relaxed.
John freed himself from the wall and delivered a massive right hook, in which he invested every last ounce of his strength. No, he did not need to exercise consideration for others in such a situation! John Sinclair’s punch landed well. The strangler was sent flying backwards. There was a strange, dull sound. Then only silence.
John took a deep breath. Once again he took out his cigarette lighter. He tried to ignite it and – wonder of wonders – it worked! In the flickering light of its flame he saw Lara lying on the ground. She had been the strangler. Lara was breathing shallowly. John’s fearsome blow had knocked her quite unconscious.
A shuffling sound caused John to spin round. The necromancer was standing before him, holding a massive stone high above his head with both hands.
“To Hell with you!” the demented professor yelled and brought the stone crashing down. John dodged to one side as fast as lightning. The stone plummeted down with immense force on the exact spot where John had just stood. And that is where Lara still lay …
John heard a dreadful sound. He dropped his lighter, groped in the dark and seized hold of the skeletal body of the necromancer. He pulled the black magician onto his own body and smashed his right fist upwards into Orgow’s scrawny neck. He felt the professor go limp. John grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him into the laboratory. There he left him lying on the floor.
He leaned against the wall and felt his knees tremble. The past few hours had taken their toll. John was exhausted, not only physically but also mentally.
Orgow still did not stir. He lay on his back, and the flickering light from the candles cast bizarre patterns and shapes upon his body.
A noise on the staircase made John jump. Was the battle, then, not yet over? A shadow appeared. John saw the form and distorted face of the shot bodyguard. The man was staggering like a drunk down the stairs. John saw the flash of a sword in his uninjured hand. But blood was streaming incessantly from the wound in his shoulder. The man raised the sword. Only five more steps and the brute had reached his prey ….
John darted back and positioned himself more favourably for renewed battle. But then it happened: the man stumbled. With a cry, he fell down the final steps and crashed onto his own sword. It was a gruesome scene. John turned away …
But now Professor Orgow was moving again. At first he gazed around in bewilderment, but then he caught sight of John. His face became distorted and twisted as he uttered a furious curse. The necromancer then pulled himself up with the support of a table. John looked at him, this Satan incarnate.
“Why did you do all this?” the inspector asked quietly.
Orgow’s eyes sparkled as he replied. “I wanted my revenge. Revenge on those people who mocked me, who did not take me seriously, who did not believe in my research. But I have shown them – one and all!”
Orgow broke out into silent laughter. John shook himself. This man was insane. He belonged in an asylum.
“Where did you first meet Lara?” John asked further.
“Lara?” The necromancer spoke very quietly now. He seemed to be far away. “In my homeland, in Rumania, where the castle of Count Dracula still stands: I first encountered her there. I brought her with me from her village in the Carpathians to England, where I awakened her secret powers.”
“Was Lara a death-speaker?” John wanted to know.
“That too. But her chief virtue was that the dead obeyed her. Before that, however, she needed to imbibe my special drink. It gave her the necessary power.”
“You realise, of course, Professor, that I shall have to arrest you and take you with me?”
Orgow looked at John in a strangely transfigured way. “Take me with you? No. Where I am going, you certainly will not take me with you.”
Orgow suddenly took a few steps back.
“Stop!” hissed John.
But the necromancer merely laughed, plunging his hand as fast as lightning into his coat pocket and fetching out a little capsule, which then disappeared between his teeth. It all happened so swiftly that John could not prevent it.
Professor Orgow laughed. “You will never get me. I go alone. Poison! Yes, I have taken poison. But I shall return. I shall re …” His voice failed. Orgow clutched at his throat and began to totter. John wanted to support him – but the professor slipped from his hands.
With a dull thud he dropped to the floor.
“I – I – shall – return …” The words passed across his lips like a final death-sigh.
John Sinclair felt goose pimples running up and down his spine. He looked at the professor: his empty eyes were staring at him, cold and lifeless.
John Sinclair turned away. As he mounted the stairs to the castle hall above, the words of the necromancer still echoed in his mind.
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A glorious sunrise greeted John as he stepped out in front of the castle. The terrors of the night had passed, and a radiant day seemed to have wiped all the horror away.
John breathed in deeply. Slowly he walked to his Bentley. He had to get back to the village – they were surely waiting for him there.
Before John got into his car, he took one last look around him. The castle still towered up like a threat …
John shook off this uneasy feeling and sat himself down behind the wheel.
Then, he started up the engine.
THE END
e to edit.