The Fatal Strand

‘This is stupid,’ the boy answered, trying to sound calm. ‘It was only the wind that put the candles out. But if it was a ghost, then I’ve seen them before and I’m not scared. Edie used to keep loads of them in the bomb sites during the Blitz, the same as other people keep goldfish.’

‘Doughty and of the halest oak is thine heart fashioned,’ Quoth whimpered in admiration. ‘Yet, what sayest thou if the shades who dwell herein doth prove to be fiends most bloody and angersome? No wish hath I to be plucked untimely and robbed of mine gizzards. Spare this frail flower from the greed of the unclean eclipse!’

Neil rummaged in his pockets for the lighter, but remembered that he had given it back to Austen Pickering. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a cheerful laugh. ‘Why don’t I just switch the lights back on?’

Groping through the dark, he felt his way around invisible cabinets until he came to a wall and passed along it, picturing their progress in his mind.

‘The door to the passage should be near here,’ he muttered. ‘The switches are right next to it.’

Fumbling beside a long glass case, the ridges of the door jamb abruptly met his fingertips and at that same moment an anxious voice called out to him.

‘Are you all right, lad?’ Austen Pickering’s concerned cry came echoing through the museum. ‘All the candles have gone out. Stay where you are and I’ll come find you. Blast it! The lighter won’t work and I’ve left the torch back with the fossils.’

‘Don’t worry!’ the boy shouted back. ‘I’m going to put the—’

A frantic dab at his cheek caused his reply to falter. ‘What’s the matter now?’ he demanded of the raven.

‘Hush!’ Quoth urged, his rasping voice now charged with genuine terror. ‘We are not alone in this chamber. Hark – something hath stolen within!’

Neil held his breath, and his skin crawled when he heard faint scrabbling sounds coming from the direction of the far wall. It was a small and furtive scuttling noise which seemed to keep close to the skirting, travelling the boundaries of the large room as though shy of the open space which filled it.

‘What did you say?’ the ghost hunter called. ‘I didn’t catch it.’

But Neil was too afraid to answer. Whatever had joined Quoth and himself in The Neolithic Collection had overcome its reticence and given a sudden, pig-like grunt. Even now they could hear it snuffling across the floor, scampering under the cabinets and growling softly to itself.

‘’Tis a beast of the ancient wild!’ the raven whispered fretfully. ‘Or some frightsome bogle crawled from its brimstone grot. Master Neil, the great lights – command them!’

With the guttural breaths now sounding from the centre of the room, the boy hunted feverishly for the switches on the wall, but found only a blank expanse and his heart beat faster in his chest.

‘They’re not here!’ he hissed. ‘Quoth! I can’t find them. I must have got it wrong. This is the door to The Norman Hall – I thought we were on the other side of the room!’

At the sound of their frightened voices, the bestial snorts ceased and a foul, exulting gurgle issued from the blackness.

‘The fiend hath detected us!’ Quoth yowled. ‘We are discovered! Fly, Master Neil!’

A triumphant chattering whooped from the deep shadows as the creature bounded from beneath the cabinets, with a gnashing and champing of teeth.

Unable to contain his panic, Neil scrabbled with the handle of the door and cried out in despair. ‘It’s locked!’ he wept.

‘Then flee another way!’ Quoth implored, hopping up and down in terror. ‘The demon is upon us!’

Blundering sideways, Neil ran blindly across the room, but the snapping horror veered around in pursuit, its claws clattering over the polished floorboards.

‘More speed!’ the raven cried.

Neil flung himself through the gloom and the gargling snorts of the unseen beast rose to a horrible squeal.

Suddenly, the boy yelled in pain as he crashed into a table. Unable to check his momentum, he vaulted head over heels through the darkness, landing in a crumpled heap upon the other side.

Screeching, Quoth toppled from his shoulder and went tumbling backwards – straight into path of the oncoming nightmare.

CHAPTER 7 MARY-ANNE BRINDLE (#ulink_8424d1fb-8f69-5fb6-9b07-edd152275918)

For an instant, the raven lay upon the ground, wings outstretched and beak askew. Then the raucous shrieks of the marauding beast brought him to his feet and the bird bolted across the floor in search of his master.

Tormented with panic and terror, Quoth scurried in completely the wrong direction, quite forgetting in his fear that he could fly. Garbled cries howled from his throat, for his jaw had locked open and he could not move it. Behind, he could hear the fangs of the pursuing creature grind together as it lunged after him, and he swung his head from side to side, despairing for his life.

Then, with a painful thud, he ran headlong into the leg of a cabinet. The collision stunned him for a second, but his stringy legs continued to gallop and lurch onward despite his confusion. Thankfully, the aching blow clicked his beak back into place, and when the raven could direct any thoughts beyond the immediate throbbing of his skull, he let out a shrill squawk.

‘Squire Neil!’ he honked. ‘Run whilst thou may. The scourge is biting at mine tail. Aiyee! Aiyee!’

Spreading his tattered wings wide, the raven darted forward, careering clear across the room until he raced into The Roman Gallery. Huge dim squares reared up on the bird’s right and he stumbled towards them, skittering through the patches of melancholy light which fanned from those grimy Georgian windows.

After him the nightmare came and, dithering with terror, Quoth did not know which way to run.

Then he saw it.

Wheeling around, his breast heaving, the bird stared back into the dismal gloom and his puny legs dissolved under him. Catching his wheezing breaths, Quoth sank to the ground as, up to the brink of the dismal light, the creature came prowling.

Faint with fear, the bird saw a squat, outlandish silhouette, no taller than his master’s knees. It lowered a mane-crowned head and Quoth’s feathers prickled when he heard a grating babble issue from its unseen mouth.

‘Gogus …’ the imp-like figure panted. ‘Gogus …’

Quoth could only stare whilst the alarming aberration hesitated, and he wondered what it was waiting for. Was it taunting him, wringing out every last morsel of fright before it leaped in for the kill?

‘Quoth?’ Neil’s scared voice shouted from the other room. ‘Where are you? Quoth? Are you okay?’

Shuffling backwards over the floorboards and shrinking against the wall, the raven shook his head vehemently, too petrified to cry out. But, at the sound of the boy’s voice, the menacing apparition jerked its unwieldy head aside. With a furious chittering, the creature slapped the ground with its splayed claws and bounded back into the Neolithic room.

‘Quoth?’ Neil cried again.

Staggering to his feet, the raven spluttered, then shrieked. ‘Squire Neil! ’Ware the demon – ’tis thou it seeks! Save thyself!’

Nursing his bruised shins, Neil felt horribly vulnerable. Hearing that warning, he hobbled through the darkness, his flailing hands striking the cabinets and cases as he battled his way across the room.

Suddenly, the veiled shadows on his left were filled with a loathsome yapping, causing the boy to forget his injuries, and he pelted forward. The doorway to the passage could not be far off; already he could feel a current of air blowing upon his face and he charged recklessly towards its source, slithering and skidding in his haste to escape. But the fiend was closing, and its jabbering cries became outraged barks as it scooted towards the boy.

Even in that unmeasurable dark, Neil could sense the open doorway as it reared before him. He did not think to reach for the light switches and he threw all his strength into one last sprint.

Too late – the berserking creature was at his heels. Launching its squat form from the ground, the small, misshapen figure leaped. Wrapping its arms about the boy’s legs, it clung to him fiercely.

Neil howled in fright as powerful claws pinched and squeezed, and he toppled sideways, slamming into the wall. Squealing and snapping, his attacker held him with an iron grasp and would not let go.

‘Gogus!’ it raged. ‘Gogus … Gogus!’

‘Get off!’ the boy cried. ‘Let go!’

‘Gogus …’ was his only reply, and the vice-like clutch tightened all the more.