Dark Isle #1 Read online

  Dark Isle

  Written by David Longhorn

  Edited by Emma Salam

  Copyright © 2016 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue: England, July 1916

  Chapter 1: Publish or Perish

  Chapter 2: Ghosts and Scholars

  Chapter 3: Telling Stories

  Chapter 4: Investigations

  Chapter 5: Encounters

  Chapter 6: Visions

  Chapter 7: A Feeling of Unease

  Chapter 8: North

  Chapter 9: Connections

  Chapter 10: The Island

  Chapter 11: Countdown

  Chapter 12: The Follower

  Epilogue

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  Prologue: England, July 1916

  Professor Montague Summerskill finished his pint of cider, and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. He bade a cheery farewell to the landlord who was collecting glasses from the tables outside the village inn. The landlord nodded politely, but Summerskill wondered if he detected a glint of amusement in the stout countryman's eye.

  Well, one can hardly blame him. The sight of a gentleman, no longer young and agile, clambering onto a bicycle is often somewhat ridiculous. He is anticipating a cabaret of sorts!

  Trying to dispel such thoughts, Summerskill put on his cloth cap then wheeled his heavy, iron-framed bicycle away from the wall of the pub and into the country lane. He decided to go on foot a little further, until he was shielded from any onlookers at the pub or in the village by the tall hedgerows. As he walked on, the midday-sun beat down upon his tweed-clad form. He realized, not for the first time, that he was over-dressed for his little holiday.

  Ah, well, proprieties must be observed! One can hardly go around in shirtsleeves!

  Summerskill decided that he was far enough from mocking eyes to mount up, but then realized that he was going uphill. He decided to push his machine to the crest of the gentle rise, then freewheel down the other side. The prospect of such a simple, boyish pleasure coupled with a good pub lunch and some cider buoyed up his spirits. He was feeling much more confident, far happier than he had been for months. A great burden seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders.

  I was silly to be so afraid, Summerskill thought. A few strange incidents, a bizarre coincidence or two, and I reacted like a superstitious peasant. Or a scared child. After all, this is 1916, not the Middle Ages!

  A gust of wind blew down the hill, stirred the hedgerows, and ruffled his thinning hair. It should have been welcoming, cooling in the heat of the summer afternoon. But it brought no relief to Summerskill. It was a surprisingly hot wind, even for such a warm day.

  Well, he thought, when I'm freewheeling down the hill, I'll generate my own refreshing breeze.

  He reached the top of the rise and looked down the country lane that wound through the wheat fields of Cambridgeshire. Below him was a small farm, consisting of a quaint cottage, some neat outbuildings, and a small duck-pond. It was a picture of rural serenity, a vista unchanged for centuries. Summerskill stood for a minute enjoying the view. All this fine weather bodes well for the harvest, he reflected. But that led him to reflect on the terrible harvest of young lives in France.

  Of course, German barbarism had to be opposed. But after nearly two years of war, Summerskill hadn't gotten used to reading out the names of his former students in the college chapel, leading the prayers for those who made the ultimate sacrifice. What was worse, the faces of the dead that had haunted his dreams for weeks.

  So many young faces, he thought. And here I am, a silly old fool enjoying a cycling holiday. Attempting to clear my mind of what can only be an absurd psychological fixation.

  Montague Summerskill had been ordered to go on holiday by his doctor, who also happened to be an old friend. The medic had told him that overwork combined with distressing war news had led to the professor's 'morbid fantasies'.

  "Get out in the fresh air and sunlight!" the doctor had ordered. "See the English countryside at its best this July, then come back to Cambridge refreshed and ready for teaching, able to inspire a new generation of young minds! You've spent far too much time dwelling on those absurd stories of yours. All that horror and spookery is bound to undermine a man's grasp of reality."

  For the last eight days, the doctor's advice had been vindicated. Summerskill had gradually regained lost sleep, thanks in part to the strenuous exercise of cycling along winding country lanes. He had visited historic churches and museums, chatted with garrulous locals, and enjoyed simple rural fare at mealtimes. He had come to believe that the fear that had possessed him during the winter months had indeed been illusory.

  Again, the gust of hot air came, this time stronger. It hit him in the face, dislodging his cap and almost knocking his eyeglasses askew. Summerskill bent down to try and retrieve his headgear, but another gust blew it away into a hedge.

  "Dash it all!" exclaimed the professor, laying the bicycle on the grass verge. He retrieved his cap and was about to pick his bike up again when he felt an all-too-familiar sensation. It was a tingling in the center of his back.

  No, no not again, he thought, trying to quell rising panic. It's just in my mind, the product of a 'morbid imagination'.

  But he didn't look round. Instead he clambered onto his bike and pushed off, freewheeling down the hill. Another gust of wind came, this one even stronger than the last, and almost threw him off balance. He struggled to retain control of the heavy machine, succeeded, then hit a pothole in the country road and found himself hurtling through the air. He landed awkwardly, breaking his fall with his hands and ending up with badly skinned palms.

  Terribly winded, Summerskill struggled to his feet, this time looking around in outright terror. There was no one in sight, but it was not a person he was afraid of, or at least, not exactly. He saw it, then, a dark patch moving through the nearest field in a great arc. Something was pressing the wheat down, something more substantial than any gust of wind yet no more visible. It was coming back toward him in a great curving arc.

  The Follower is real! It always was real!

  "Oh God, help me!" he gasped to himself, trying to heave the bicycle upright. But he was far too slow, and the invisible assailant crashed through the hedge and struck him again with a blast of furnace-hot air. He flailed his arms, fell backwards, again landing heavily. He felt a stab of agony as his wrist gave a sickening snap. The pain was almost as bad as the fear.

  Summerskill managed to get back onto the bicycle and headed downhill, pedaling this time, trying to steer despite his fractured wrist. He glanced around, and saw the Follower sweeping towards him again. Branches crashed, leaves flew through the air, and then the thing was through the hedgerow and swirling around him. The burning hot vortex flung him sideways, but this time he avoided a fall and continued to pedal.

  Instinct told him to make for the pond.

  A thing of air and heat. My only chance.

  As if it was aware of his intention, the Follower swung around in a tighter arc and hit him again. He almost fell off, recovered, then let out a howl of despair. Summerskill realized that his voice was more like that of a hunted animal than a renowned scholar.


  ***

  Martha Grundy was busy teaching her daughter Ruby how to knead dough for bread when Star, their border collie, began making a fuss. Martha left the kitchen table for a moment and went to look out of the cottage door, which stood open to the fine July day.

  "What's that daft animal about now?" asked Martha, cleaning her hands on her apron. Ruby, with a six-year-old's healthy curiosity, followed her mother outside. The woman and child emerged from the cottage just in time to see a man in brown riding his bicycle straight through the hedge by the duck-pond. The cyclist wobbled for a split-second, then fell off.

  "Oh, my Lord!" exclaimed Martha, and set off across the farmyard to try and help the poor gentleman up. Them bicycles is dangerous things, she thought. Almost as bad as motor cars.

  Star had similar ideas. The young dog went rushing up to the man, barking with excitement, tail wagging. Then the dog stopped, headed to one side, and gave a whine.

  "Get away, get away!" shouted the man, waving his arms as he struggled to rise.

  "Come away, now, Star!" called Martha, slightly annoyed at the gentleman's attitude. He had, after all, ridden his bicycle onto someone else's land. And it wasn't as if Star was a vicious dog. Far from it, the silly creature wanted to be friends and play with anyone who passed by.

  "He won't hurt you, mister!" added Ruby helpfully, skipping happily along after her mother. This was much more fun than learning to bake.

  Then something odd happened. The dog seemed to look past the man, started barking more ferociously now, giving way to fear. Then Star turned and fled around the side of a chicken coop.

  "What's wrong with the blessed animal now?"

  Martha, still wiping her floury hands on her apron, hesitated. There was something not quite right, here. It was no simple accident. The cyclist stood staring at her open-mouthed, as if in horror. Then, looking around him, he rushed diagonally across the farm yard and hurled himself into the pond. A great torrent of greenish water erupted as the man went full-length. Half a dozen ducks flapped in all directions, quacking in outrage.

  The man stood up spluttering, strands of pond-weed dangling from his head and clothing. Martha stood looking at him, thinking he looked like a statue with strands of green weed dripping from his clothes. Then she began to laugh, at first covering her mouth in embarrassment, then doubled up in near-hysterics. Ruby joined in.

  "Madam, you are in grave danger! Go back inside, I beg you!"

  There was something about the man's tone and the way he began waving her away again that made Martha stop laughing. She straightened up, and as she did so she felt a blast of blistering hot air on her face.

  The man turned and waded quickly away from Martha and Ruby, then climbed out of the pond on the wheat-field opposite the cottage. Just as he reached dry land there was a bubbling surge behind. The greenish pond-water heaved, bulged, and a man-like shape reared up six, seven, eight feet high. It towered over the stranger, who began to run again, crashing into the wheat.

  Martha reached down and clutched her child.

  "Keep away!" shouted Summerskill, as he stumbled through the field. The green figure emerged from the pond, glistening. It had long, heavy forelimbs and started to lope after Summerskill like an ape.

  "Get back inside, Ruby!" shouted the woman, pushing her daughter towards the cottage.

  "What was that thing, Mummy?" asked Ruby, eyes wide.

  "I don't know, girl, you just get back indoors!" said her mother in her special no-nonsense voice.

  Once they were back inside Martha started to close the door, intending to bolt and bar it. Then she changed her mind and after ordering Ruby to go upstairs and hide under her bed, Martha reached behind the door for her husband's old twelve-bore shotgun.

  ***

  The professor knew he was losing ground. He could hear his pursuer crashing through the wheat, the sound of the huge being getting louder. All the terror he had tried to banish returned, multiplied by a thousand folds.

  I can't escape, Summerskill thought in despair. I never could. I was doomed from the very start. But at least I'm leading it away from innocent bystanders.

  He could hear the Follower laughing now; a breathless inhumane sound, deep and cruel. A huge hand grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him down. Winded, he tried to struggle onto his hands and knees, but a prodigious weight bore him down. He felt cold slime, stinking of rank pond-water, start to cover his head. His nose and mouth filled with the stinking ooze, and he tossed his head trying to dislodge the filth from his airways.

  Darkness closed in. The last thing Montague Summerskill heard was a boom, not unlike distant thunder on a summer's evening.

  ***

  "And you say you shot at this mysterious assailant, Mrs. Grundy?" asked the county coroner.

  "I did not say that!" replied Martha Grundy, her voice shaking with nervousness. She had never given evidence before, and didn't like standing in front of a room full of strangers in her Sunday best clothes. She was doing her best to 'speak properly', that is, in the manner of the upper-classes. But that meant shunning her native dialect, and it threw her off her stride.

  "I said as how I shot it, your honor! I put both barrels into it!"

  There was a ripple of conversation among the onlookers, and the coroner rapped his gavel before turning to Martha again.

  "You say it, Mrs. Grundy? Not 'him'?"

  Martha took a deep breath then said, "It weren't no proper human person!"

  This time it took three raps of the gavel to restore order.

  "Indeed," said the coroner. "Which might explain why, when the police officer arrived, he found no evidence of any other person at the scene of the incident, just the body of Mister Summerskill?"

  Martha shook her head emphatically.

  "There was something there all right! I don't know if it was a person, but I shot it and it all fell apart, like, as if it were just made o' water out of the pond."

  This time the laughter in the small courtroom was unrestrained and it took the coroner nearly a minute to achieve quiet.

  "I will not hesitate to clear the court if this improper behavior continues!" he warned, looking pointedly at the jury, most of whom had joined in the merriment. Turning back to Martha he said, "Thank you, Mrs. Grundy, you may step down. Call Constable Naismith!"

  The policeman was far less nervous than the farmer's wife. But it soon became evident that he too, was not entirely sure of his facts.

  "Did you see any evidence of the assailant Mrs. Grundy claims she shot at?" asked the coroner.

  "No, sir," replied Naismith. "But I did check the twelve-bore, and it had been fired."

  The policeman seemed about to continue, but paused.

  "Well, go on!" urged the coroner.

  "I found the pellets, your honor. They were lying around the body of the deceased gentleman."

  "Lying around him?"

  "Yes," replied Naismith. "Some of them were on top of his body and fell off when I turned him over to check if he was alive."

  "You mean the shotgun pellets had struck the deceased?" asked the coroner.

  "No, sir!" insisted Naismith. "I mean they were lying on and around him. As if they'd hit something and then …"

  The policeman made a vague gesture, as if trying to describe something unimaginable, then gave up.

  "They were lying around the body, your honor,” he concluded with a sigh.

  The next witness was the medical examiner, a doctor who testified that the cause of death was 'suffocation due to the inhalation of more than a quart of pond-water'.

  "Did you find any evidence that Mister Summerskill was the victim of an assault?"

  The doctor hesitated, then looked the coroner in the eye and said, "No, sir, there is not. But this is the first time I've known an able-bodied man to inhale a lungful of water, then climb out of a pond and run twenty yards across a field before dropping dead."

  The gavel was pu
t to more use, then the coroner dismissed the medical expert and tried to sum up the evidence for the jury. He also spelled out the range of verdicts that they were permitted to give under the English law. It took the jurors a good six hours of wrangling to finally reach a conclusion, and when it was announced the verdict was so archaic and unusual that even the national press noticed it.

  'Death by the Visitation of God.'

  When she heard, Martha Grundy gave a derisive snort.

  "The Good Lord had nothing to do with it!"

  And that was the last time she spoke of the matter.

  Chapter 1: Publish or Perish

  Mark Stine loved to walk in Cambridge in the first light of a summer morning, when the ancient city was just coming to life. He got up just before six and, after a shave and a shower, left his cramped single-bed apartment in St Caedmon's College then strolled out onto streets that were almost deserted. The air was cool and fresh, the June sun was just breasting the rooftops, and Mark had the town almost to himself.

  Say what you like about the Brits, he thought, as he passed the beautiful 15th century college chapel, when they get something right, they really get it right.

  He walked through the midtown area, taking his time, knowing it was still ten minutes until his favorite cafe opened. He took the opportunity to check his phone again, but there were no new messages since he'd gotten up. Then one popped up, an email from an unfamiliar address. He dabbed at the screen to open it, but got an error message instead. He frowned, tried again. This time the message opened. All the email contained was a link. Mark hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. Then he deleted the email.

  Fallen for that one before and got some nasty malware, he thought. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

  "Excuse me, sir, could you spare some change?"

  He had been staring at his phone while walking, something he hated other people doing. He looked up to see that he had almost walked into a short, slender young woman. She looked tired, pale, her clothes worn and ill-matched. And she was wearing too many layers for a summer morning in southern England.