Curse of the Other World, part fifteen

Riverside Café, the student union's answer to a restaurant, was a permanently chilly room with a lowered section near the back, connected by a short flight of steps and looking out on a balcony that could only be reached from outside. The lower level was constantly occupied by a group of scraggly-haired students in big, black coats; most of whom kept them on despite being inside, because of the cool temperatures. The place looked like a poor man's fast food joint, and priced itself accordingly; hence it was a popular haunt for students who did not fancy sitting in the bar.

Sarah squeezed past a crowd at the entrance who were having a loud discussion about how their courses were not all they had hoped for, and looked around the small, round tables for Howard. She saw the masculine-looking woman sitting in a corner, dressed in a dark grey shirt and sporting a short, spiked haircut. Her hair was dyed platinum blond, as were her eyebrows. Her overall appearance was striking and, Sarah had to admit, it was quite a good look for her.

'I take it you've ordered already?' asked Sarah as she sat down, noting the number on a stick sat on the table, next to a pile of Howard's lecture notes. She slung her jacket over the barrier between the upper and lower areas, and slipped her satchel under the table.

'Yeah, I've been here a while already,' said Howard. 'I've only got one lecture on Mondays, so I've just been in here, going over my notes and trying to get my head around them.'

'What is it you're having trouble with?'

'Quantum mechanics.'

'Ah. I can't really help there.'

Howard laughed. 'You're the third person to say that to me. I'll pick it up eventually, I'm sure.'

'Have you talked to your tutor about it? They should be able to help.'

'I'm seeing him this afternoon at three. I just want to give it one more read through myself beforehand.'

'Fair enough. Well, I'm going to get some lunch. Want a coffee or something?'

'Got one already, thanks.'

Lunch passed with little more than small talk. Sarah picked at her pizza and tried to ignore the fact that much of it appeared to be made of grease from the cheap cheese topping, while Howard devoured her egg and chips like she had not eaten in weeks. How she managed to stay thin despite her appetite always amazed Sarah.

'So, what was it you wanted to talk about?' Howard eventually asked.

'Actually, I thought it was you who wanted to talk,' said Sarah. 'I got the impression last night that there was something bothering you.'

'Oh. Right,' Howard looked uncomfortable now. 'Well, err, I don't know if this is the right place.'

Sarah half wanted to tell her to forget it and move the conversation on to something else, but she contained herself. There was clearly something on the younger woman's mind and it would be best if she just let it out.

'It's okay,' she said. 'You can tell me anything.'

'Well, it's kind of private, you know?'

'Fair enough. If you ever want to talk, you know where my office is.'

Howard nodded. 'That might not be the best place to talk either. It might give the wrong impression, you know?'

Since the start of the Michelmass term, the first of the three terms making up each academic year at Durham University, Sarah had been President of its Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgendered students' association. Unlike most student society presidents, Sarah had a small office in the union building from where she could coordinate her society; liaise with both university and student union staff and meet students that were having problems with their sexuality or gender identity.

Most of the time, the office was staffed by volunteers from the society who had a free hour during the day, or some time to kill in the early evening before they went out to the pub, but occasionally Sarah would be confronted by a student with real problems, and those were the times she lived for. They gave her a chance to flex her counselling skills and sometimes, when there was a problem at the university level causing the student hassle, it also gave her an outlet for her constant desire to kick the world into shape.

Times like those were becoming few and far between since she had been able to convince the university and the union to have an LGBT association representative present at key meetings, to which she would often send a volunteer because meetings bored her, but she continued to live for the challenges wherever she could find them.

Howard put down her third cup of coffee with a determined thunk. 'Look, the thing is I've got this housemate, Liam, who's really been worrying me. He doesn't go to lectures much, doesn't talk to anyone in the house anymore and spends a lot of his time in his room. Now I know all that's kind of par for the course with some people but I've heard weird muttering and chanting when I've passed his door and that's the bit that's worrying me.'

'What sort of chanting?' asked Sarah. This was not the type of conversation she had been expecting but it had caught her interest nevertheless.

'I'm not sure. It's not English, I can tell you that much.'

'Do you think he's into the occult?'

Howard nodded. 'It's crossed my mind. I've done what protection spells I know of, but I'd appreciate it if someone with more experience could give me there opinion.'

'That's fair enough. I'll pop 'round tonight if you'd like?'

Howard smiled. Sarah could not help getting butterflies in her stomach when Howard smiled at her. The woman had such a bright smile, almost radiant; enhancing her already good looks. Sarah could not help but be attracted, current relationships notwithstanding.

Curse of the Other World, part fourteen

Chapter Six

Extract from Sarah Barclay's Diary

22^nd January 2000 – Second term of my second year and I'm really enjoying it. Settled back into uni life bettr than ever before. This place really feels like home, now; which is probably because I'm sharing a house this year rather than living in halls. Having my own place makes me feel far more settled. I love it! I just wish there weren't so many noises outside keeping me awake at night. I've looked out of the window to see what's going on out there when I hear voices and weird sounds in the street but I've never caught anyone yet. Maybe I'm just going a bit mad? I don't know. I'm probably overreacting, as usual.

Peter is spending a lot more time here lately, which is great. I really like him. I'm not sure if I like him in that way, but he's certainly grown on me over the last few months. He even came up to Coxton to see me over the holidays, which was nice. Daniel sent a card, but it's not the same. He said he had to work but I'm starting to think maybe we weren't cut out to be in a relationship.

1

The early morning light had hardly begun to reach over the tops of the three- and four-storey town houses on Hallgarth Street as Sarah pulled her aching body out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Her head pounded in time with her heartbeat; her neck and shoulders were tense and felt like she had been working out too much. The night before was supposed to have been a quiet night in, but then Howard and Peter had come to visit, bringing a couple of bottles of wine and some takeaway menus with them. It had all gone downhill from there.

'You look how I feel,' said Daniel as she passed him in the hallway.

'Remind me never to drink again,' she said. 'Aren't you up a little early? You don't have lectures until ten.'

'Couldn't sleep,' he said. 'Someone singing kept me up this time. I'm going to call the landlord before I head out. The windows obviously aren't sealing properly or we'd not be hearing this crap all the time.'

She wished him luck and stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Her arms ached as she took off her dressing gown and slipped out of her pyjamas. On the inside of her right thigh was a small bruise the size of her thumbnail. It was blue-black in the centre flowing into an odd tinge of green on the outer rim. She ran her finger over it, wondering where it had come from. It was painless to the touch. She paid it no more heed. Bruises came and went without warning in her experience; had done for years and would no doubt continue to do so.

Howard had wanted to talk to her about something the night before, but with everyone else there she had been too nervous, or maybe too embarrassed. Although she had only known the other woman properly for a few months, although she had recognised her in passing before that, they had become close; good friends, although not best friends. That title was still reserved for Daniel, even if they were drifting apart.

As she showered, she made a mental note to meet Howard for lunch. Maybe she could prize the details of whatever was bothering Howard from her then. She decided to send her a text when she got out of the shower, providing her fingers were working well enough to use the buttons on her mobile by then. The shower usually fixed that but of late it was taking longer and longer on a morning for her joints to un-seize themselves. Just the week before she had been late for morning lectures twice because she found it so hard to tie her shoelaces.

If it doesn't get better soon, I'll see the doctor, she decided. The last thing she needed was to end up crippled by arthritis by the time she was thirty, like her grandmother had. The signs were there, but she had often ignored them or dismissed them outright as her seeing things that were not there simply because of her family history.

Skipping breakfast because she felt so hungover, she threw on a pair of jeans and a creased black blouse, her favourite, fighting her stiff and mostly uncooperative fingers to fasten the buttons; then donned a long, black cardigan to finish off the outfit. After rummaging around under the bed for a good five minutes, she eventually found her shoes and was all set to head out to lectures. She kissed Daniel goodbye, wished him luck with the landlord and headed out to her first lecture of the day.

The morning passed in a slow procession of boredom and note-taking. A procession of lecturers who looked even more worse for wear than Sarah did came in, said their peace, asked if there were any questions then did their best not to look disappointed as the same people asked the same questions they had no doubt heard year after year. She wondered how these people coped, trying to teach subjects they had probably once had a real passion for, to people that mostly did not share their love. That was no way to live life, she decided.

Her satchel rang as she was walking to the university library. Hunting around desperately in its recesses, trying to find her mobile before the voicemail kicked in, she took the call on the last ring.

'Hiya!' said Howard, sounding far too happy for a Monday morning. 'Still up for lunch?'

'Of course,' Sarah replied. 'I've just got to check some books out at the library. Meet you in Riverside in half an hour?'

'I'll grab us a table.'

Curse of the Other World, part thirteen

3

'Let's go over what we know so far,' said Sarah. After a long, hot bath, more tablets than Peter had seen prescribed to any patient in his career, and three mugs of scalding hot tea, she was starting to look vaguely alive and even almost human.

'Where do you want to start? The trip to the hotel? That weird recording your friend sent you?'

'Hey, he was your friend too as I recall.'

'That was when I thought he was a she. I feel like I don't know who he is now.'

'Oh don't start with that judgemental shit.'

She stood up and made her way to the kitchen to make another pot of tea.

'Hey,' Peter called after her. 'I didn't mean it like that.'

'Do you want tea?' she called back.

'I've still got some here.'

'I've put another pot on, just in case,' she said as she came back into the lounge. 'Now, where were we.'

'You were avoiding the subject, I think.'

'Yes, well let's continue on that line shall we? You said the design at the hotel reminded you of something?'

'Ah, yes,' said Peter, leaning forward, his voice suddenly far more alert. 'I've not found it in your books or online yet but the magic circle thing did make me think of the reenactment we went to at Coxton one year.'

'The village's 900 year anniversary fête, wasn't it?' asked Sarah.

'That's it, yes. I can't fully remember what went on but there was something weird about the reenactment the historical society put on that evening. Some kind of pseudo-pagan rite. It made me feel very uncomfortable, I remember that much.'

Sarah nodded. 'I don't remember much of that whole day, but weren't there a load of robed figures doing something odd with an unprotected magick circle?'

'So you said, yes. I don't know anything about magic protection.'

Sarah nodded. 'Yeah, I'm sure of it. We'll have to look up what they were doing, and why. It's possible the squatters were doing something similar.'

Peter made a note in his notebook. Sarah waited until the sound of his scribbling finished before going on. The noise reminded her of the night before; that stritch-scritching outside, trying to get in. She shuddered.

'Are you all right?' asked Peter.

'I'm fine.'

'Well, if you're sure. What next?'

'The EVP,' she said, grasping the chance to get away from her silly fears. 'It mentioned something about a house without walls? I'd like to try to find more references to that. I'm certain I've heard it before.'

'There was nothing in the encyclopaedia about it. Maybe you misheard?'

She shook her head. 'No. The voice was too clear for that. I know it's important, I just don't remember why.'

'Okay,' said Peter. He wrote down another note. 'Want to try to find more about that Toth bloke as well?'

'Toth isn't a “bloke”, Peter. By the way, what did the encyclopaedia say about him?'

'Precious little. It's mainly about witch hunts and superstitions, isn't it?'

'Well, yes. Surely there was something, though?'

'Not a lot. It was mainly a summary but it did mention his followers wanting to bring him forth or something, because then they'd die first. Maybe that's what the squatters were doing?'

Sarah rested her chin on her hand, unconsciously massaging her jaw and upper lip with her fingers as she considered the idea. 'It's certainly possible,' she said. 'What did the magic circle look like again?'

Peter described it to her. She tried to picture it in her mind. Had she seen something like it before? She was not sure.

'Okay,' she said. 'Let's assume for a moment that the squatters were interested in Tsoth Nemorrah, whatever he is or whatever he's up to. If that's the case, the magic circle might have been part of a ritual to do with him. It would certainly explain some of the other EVP on the recording, wouldn't it?'

'The chanting and people saying “He comes”, you mean?'

'Exactly.'

'It also means we're in the clear, doesn't it?' Peter sounded almost hopeful.

Sarah looked at him for a moment, searching for any hint of confidence in the murky shadow of her vision. She wanted what he had said to be true as much as he likely did, but something in the back of her mind told her to press on with this. It could not be so simple, could it?

'I wish I could say yes,' she said. 'But I honestly think this is too good to be true.'

Peter slumped back in his chair with a sigh.

'What will it take to convince you that we're safe?' he asked. 'It's gone. Whoever or whatever this Tsoth thing is, it's obviously not the same thing we fought.'

'I know, I know,' she said, her tone almost pleading with him to bear with her. 'It's just that I have a gut feeling that there's more to this than we're seeing.'

'So where do we go from here? We can't call the others in on a hunch. They simply won't come. Hell, I wouldn't.'

Sarah nodded. 'I know. We need more evidence. We need to go back to where this all started.'

Curse of the Other World, part twelve

Chapter Five

1

Extract from Robbins' Encyclopaedia of Witchcraft and Demonology

Tsoth Nemorrah. Also known as Sothnem, Tothnerra, Tsoth, Nemra, Toosoth and variants thereon.

References to Tsoth Nemorah are many and conflicting. The earliest widely-accepted reference is in John Dee's Treatise on the Ancient Demons of Mesopotamia (believed to be written circa 1277), which describes Tothnerra the Unclean as “...a malevolent cloud-like being which lives outside of the spheres of man, ever watchful...” and claims (wrongly) that the Mesopotamians believed he was the original ruler of Earth, who was cast out by men who came to Earth from the stars.

Followers of Tothnerra are documented in Mustafa Faisal's infamous Wanderings (actual date of writing unknown but the general consensus is that it dates to the early fifteenth century). In Faisal's text, the followers are said to worship “the demon god of lies, who waits in the house without walls”. Tothnerra's followers are said to believe that their god is waiting for “the time when the curse of the other world will be lifted and He will retake his stolen throne”.

When this time will come is not known but Wanderings does go into great detail about the “plague of nightmares” and “unending seas of blood and madness” that will signal Tothnerra's imminent return. To this end, his followers are said to seek to kill, maim and torture all those who come into contact with them, in an attempt to fulfil their prophecy.

It is not known why Tothnerra's followers would seek to bring this monstrous creature to Earth but in The Death Cults of Tsoth Nemorrah, Dr Henry Carter claims to have spoken to several cultists who professed “a desire to die first, and die forever” when Tothnerra returned. Although Dr Carter's claims have never been independently verified, his theory that Tothnerran cults believe in guaranteed resurrection for all non-cultists for the purposes of eternal torture does arguably find some corroboration in both Faisal's Wanderings and Dee's Treatise.

The physical appearance, or potential lack thereof, of Tsoth Nemorrah is as widely disputed as his, or her, apparent gender and general demeanour. Most accounts make no attempt at a description of the creature. Although Wanderings does refer on occasion to a “skin of hardened leather”, it also describes “a hideous, evil cloud”.

Dee's Treatise on the Ancient Demons of Mesopotamia also refers to a cloud-like being but again, descriptions are conflicting as Dee also takes into account John Mercer's translation of the (as yet undated) Arab tale of the Whirling Devil with “teeth as black as night” and “a body festooned with horns, like studs on old leather armour”. Whether the Whirling Devil is a form Tsoth Nemorrah takes or is merely an associated entity is a topic of great debate by scholars to this day.

2

Peter woke with a stiff neck and an aching back. In his student days, and some of his time pulling long shifts as a trainee doctor, he had slept on many a sofa without ill effect, but it was clear to him that those days were long past. Age had not only finally caught up with him but was threatening to rush past and leave him struggling to keep up.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pulled himself into a sitting position; with great difficulty and a lot of grunting. His head ached, his mouth felt like old carpet and he desperately needed a drink.

Oh yes, he thought. Hair of the dog would shift this, no problem.

Even after all he had worked through, his mind still went to drink as the first and best solution to any problem. He hated that; hated himself for making it happen. It was his fault, his bad decisions, his stupidity that had lead to the bottle. There was no denying that.

The creak of the bedroom door opening pulled him out of his thoughts. Sarah staggered out of the bedroom, unsteady on her feet and still dressed in yesterday's clothes. Her skin was pale and waxy, save for dark rings around her eyes, and she held on to the wall like it was the only thing that was holding her up. He started to speak, to ask if she wanted breakfast, but she raised a hand to stop him; then staggered off toward the bathroom.

He filled the kettle to the sound of her vomiting and hoped the previous day's activities had not been too much for her. He was in no fit state this early in the morning to be looking after an ill woman, and certainly not one with Sarah's temperament. Still, perhaps tea would help.

Curse of the Other World, part ten

The majority of the recording was either the high-pitched chitter-chatter whistling of digitised white noise, or Sarah and Peter talking to James Pearlman about what they saw in Coxton Hall. After an initial listen-through, Sarah spent a while selecting key portions of the recording and splicing them together into a new file, while Peter made another pot of tea. 

The new recording contained five segments from the original. Spliced together, they lasted no more than a minute.

'Here we go,' said Sarah. She sipped her tea and tapped the mouse button, to play the new recording.

'GET … OuT … noW,' the harsh voice demanded.

Chatter played next. At first it had sounded like mere white noise, but Sarah had upped the volume on this segment before she pasted it in, and now it was clear there was a conversation here. Two people were talking, but what they were saying was unclear.

One of the the speakers howled in terror. The chatter stopped abruptly.

'Where was that from?' asked Peter.

Sarah tapped the mouse again and the recording paused. 'I can't tell you for certain but, based on where it shows up in our conversation, it would have been recorded as we were walking into the main dining room.'

'So that wail could have been whoever made this seeing us come in?'

Sarah shook her head. 'It's unlikely. Most of the time, what we hear isn't directed at us. It's more likely that we've picked up something that was going on in there anyway, or even just an echo of something that's happened in the past.'

'That first one certainly sounded like it was directed at us.'

Sarah nodded. 'Yeah. That one's the exception that proves the rule, as they say.'

She tapped the mouse again.

'TsoTH... NeMoRRah,' a husky voice cried. A stronger burst of static followed. 'The hoUSe... withOUT... WAlls!'

A drumbeat followed, with chanting. Although it sounded like Latin, Sarah could not make out what was being said.

'He COMES! HE CoMEs!' chanted a clearly female voice, filled with what sounded like religious fervour.

The recording ended. The room filled with silence.

Sarah sipped her tea, tapping her fingers on the side of the mug and considering what she had heard. Run together, it almost felt like the message would make sense, were she able to put the pieces together.

“Tsoth Nemorrah”, she thought. I've heard that before.

Peter took her hand, instantly derailing her train of thought.

'Can you not do that, please?' he asked. 'It's very annoying.'

She looked at him blankly. 'Do what?'

'That tap-tapping on your cup. It's stopping me thinking.'

'Oh,' she said, looking at the cloudy mix of colours that passed for her hands and mug of tea. 'I hadn't realised I was doing it. Sorry.'

'It's okay,' he said, his hand lingering on hers.

She turned back to the computer. 'So, any idea what these sounds mean?'

'No. The chanting was a bit odd. It sounded like some kind of ceremony, although the drums were a little odd.'

'Yeah. Any idea who or what Tsoth Nemmorah is?'

'Is that what they said? I couldn't work any of that bit out.'

Sarah shot him a quizzical look. 'I think so, yes. This isn't exactly an exact science but I'm getting pretty good at deciphering static voices.'

'I'll take your word for it. Listening to static isn't my thing, you know?'

She turned back to the computer and tried her best to keep a straight face as she brought up her web browser and ran a quick search for this mysterious name.

'Okay. I've got sixty-eight thousand hits for this thing. The first three reference a set of horror stories from the 1930s, and the fourth is about a heavy metal band.' She looked up at Peter, who was staring at the screen over her shoulder. 'This is going to take a while.'

He seemed to nod, although it could just as easily have been a trick of the light, and patted her on the shoulder. 'I'll grab some bedding and make up the sofa.'

2

Research was never Sarah's strong point. Focussing on one topic for any length of time inevitably lead to her mind wandering to other topics, and by the time she realised what was going on; she would have read two or three pages of whatever text she was supposed to be studying without actually taking in any of the information.

Looking up information on Tsoth Nemmorah was as bad as researching her doctoral thesis, if not worse. She could feel her back stiffening as she sat at her desk, her arms feeling like lead weights had replaced her bones. Each page was taking longer and longer to read as time went on; her mind becoming clouded and less able to concentrate on identifying the words on her screen amongst the other swirls of murky colour.

She rubbed her aching eyes, ignoring the pain in her fingers and her shoulder, and clicked on the next link.

Five minutes later, she called Peter out of the kitchen.

'Good grief, woman,' said Peter. 'You look haggard. Let me take over for a while.'

'I'm fine, stop worrying,' Sarah snapped. 'Anyway, I think I've found what we need.'

'What is it?'

'Remember those horror stories I mentioned?'

'Not exactly, no.'

Sarah shrugged. 'Well, that doesn't matter. It seems they were based on older texts. This site here talks about a collection of clay tablets unearthed at Cheddar Gorge in 1957. There's controversy over what they actually say but one of them is a bas relief that seems to match the description of someone called “Sothnemra the Demon King of Nightmares” in Robbins' Encyclopaedia of Witchcraft and Demonology; which explains why I thought I recognised the name. I've got a copy of that book around here somewhere.'

'Any idea where?'

'Most of my books are in boxes in the bottom of my wardrobe. You could try there.'

Curse of the Other World, part nine

He took her hand gently and helped her to her feet. She was still unsteady but the shaking had all but died away; which was a great relief.

'Sorry, I must seem like an utter fool now,' she said, half laughing through her nerves.

'Don't fret so much,' said Peter. 'You're under a lot of strain and with what we've seen today I don't blame you.'

She was not sure how to take his comments but decided that the last thing she needed at that moment was an argument, so she let it slide and sipped her tea instead. It was cooler than she would like, but she drank it anyway. Her mouth was dry, either from the shock or as a side effect of her medication, so the liquid helped.

In the corner, the computer bleeped. Sarah felt for the coffee table, put down her mug carefully and hurried over to her workstation.

'What was that?' asked Peter.

'I've got an alarm on the computer to alert me when certain people send me e-mails,' said Sarah, distractedly. 'Ah, it's from Howard.'

'You contacted her too? I thought you said you'd only called me.'

'He's a he now,' said Sarah as she brought up the e-mail. The text displayed in her usual magnified font. She read it quickly. 'Ah, he's finished processing the sound file I sent him.'

'Hang on, back up a minute,' said Peter. He sounded confused. Sarah rolled her eyes. She did not have the time for this.

'Can we discuss this later?' she asked. 'I think this is important.'

'Okay. What's the e-mail about, if you don't mind me asking?'

'I sent him a copy of the recording I made at the hotel and asked him to run it through his equipment for me. You know he's a sound engineer now? I was hoping his equipment would pick up something mine would miss.'

'And did it?'

'Apparently so. Turn on the speakers, would you?' she asked, pointing to the doorway. 'The amp is on a table behind the door.'

A high pitched wine made its way into her head without going through her ears. She hated that sound but there was little she could do to stop it, save for buying a new set of speakers and without a sudden pickup in the number of articles she could sell to the paranormal rags and occult websites, that was not going to happen any time soon.

The whine died down, the amplifier clicked noisily; telling her it was ready to receive a signal. She double-clicked on the file attached to Howard's e-mail.

A whistling sound like steam escaping through a broken kettle piped through the speakers, blurring into a digital chattering. For a moment it sounded like a hundred voices all talking at once, in another room.

'What is this?' asked Peter.

'White noise filtered through a load of digital effects to screen out background noise,' said Sarah. 'Just ignore it. Listen for anything that sounds like real speech.'

The chattering continued but now there was another sound. Plastic creaking, under pressure. The dictaphone casing creaking as she clipped it to her jeans.

'GET … OuT … noW.'

The voice was harsh and seemed to be formed out of the background chatter itself. It was as if someone with no means to make sound on their own had taken parts of the white noise on the dictaphone recording and played with them, enhancing the base of some, the treble on others and arranging them in such a way that the intended message would be heard, albeit in a synthetic and highly foreign to the ear manner, when played back.

Sarah felt for the mouse and quickly clicked on the pause icon.

'Did you just hear that?' she asked.

'I'm not sure,' said Peter. He sounded nervous. 'What do you think you heard?'

'A voice.'

'In that case, yes.'

'What did it say?' asked Sarah.

'I think it was “get out now” but I'm not certain.'

Sarah nodded slowly. 'That's what I heard, too.'

The floorboards creaked as Peter walked over to the armchair nearest to the computer table. 'What do you think it means?'

Sarah shrugged. 'Honestly, I don't know. I could be nothing, of course. This stuff often seems to be nothing more than random chatter and fake warnings.'

'So you've heard weird voices like this before?'

'Many times, yes. It's called Electronic Voice Phenomenon, or EVP for short. Like in that film with Michael Keaton?'

'Sorry, all I remember him from is Batman.'

Sarah rolled her eyes again. 'Your knowledge of modern cinema is sadly lacking.'

'Yeah, yeah. You're getting off topic now, love.'

'Hint taken,' said Sarah. She smiled, brushed a few stray hairs out of her eyes and turned back to the computer. 'Okay, let's just play it through and see if there's anything else on here.'

Curse of the Other World, part eight

Chapter Four

1

'Sarah,' said Peter. His voice was soft and low, almost as if he did not want to wake her.

He shook her shoulder gently. She stirred, but showed no sign of actually waking up.

'Sarah,' he repeated, this time with more force. 'Wake up, Sarah.'

She groaned. 'What?' she asked. She was clearly a little dazed. 'Where am I?'

'You're on your sofa. You fell asleep while I was scouring the Internet.'

'Oh. Right.'

She brushed some stray hairs out her eyes, then stopped suddenly, her hand still at her forehead.

'Hang on. How long have I been asleep?'

'About an hour.'

This news did not hit home well. She looked like someone had thrown a brick through her window, then asked for the brick back.

'Oh bloody hell,' she moaned. 'I've missed taking my tablets. No wonder I feel so bad.'

'Can I get you anything?'

She shook her head but even that looked like it took something out of her. 'No, it's okay. I'll deal with it. You go and put the kettle on, yeah?'

'Your wish is my command, madame.'

'Yeah, right,' she said as she fought her way to her feet and walked unsteadily out of the room. 'In that case, you can get me a million pounds and a golden egg while you're boiling the kettle.'

'You know what? I don't think I can manage that,' said Peter.

From the tone of his voice, Sarah got the impression that he was smiling. That was good, she thought. He needed to smile more. She was certain he had not smiled in a long time.

She struggled to her feet and followed him into the kitchen. At first her legs were cold and would not respond but she managed to massage enough life back into them that she could walk. She was unsteady, her body felt like it was weighted down with lead, and even the smallest of movements felt like her muscles were being torn apart, but she managed it.

She reached the 'fridge, cut herself a couple of chunks of cheese and ate them slowly while Peter busied himself making tea. She was no big fan of cheese, but it was a quick snack and she had to take her medication with food otherwise it would attack her stomach lining and make her even more ill.

'There's cheese in the 'fridge if you want any,' she said. 'I'll be back in a second, I just need to take my tablets.'

'Thanks. I'll take the teas through to the lounge.'

By the time she reached the bathroom, she was fully awake. Her head was full of cotton wool and she was groggy but that was all part of being ill and she had long since stopped taking any notice of such feelings. Instead, she concentrated on the tasks at hand: sifting through her e-mails, or writing articles for low-paying magazines, or whatever the day demanded in order for her to be able to pay the bills. Today the day demanded that she take her tablets quickly and the convince Peter that Coxton Hall was a problem that was worth pursuing.

She felt for the pull cord out of habit, and yanked it to turn on the light. The cord clicked but the room stayed dark. Great. Another problem to add to her ever-expanding list. Still, it hardly mattered to her. In the time she would be in the room, the energy-saving bulb would have little time to warm up; meaning what light it did give out would only serve to emphasise the murkiness of the shadows that made out what was left of her eyesight. She settled for swearing under her breath, yanking the cord again and then fumbling for the plastic box on her windowsill.

She ran her fingers over the rough lattice of square lids that made up the upper side of the box until she came to the one with the correct date on it; printed in Grade One Braille. She flicked open the lid, poured the tablets into the palm of her hand and swallowed them with a glass of water.

As she put the glass down on the sill, the scratching noises began again. It began directly below her, on the ground floor, on the wall she was facing. That was unusual. Normally, the scratching would begin on the wall by the door; like someone was trying to claw their way through the wall to get into the old Post Office. Maybe now they were trying a new tactic, going for a different wall in the hope of finding a weak spot?

Or maybe they're just trying to get to you.

She wanted to turn and run but she was rooted to the spot. The noise, that scritch-scritch, slow and steady, dug deep into her and froze her solid. Her hand remained fixed gripping the glass, shuddering under the strain as she gripped tighter and tighter, unable to let go.

What is wrong with you?

In her mind, she screamed at herself. This was not the woman she knew she was; or had been once. The woman she knew would not freeze in terror at the slightest of sounds. The woman she had been would have grabbed a torch, opened the window and found out what was going on outside. Hell, it was probably just rats getting into the empty shop below. The neighbourhood was on the verge of turning into a slum so rats were not outside the realms of possibility.

The scratching drew nearer but now there was another sound as well. A dull scraping noise, like heavy cloth being dragged along a dry stone wall. It was getting nearer, moving up the wall outside, coming right for her.

Oh shit! Oh shit. What is it? What the hell is out there?

Scritch ... scritch ... scritch ...

It was coming nearer! Her mind's eye filled in the picture for her. Something was out there, climbing the walls, scraping at the brickwork, trying to get into her house. Soon it would reach the window, and then what? What was out there? She wanted to run, but she could not. Her legs could not carry her that fast even if she could get them to move, but she was rooted to the spot. Fear and illness had conspired against her.

'Sarah, are you alright?' The voice came from the doorway behind her.

She screamed, and collapsed into a ball of terror. Torn between turning and confronting the newcomer and risking leaving her back open to whatever was outside, or staying facing the stranger outside and risking not seeing who was behind her, she elected to drop into the foetal position and tremble on the floor. She knew it was stupid, but she could not help herself. Her mind had conspired against her.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and screamed again, pushing herself away across the floor until her back was pressed against the wooden panels along the side of the bath.

'Get away from me!' she shouted. 'Stay back!'

'Sarah, it's me,' said Peter. 'What's gotten into you?'

'Peter?' she asked.

'Yes,' he said, reassuringly. 'It's okay. It's just me.'

She could feel herself shaking. Her bottom lip quivered. She did not want to cry in front of her friend, but some things just can't be helped.

'For fuck's sake, Peter. Don't scare me like that!' she pleaded.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It's just that you've been in here ages and I was getting concerned. What took you so long?'

'I thought I heard something outside,' she said. 'Someone trying to break in downstairs. I was listening in case they got inside.'

Peter was silent for a moment. The floorboards creaked over by the window and she guessed he was trying to see out through the frosted glass.

'Well, whoever was outside, they're gone now,' he said.

Sarah smiled an unconvincing smile. 'That's good news.'

'Here,' said Peter. 'Let me help you up. Maybe your tea won't have got too cold yet.'

Curse of the Other World, part seven

3

The day dragged by for Sarah. At first it had seemed like such a good idea to visit the faire, which had been advertised as a “fun day out for all the family” and was supposed to include many shows, including re-enactments of historical events of local significance, and performances by all kinds of local entertainers. There was going to be a hot air balloon ride, many stalls to browse around and a good friend to chat with, along with the possibility of winning a prize or two on some games. Sarah thought it it would be like being a kid again and being taken to the village fête in Bowlan, the village where she grew up.

But the hot air balloon was late in arriving and would not go up because of problems with the furnace, or some other excuse the operator gave whenever anyone asked him. The local “entertainers” turned out to be a comedian who was re-hashing material so old he must have written it before Sarah was born; a performing dog who had no interest in performing; and some dance routines performed by girls from the local junior school.

Suddenly, being a kid again would have its advantages, Sarah realised. The foremost advantage being that the standards by which she judged everything would be much lower, so perhaps the “entertainment” would not seem so bad.

An hour into the day and Sarah had found another way of lowering her expectations. She found the beer on sale in the drinks stall was warm, flat and difficult to hold down; while the spirits all burned the back of her throat, or made her feel sick, or both. The mead was just fine, however.

'Any more of that and you'll be paralytic,' said Howard as she helped Sarah to a seat in the corner of the marquee housing the drinks stall.

'Nonsense,' Sarah protested. 'I'll be fine.'

'If you say so.' Somehow Sarah did not believe she meant that.

'Where's Peter anyway?'

'Watching the historical society massacre an ancient pagan tradition.'

'You sound like you disapprove,' said Sarah. 'I never knew you were so judgmental.'

'What, and you don't?'

'I'm sure it's meant in the finest of educational … umm … somethingorothers. I've forgotten the word.'

'You're drunk,' said Howard, disapprovingly.

'See? I was right. You are disapproving. And you've had several yourself.'

'I was merely making an observation. Also, aren't you supposed to be driving Peter home?'

Sarah shook her head. 'I drove here but he's driving us back.'

Howard nodded. 'Fair enough.'

'Why do you care anyway?' asked Sarah. She sounded more aggressive than she had expected, and tried to tone it down. Best to attempt a modicum of decorum, after all. 'I thought you were all friendly with the bitch crowd and couldn't be seen with the likes of me.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Well, today is the first time you've spoken to me since I left PaganSoc, even though we're on the same course.'

Howard looked down at her plastic cup and said nothing. Sarah began to wonder if she had said the wrong thing.

'I suppose I'm just shy around people I like,' said Howard, uncertainly.

For a moment, Sarah wondered how to take that; the she decided it did not matter. Howard's choice of words was her own problem. Still, the girl seemed nervous now. It would probably be better to try to put her at ease.

'Hey,' she said. 'We've all been there. The thing is though, you've just got to bite the bullet and do what feels right, because if you don't everyone else will just step on you to get ahead.'

Howard nodded slowly but still sounded unsure of herself. 'Yeah, you're right.'

Sarah patted Howard on the shoulder. 'Come on,' she said. 'Let's go and find Peter.'

At six foot three and with dark skin, Peter was easy to spot amongst the crowd of short, pasty locals even though the light was fading. The two women weaved their way through the crowd and took up position on either side of their large friend; Sarah hooking her arm around his, Howard simply standing there with her hands in her pockets.

'Have we missed much?' asked Sarah.

'I think they're about to start,' said Peter.

The crowd formed a wide circle around what Sarah immediately recognised as a basic magic circle. Formed from a thin white rope and decorated, rather unnecessarily in Sarah's opinion, with glitter so the circle sparkled in the candlelight. On the northern side of the circle stood a large stone altar with a deep velvet cloth laid over it. Upon the altar stood two large candles, one gold, old green; while a tall lantern holding fat white candles stood at the south, east and west points.

The crowd on the other side of the circle parted and thirteen robed figures filed in, walking in procession around the circle to the south point, where they stepped inside. The first eleven took up position between the altar and the lanterns, the twelfth knelt to the left of the altar. The thirteenth, knelt at the altar with their head bowed for a moment, then stood; took up a knife from the velvet cloth and walked with a singularity of purpose to the eastern lantern.

Kneeling, the thirteenth figure raised the knife and chanted in Latin. Sarah worked hard to translate what the woman was saying.

'We hail the guardians of the East, the element of Air. I ask that you come forth to guard and protect this circle, and watch over this, our ritual.'

Sarah raised an eyebrow at this. The chant was similar to the one she would have used in her own rituals. It felt wrong to be watching this actor play out a mockery of her faith; and more wrong to stand by while someone who most likely did not know what they were doing called forth creatures over which they would have no control.

She quickly chanted her own protection spell under her breath and noticed Howard do the same.

'What are you two doing?' Peter whispered in her ear.

'Making sure we don't get hurt when these berks bit off more than they can chew.'

The thirteenth figure, a young woman with pale skin and dark hair if what Sarah could see of her in the candlelight was correct, moved on to the south, west and, finally, the north side of the altar and called forth the other three elementals. Sarah held her breath, half expecting screams of terror from the participants or the audience as something burst forth and devoured the actors. It would have been fitting, but also very unlikely.

Sarah watched with interest coupled with a strong sense of revulsion as the actors went through the motions of recreating a stereotypical pagan ritual. No doubt this had been what the Pagan Society had been roped into helping the historical society script, although Sarah wondered if they would have agreed if they had known how badly it would be acted. Those with speaking parts had clearly not rehearsed enough, and the others simply looked bored.

For the finale, the woman who had called the elements forth, and who Sarah had therefore dubbed the faux High Priestess, plunged her dagger into a dead chicken that was held by her would-be high Priest. The High Priest then poured the blood that poured form the poor bird into a wooden bowl on the altar while the faux High Priestess dropped to her knees, raised her arms in supplication and cried out in poorly-accented Latin.

'Lords, accept this offering as a show of our commitment to your cause,' the woman cried. 'And look favourably upon us, I beg of you, when your time of ascension comes around.'

'What on Earth is this crap?' muttered Sarah. By this point, the drink was starting to wear off and she could no longer contain her incredulity.

'I have no idea,' said Howard. 'It's not what I thought they were doing.'

'It's not?'

Howard shook her head. Although the evening light was growing dim and the candles were doing little to counter the encroaching darkness, Sarah could tell that the other woman was just as unhappy as her.

'I thought they were doing one of the solstice rituals,' said Howard. 'I spent an entire afternoon working one out for them, too. I don't know what this is all supposed to be.'

Sarah looked back at the circle. The faux High Priestess was daubing symbols on the foreheads of her coven in the blood of the dead chicken, while the High Priest burned the carcass in a metal dish on the altar. Around the circle, the crowd looked as uncomfortable watching this spectacle as she expected she did at that moment.

When the carcass was burned, the actors filed out of the circle by the southernmost point and disappeared into the crowd.

The other events had ended with polite clapping from the audience. This one ended with silence.