Gomorrah by Newton Webb

A Contemporary Supernatural Slasher Novella: A group of hedonistic friends having a Halloween rave in an abandoned vicarage awaken the spirit of a vengeful 16th-century Bishop.

Greetings, my wicked darlings,

Ah, Halloween. What a wonderful time! The parties, the celebrations, the fancy dress. It is when all the ghastly ghouls come out to play. This story was written for Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4. It is a particularly nasty tale that shows the perils of partying on hallowed ground.

So the next time you slip into a costume and pour yourself a cheeky drink, think of the consequences. There could be hell to pay.

Newt xx

Contents

1. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4 Pre-Order

2. Horror Story Compilations

3. FREE eBook: The Road Revenant

Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4 Pre-Order

Available in eBook and paperback, hardback coming soon.

Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.

Horror Story Compilations

Fill Your Kindle for All Hallows’ Eve: 101 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’

The Fiction Giveaway Extravaganza!: 68 FREE horror stories, including ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’.

FREE Halloween Horror: 33 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Doll House Killer’, ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘The Spinster’, ‘12 Minutes’, and ‘Gomorrah’, and ‘Ain’t Nothin’ But The Blues’.

Spooktober Sales: 56 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4.’

Gomorrah by Newton Webb

31st October 2018, Bodmin Moor, England

Content Warnings:

Graphic

Graphic Violence, Death, Abuse, Religious Horror, Sexual Violence

Moderate

Drug Use, LGBTQ+ Discrimination, Emotional Abuse & Trauma

Chapter One: Clara

The thick grey fog clung to the battered Ford Transit van as it bounced along the road. Bodmin Moor was a desolate expanse of gorse and granite. The ribbon of tarmac was barely wider than the van itself. Wiry, skeletal bushes scraped against the paintwork.

Inside, the fug of stale beer and damp upholstery condensed on the windows. Dean, the driver, had to keep wiping the inside of the windscreen with his now-sodden demister pad. On the stereo, the raw, sludgy chords of Heaven and Hell, by Black Sabbath filled the van. Its heavy dirge matched the oppressive gloom. Stacey, in the passenger seat, was headbanging.

“Turn that shite off,” Dean grumbled, his knuckles white on the wheel. “It’s giving me a headache.”

“And put on what? Your tapes are all Oasis and Coldplay.” Stacey turned the volume up. The tolling bell of the next track rang out.

Clara nodded along, wedged in the back between a cool box and a stack of sleeping bags. Stacey turned to face her and thrashed her head to the music, her eyes blissfully shut. A loose strand of hair fell across her face and Clara, without thinking, reached forward to brush it away. The gesture was automatic, a reflex honed over a decade of tidying up her sister's messes. Stacey grinned at her, then turned back to the front. Just three more days. Get her home in one piece, then Monday, the train. Durham. The thought was a lifeline.

Beside her, Owen stared out at the shifting grey landscape. He caught her eye in the reflection and offered a small, almost imperceptible grin. She liked Owen. He was the only one in the group with a splash of common sense.

Gary, his boyfriend, had absolutely none. Oblivious, he hunched over his phone and swore. The screen’s glow lit up his annoyed face.

“Anyone got signal?”

“No. I haven’t had signal since the motorway.” Owen put his phone back in his pocket.

“All right, party people,” Gary announced, twisting in his seat and holding up a small plastic baggie. “Who wants to get the party vibes started early?” Inside, a collection of yellow pills rustled.

Dean whooped. “Don’t mind if I do, Gazza. Pop one in.” He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue.

“Mind the road…” Stacey warned, as her beau flicked his gaze back, then turned again, eyes closed, tongue out.

“Hurry up,” he demanded.

Gary leaned in close, his face inches from Dean’s, the pill on the tip of his tongue. He leaned in, a predatory glint in his eye.

Dean flinched back. The van swerved.

“Get the fuck away from me, man,” he snarled, a flush creeping up his neck. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if clearing away a stain. “Just give me the pill, you freak.”

Gary placed his arm around Owen.

“You know what. You might be right. I think I might be a freak. A sexy freak.” He took out two pills and passed them to the front, where Stacey fed one to a sulking Dean and took one herself.

Stacey rubbed Dean’s arm, assuaging his wounded masculinity.

Gary offered the bag to Clara.

She shook her head.

“Come on, Clara. Live a little. Loosen up.” He blew her a kiss.

“Nah, I’m happy with alcohol. Drugs don’t do it for me.”

“Go on, sis, it’s just E.” Stacey danced with her shoulders. “Gary gets the best stuff.”

Owen popped a pill and swallowed it with a swig of beer. “Leave her alone. If she doesn’t want to take a pill, then she doesn’t want to take a pill.”

Dean scoffed from the front. “You know, a few cheekies might make you actually fun for once.”

“I am fun, you dick,” Clara retorted, a little too defensively. “Just because I don’t need chems to give me a personality doesn’t mean I’m boring.”

“Yeah, babes, whatever,” Dean snorted, turning back to Stacey.

Gary, giving a theatrical wink to Dean, popped a pill into his own mouth. He fumbled with a bottle of lukewarm Smirnoff Ice, winking at Dean, before passing it back to Clara.

“Well, at least have a drink, eh? Can’t say no to that.”

“That, I won’t refuse. Thanks.” She took it and had a long swig.

“Oh my God. This is shit. Will this journey never end? Are we there yet?” Gary continued staring at his phone, even without signal. “I need to piss and my arse has fallen asleep.”

“Nearly,” Dean snapped. “It’s up this track. Bishop Rowley’s Vicarage.” He steered the van through a pair of crumbling stone gateposts. The iron gates had long since rusted away. The track deteriorated into gravel, pocked with weeds and potholes that made the van lurch violently.

Suddenly, the engine coughed. A wet, pathetic sound. It spluttered again, then died. The van rolled forward another ten feet before coming to a stop. The music cut out. The headlights dimmed and went dark. Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of drizzle on the windscreen.

“What was that?” Stacey asked.

“Great van, mate.” Gary snorted.

Dean didn’t answer. He turned the key. Nothing. He tried again. A faint, defeated click. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Clara flinched at the sudden violence.

“Fucking piece of shit!”

“Can’t handle your machinery, Deano?” Gary chirped, finally looking up with a malicious grin.

Dean’s head snapped around, his face twisted with fury. “Shut your fucking mouth, you prick.” He threw open the door and stomped into the fog, slamming it behind him.

Stacey winced. “Don’t wind him up, Gaz.”

“Oh please. A bit of sass is good for my sanity.” Gary pocketed his phone. “Besides, his ego needs puncturing now and then.”

Clara watched Dean through the window. He kicked the tyre.

“Right,” Owen undid his seatbelt. “Let’s see what’s what.” He opened the side door and slid out, followed by Gary.

Clara took a deep breath and followed. The air was shockingly cold, smelling of wet earth and decay. The fog coiled around her ankles. Ahead, maybe fifty yards away, a dark shape loomed. A house. Gaunt, grey, and desolate, its form softened by the mist. Two storeys of granite, pockmarked by time, with window sockets like empty eyes. The Old Vicarage of Bishop Rowley.

Dean had the bonnet up, glaring at the engine as if he could intimidate it into life.

“Intermittent fault with the alternator,” he muttered.

“No signal here either,” Stacey said, holding her Nokia 8110 up to the sky.

Gary peered at her phone. “Not surprised. It’s a brick.”

“It is reliable, and stops me doomscrolling on social media.” Stacey raised an eyebrow. “So shut your face.”

Clara checked her phone. No signal either.

“How are you going to fix your shitty van with no signal, Dean?” Gary affected an innocent expression.

“It’s not a big deal,” Dean said, slamming the bonnet shut. His bravado was brittle. “We’re only like two miles from the main road. I’ll walk back in the morning and get the AA out. No big deal.” His gaze shifted to the house. “Come on. Let’s get the gear inside. No point standing in the rain.”

He grabbed a torch and marched toward the building, the beam slicing through the gloom. The others began hauling out boxes and bags. Clara hesitated, her feet rooted to the gravel. She looked from the dead van to the silent house.

This was her last party. A final, messy weekend before real life began. As she stood there in the mist, a prickle of awareness crawled up her spine. The feeling that she was being watched. She glanced around, but the fog swallowed everything, a suffocating white wall. An army could be hiding in the gorse, ten feet away, and she would never know.

“Oi, slowpoke, come on!” Dean yelled.

Chapter Two: Owen

The heavy oak door was locked with a chain. Dean pulled out a pair of bolt cutters.

“What are you doing?” Owen looked at the bolt cutters with trepidation.

“Chill out, babes. It isn’t breaking and entering. Look at it. Nobody’s been in here for decades.” Gary lit a spliff.

Dean freed the door. “Yeah, it’s abandoned. Nobody owns it.”

“You don’t know that,” Clara pointed out.

“Yeah, alright. Well, you two sit in the dead van. We’ll go inside and get our strut on.” Dean looked at Gary. “Plonkers.” The two of them laughed, then pulled on a huge iron doorknob. The ancient timbers groaned open on rusted hinges, releasing a breath of cold, stale air that smelled of damp plaster, rotting wood, and something cloying.

“Urgh, it stinks of mould.” Gary looked at his hands, cut from the rusted doorknob. “Yep. Definitely getting tetanus from that.”

Owen gingerly entered the house. He looked around with interest, dancing around the grime and avoiding the cobwebs. The ancient house was beautiful.

“Well,” Dean announced, stepping across the threshold and spreading his arms wide, “character, innit?” He swept the beam of his torch around the entrance hall. Twin staircases, their banisters thick with cobwebs, curled into the darkness on either side. Dust lay in a thick grey blanket over everything.

Between the staircases, a large, heavy bookcase, filled with crumbling books, had collapsed forward. Its contents were strewn across the floor. Behind it, a door had been exposed. It had clearly been meant to remain hidden. Made of thick, dark wood, almost black with age, it was reinforced with heavy iron bands like the staves of a barrel. A solid iron bar, rusted into its brackets, was wedged across it. The lock was a mass of fused, corroded metal.

“What do you reckon’s in there?” Gary asked, all trace of humour gone. He gave the door a hefty shove. It did not budge. He rattled the iron bar, but it was as solid as the stone wall it was bolted to. “Wine cellar? Or a dirty little sex dungeon?” He raised his eyebrows at Owen.

Gary whistled, a low, appreciative sound. “God, the texture. Owen, imagine a photoshoot here. All leather and grime.”

“That’s not the kind of dirty I was looking for,” Owen gave a shy smile.

“Oh really?” Gary picked him up by the waist, eliciting a squeal as he kissed him on the mouth.

When Owen had first met Gary, he had felt like a moth to his incendiary confidence. Owen had suffered from depression for most of his life. Gary was a firework. He was noise, muscles, and dazzling light. But Owen was beginning to realise that once the show was over, that was all there was to him. Gary was utterly shallow. Owen knew he was outgrowing him. He just wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet.

Besides, the sex remained magnificent.

Dean led them through a doorway to their left. It opened into what must have once been a drawing room. A collapsed sofa, its springs bursting through mouldy upholstery, sat beneath a dirt-streaked window. A grand fireplace, choked with rubble, dominated one wall.

“This’ll do,” Dean declared, kicking at a pile of fallen plaster. “Clear a space here for the decks. We can get a fire going.”

“I love it.” Stacey clung to Dean’s arm, her eyes wide. “It’s proper spooky.”

Owen left them and followed Gary into the room on the other side of the entrance hall, a dining room dominated by a long, heavy table coated in dust. A framed print of Christ hung crookedly on one wall, his eyes raised to the sky, pleading for forgiveness.

“Perfect,” Gary said, running a hand over the filthy tabletop. “We can rack up on this later.” He gave Owen a wink.

“Put down a mirror first. I don’t want to snort black mould.”

Gary picked Owen up and dumped him on the tabletop.

“My shorts!” Owen complained, before his voice was smothered by a kiss.

“We could do it right here.” Gary gave him a lecherous look. “Let Jesus watch, the dirty little bugger. Bet he loves it.”

Owen batted him away and leapt off the table, rubbing at his shorts, now covered in greasy black residue. “That’s gross.”

They moved on, their footsteps echoing on the stone flags. The kitchen was a nightmare of rust and filth. A huge cast-iron range cooker was webbed with orange corrosion. The floor was a mosaic of shattered porcelain and black mould.

“Charming,” Clara muttered, backing out of the doorway.

Upstairs was no better. Three bedrooms, each containing a rotten mattress, a warped dresser, and a collapsing wardrobe. A room at the end of the hall drew Owen’s attention. A study. The others followed him in.

A heavy desk stood with the window behind it. A large leather-bound Bible lay open upon it, its pages swollen and stained with water damage.

“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, (Exodus 22:18),’” Gary read from another plaque on the wall, snorting with laughter. “Bad news, Clara. He doesn’t like you.”

“You’re hilarious, Gary.” Clara gave him a withering look, and Owen smiled.

“Oh, look.” Dean reached down to grab a large tarnished silver crucifix, its wide base was engraved with a small crosses. “I’m having that.”

Gary, bored by the exploration, clapped his hands. The sound was unnaturally loud. Owen jumped. “Fuck this. Let’s get the party started.”

As the others filtered out, Owen stayed looking at a bronze bust of a severe-looking clergyman on the mantelpiece. Owen sidestepped from left to right while staring at it, its empty eyes seeming to follow him.

A small brass plaque beneath read: Bishop Silas Rowley.

Chapter Three: Stacey

Stacey bounced around the house, admiring its Gothic aesthetic.

Dean led the group back outside and was already barking orders, handing out speakers and bags of booze. Stacey knew he was on edge. She could feel his annoyance about the van breaking down like a static charge, a volatile energy that threatened to arc and strike at any moment. When he was like this, she knew his ego needed to be salved before he kicked off.

They hauled the equipment towards the front door, their breath pluming in the damp air. In the centre of what had once been a courtyard, now a dishevelled patch of gravel and weeds, stood the statue of Bishop Rowley. It was larger up close, imposing even with the bird mess staining its stone vestments. One hand was raised as if in judgement, the other clutched a heavy stone book. Its carved face was stern, its eyes blank but somehow furious.

"Well, hello there, your holiness," Gary said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He grabbed a lurid pink feather boa from a bag. "Don’t mind us. Just here to liven the place up a bit." With a clumsy flourish, he draped it around the Bishop’s stone shoulders.

Dean roared with laughter, a genuine, booming sound that momentarily broke the house’s spell. "Needs a bit of war paint, I reckon." He snatched Stacey’s makeup bag from her shoulder and rummaged until he found her favourite bright red lipstick. He leaned forward and scrawled clumsily on the statue’s smooth granite face, giving it an exaggerated cupid’s bow and rouged cheeks.

Stacey giggled, a bubble of nervous energy rising in her chest. It felt wrong, this casual desecration, but Dean was smiling. For the first time since the van had died, he looked happy. That was all that mattered.

"You are a dirty daddy, you are," Gary cackled, snatching the lipstick from Dean. In garish capitals, he daubed the word SLUT across the Bishop’s broad chest.

Even Owen cracked a smile. Only Clara stood apart, as always. She looked even more judgemental than the Bishop.

I hate you.

Even as she thought it, Stacey pursed her lips, recognising the lie. She’d never got on particularly well with her sister, but she did love Clara, in her own way. Even if she did have a stick up her butt.

They carried the last of the gear inside, pushing the heavy dining table against a wall to clear a space for a dance floor. Dean got the portable generator running with a roar, and soon the construction lights were flooding the room with a harsh, clinical glare, chasing the deepest shadows into the corners. He plugged in the sound system, and a moment later, a thumping, generic dance track pulsed through the vicarage, the bass vibrating through the flagstones.

The music was awful, but despite that, Stacey felt her shoulders relax. She found a bottle of Tesco vodka and poured herself a generous measure into a plastic cup, downing it in three quick swallows. The cheap vodka burned a welcome path down her throat.

She turned to grab the bag of crisps from the table, her back to the others. For a fraction of a second, the thumping music seemed to recede, the sound sucked into a vacuum. A pocket of intense cold formed around her, raising goosebumps on her bare arms. Then a voice whispered, a dry, sibilant sound directly in her ear.

"Sinner."

Stacey elbowed back hard, catching someone in the stomach, the plastic bag of crisps crushing in her hand. She had felt it, a puff of cold, dead air against her skin. She spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“What the hell?” Dean was rubbing his chest where she had struck him. “You stupid bint. What did I do to you?”

He gave her another look, then headed over to help Gary set up the lights. Clara was talking to Owen in a corner, her back turned. No one else was there. No one could have been there.

"You made me jump." Stacey looked around, trying to spot anyone else.

"What? I was just minding my own business, you daft cow."

"You whispered in my ear!"

Dean laughed, a dismissive, ugly sound. "You are hearing voices, you div. Or maybe the Bishop wants more lippy."

Stacey forced a laugh. She was being stupid, letting Clara’s negativity get to her. She poured another drink, her hand shaking almost imperceptibly, and downed it faster than the first. The vodka did its job, luring her towards the makeshift dance floor and plastering a wide, bright smile on her face. She danced, her movements frantic, her laughter too loud.

Bring on the drugs. This house is freaking me out.

Chapter Four: Owen

“Want to go for a wander?” Gary winked at him suggestively.

A huge smile spread across Owen’s face. “Sure. Lead on.”

The chaos of the makeshift dance floor faded behind them, the relentless acid house music thumping like a distant heartbeat. In the main corridor, the air grew colder with every step they took away from the fire. A damp, cellar-like chill wicked the warmth from Owen’s skin, raising goosebumps on his exposed arms. Gary’s torch beam sliced through the darkness, a blade of yellow light that caught swirling dust motes and traced the leprous peeling of the wallpaper.

“That’s better. A bit of privacy.” Gary stepped close. He pressed Owen back against the cold, grimy wall and pulled him into a deep kiss, their mouths tasting of vodka, tequila, and weed. Gary’s hand stroked over Owen’s smooth stomach, a familiar, possessive gesture. For a moment, Owen let himself get lost in it.

Gary was, without a doubt, a hurricane of bad decisions. But he was Owen’s hurricane.

“Upstairs?” Gary gestured towards the staircase.

Owen nodded eagerly. Their footsteps echoed on the ancient floorboards.

“At the end of the corridor... come on, let’s go back to the creepy study. I bet you aren’t boy enough to be fucked in there.”

Gary led him down the hall and into the study. He turned to Owen and bent him over the desk. Filthy dust marred Owen’s hands as Gary pinned him there. Owen found himself facing the bust of Bishop Rowley, whose features in the dark seemed almost demonic. Gary gripped Owen’s hair, turning his face towards him, a lascivious look in his eyes. He kissed him hard, his other hand moving to his throat, choking him just enough to make his head spin. When they paused for air, Owen looked into Gary’s dilated pupils. The party-boy glaze now seemed manic in the torchlight.

Lust bubbled under the surface, but Owen had to know.

“Gary…”

“Yes, mate?” Gary leaned in to kiss him again, but Owen held his ground.

“Did you spike Clara’s drink?”

“Really? Now?” Gary’s face fell. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t kill the mood.” He reached down, grabbing at Owen’s groin. “Don’t talk about that bitch.”

Bastard. I knew it.

The confirmation landed like a punch in Owen’s gut.

“Her eyes are like dinner plates, Gary. And I know for a fact she doesn’t do drugs.”

Gary pulled away fully, throwing his hands up. “She is boring as fuck, mate. I was just helping her out. She had a face like a dropped pie.” He looked Owen in the eye. “She’s having a great time now, isn’t she?”

Owen shook his head, the disapproval clear on his face.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, mate.” Gary’s patience snapped. He released Owen’s hair and pushed him down against the cold, damp desk. “Forget about her. It’s Halloween. It’s midnight. And we have a room to ourselves.”

Owen fell silent. He surrendered to the moment, a familiar and shameful resignation washing over him. He allowed Gary to undo his belt and fly. The rasp of the zip was loud in the silence. He heard the wet sound of Gary spitting into his palm. He closed his eyes and braced himself, wincing as Gary entered him, rough and clumsily.

“Gentle,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Behind him, Gary built up to a quick, savage rhythm, his breath hot on Owen’s neck. Then, just as Owen was starting to enjoy himself, a voice growled in his ear.

“Sinner.”

Owen felt the grip on him suddenly release. There was a sharp pain as Gary pulled out. Owen gasped.

“I said gentle!”

There was no response. He heard the scuffing of boots on the floor. Then he was left with the suffocating silence of the room. The thud of the bass from downstairs seemed a world away. He waited a moment, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“What the fuck, Gary?” he whispered into the darkness. “Gary?”

Nothing. Not a footstep, not a breath.

Bastard.

The anger came first, hot and sharp. He waited another beat, then another. The silence stretched into something heavy and unnatural. Annoyance curdled into a cold unease. Owen stood, fumbling with his belt, his heart pounding. The silence was absolute.

He called out, “Gary?” His voice was a thin tremor in the oppressive dark.

No answer.

“This isn’t funny.”

He stood alone in the pitch-black room, the darkness total without Gary’s torch. He felt sore and violated. A bitter frustration rose in his throat.

We are done. We are over.

Owen waited another beat, then another, the silence stretching out. "This isn't funny," he whispered, his voice a thin tremor in the oppressive dark.

He turned, fumbling with his belt. His phone's torch beam trembled as he swept it across the study. The room was empty.

BANG.

The study door slammed shut.

His phone torch flickered and then shut down.

Chapter Five: Dean

The speakers throbbed with a relentless, gut-churning acid house beat, punching up through the flagstones and into the soles of his boots. It vibrated in his teeth and shook dust from the ceiling in a fine, ghostly rain.

Perfect.

He took a final, deep drag from the spliff, the smoke scalding his lungs, and surveyed his kingdom of chaos, shirtless and sweating. Cans lay crushed like spent shells, and a slick of spilled cider caught the lurid green of a glowstick, shimmering like toxic waste.

He loved it. No, he needed it. He hadn’t told anyone, but two weeks ago, he’d lost his job when they’d ‘randomly’ chosen him for drug testing twice in a row.

Random? Over five hundred employees and they pick me twice in a row. That’s discrimination.

He slammed back a tequila.

The air was humid with their breath, the cloying sweetness of cheap cider, and the faint, acrid tang of sweat and weed. This was exactly what he needed.

He leered at Stacey, dancing wildly, looking gorgeous in a black crop top and leather mini skirt, her jacket long discarded. Then his eyes caught Clara, dancing with uncharacteristic abandon, her movements loose and fluid. Sneering, he quickly looked away as she caught his gaze. She was watching him. She was always watching him. He remembered her face when Stacey had shown off her new tattoo last month. That pinched, sour look. As if Stacey had personally offended her by marking her own skin.

Dumb bitch.

She was dead weight, a human wet blanket who existed only to bring down the mood and spout left-wing bollocks.

‘You can’t say that, Dean. That’s problematic.’

He mentally mimicked her prim, pathetic voice and snorted. He took a final, deep drag from the spliff, dropped the stub, and ground it into the filthy floor with his boot.

His grin widened as Owen reappeared in the doorway, a slender shadow against the deeper dark of the corridor.

"Oi oi! Where’s the big man?" Dean called out over the music.

Owen’s face was white. He ignored Dean completely, stalking over to the makeshift bar.

"I… want to go home." He downed a slug of vodka. "Where is he? Gary?"

Dean pouted theatrically, waving his hand in a camp gesture and speaking in a sing-song voice.

"Have the gays had a little tiff?"

"The ‘gays’ are over." Owen foraged through the bottles until he found the tequila Dean had been drinking. He poured a shot and slammed it back in one violent motion. "And this house can fuck off."

Dean sneered at Owen. He could see tears pricking in his eyes.

Bunch of bloody women, the lot of them. Don’t see me crying about my problems.

"Are you alright, mate?" Clara danced over, her movements a little too jerky, her eyes a little too wide. She wrapped her arms around Owen in a hug.

"No, we are not doing this. This isn’t Jeremy Kyle. Don’t bring the mood down," Dean interrupted, striding over. The party was just taking off and now the bints were turning it into a therapy session. "They’ll be fine. They’re just being dramatic." He went to clap Owen on the back in a show of blokey solidarity. "You’ll be alright!"

"Don’t touch me," Owen snapped, shying away as if from a hot iron.

Dean recoiled, holding his hands up. "Alright, alright. Chill out."

Clara looked at Dean, her arms still wrapped around Owen. "Can’t you see he’s upset?"

"Oh come on. I don’t give a shit about their little squabble, babes. It is what gays do." Dean’s patience was wearing thin. This was his party, and they were ruining it. "Look, Stace, Gary’s got the drugs. All of them. If he’s wandered off into the fucking moor, then this party is going to get real shit, real fast."

"You know, you can have a good time without drugs," Clara retorted, raising her eyebrows at him pointedly.

Dean erupted into a barking laugh, loud and cruel. He pointed a finger at her.

"Oh, that’s a good one. That is rich, coming from you. This is the first time I’ve seen you have a good time since I met you. You know why?" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial sneer. "Check your eyes, babes. Gary slipped you an E, didn’t he? You’ve been hopped up on drugs this whole time, you fucking idiot."

"Dean!" Stacey gasped, glaring at him. "That’s my sister you’re talking about."

But the damage was done. The euphoric haze in Clara’s eyes dissolved, replaced by dawning horror. Her face went slack, the colour draining from her cheeks. She stared at Dean, then at her own hands.

Without a word, she turned and fled the room, a choked sob echoing behind her. Stacey shot Dean a furious look before hurrying after her sister.

Owen lingered for a second, his expression one of utter contempt. He gave Dean a final, withering look before turning and following them, leaving Dean alone in the centre of the room.

"Wonderful! Well done trashing the mood, guys!" Dean shouted into the empty corridor. The acid house music pounded on, suddenly sounding hollow and obnoxious in the empty space.

Pricks.

He stood there for a moment, fuming, the coloured lights flashing over his bare chest. The entire vibe was ruined. All because of them. Because Gary was a drama queen and Owen and Clara were miserable, fucking bastards.

He stomped over to the drinks, grabbed a fresh beer, and levered the cap off against the edge of the fireplace. The hiss of gas from the beer was loud in the sudden quiet. He took a long, angry swig, the cold liquid doing little to cool the fury in his gut.

A couple of lines will get this party back on track.

He strode out into the main corridor, his phone’s torch beam cutting a nervous path through the oppressive dark. The house felt different now that he was alone.

A voice hissed from the darkness behind him. A dry, rasping sound, like dead leaves.

"Sinner."

Dean stopped. A flicker of genuine unease tightened the muscles in his neck. He shook it off with a sneer.

"Ha ha, very funny, you pillock," he called into the gloom, turning. "Where are the drugs, Gary? The party’s dying on its arse out—"

The words died in his throat.

It was not Gary.

A shape stood at the far end of the hall, a pillar of absolute blackness that drank the beam of his torch. It was too tall, its form impossibly gaunt beneath what looked like tattered robes. And from the place where its head should be, two points of light burned with a cold, malevolent fire.

Dean’s bravado evaporated, replaced by a primal dread that turned his blood to ice. The beer bottle slipped from his numb fingers and shattered on the flagstones. He tried to run, to scream, to do anything, but his legs were rooted to the spot, turned to lead. His throat was clamped tight with terror.

The thing moved. It did not walk. It flowed towards him, a silent, unstoppable tide of darkness.

In a last, desperate act of defiance, Dean snatched another empty bottle from the floor and hurled it. It flew straight at the creature’s chest and passed directly through it as if through smoke, shattering against the far wall. The sound echoed, loud and final, in the suffocating silence.

Before Dean could even process what he had seen, it was on him. A skeletal hand closed around his throat.

He was lifted from the floor as if he were a child. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a choked, wet gasp escaped. His feet kicked uselessly in the air. The spectral form coalesced in front of him, and he saw it clearly. The decaying, hateful face of Bishop Rowley, the garish pink feather boa still draped around its neck. Its lips, smeared with the crude red lipstick they had drawn on the statue, cracked open to reveal a maw of needle-like teeth.

"Sinner," it hissed.

Dean’s world became a blur of terror and motion as he was dragged, kicking and gagging, across the hall. His boots scraped helplessly against the stone flags. He saw the ruined bookcase, the splintered wood, and the dark, forbidding cellar door behind it.

The door had opened.

The last thing Dean knew was the feeling of being pulled down, down into the cold, waiting dark.

Chapter Six: Stacey

The drizzle had started again. A fine, persistent mist clung to everything, making the air feel even colder than it was. Stacey found her sister huddled on the stone steps by the main door, her knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her shoulders shook with quiet, miserable sobs. In front of her, the lurid pink of Gary’s feather boa was draped over the Bishop’s statue. He stood with his back turned to them, as if in contempt.

"Clara? What are you doing out here? You’ll catch your death."

Clara did not look up. Her voice was a choked whisper. "The fucker drugged me, Stace."

Stacey sat. The cold of the wet stone seeped instantly through her miniskirt. She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. "It’s alright." She went to put an arm around her sister’s trembling shoulders.

Clara jerked her arm away. "It’s not alright. It’s absolutely not alright. Why can’t you see that?"

"It was just one pill." Stacey exhaled.

"That’s not the point."

"It’s only ecstasy. Look, five minutes ago you were having the best time I’ve ever seen you have. You were actually smiling."

Clara finally lifted her head. Her face was a mess of smudged mascara and tear tracks. "Oh piss off, Stacey. I came here to protect you from them. Why do you always take their side?"

"It’s not like that. He was just trying to help you loosen up," Stacey insisted. Her voice had turned wheedling. It was the same tone she used on Dean when he was in one of his moods. "You’re always so serious. Gary was just... being Gary. You know what he’s like."

"That’s not an excuse," Clara shot back, pulling away from Stacey’s touch. "He violated my trust. And Dean..." She spat the name like something foul. "Dean just stood there and laughed. He thought it was hilarious."

"Dean was just winding you up," Stacey said, a defensive edge creeping into her voice. "He doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just banter." She stood up and brushed the damp grit from her knees. Her butt was sodden now. She was losing patience. Clara had taken a pill. She had had a good time. Now she knew about it, she was having a bad time. The problem was not the pill. The problem was the knowing. "Honestly, you’re making such a big deal out of nothing."

"Nothing?" Clara’s voice cracked. "My own sister is defending the man who laughed about me being drugged against my will." She looked up at Stacey, her expression one of profound disappointment. It was a look Stacey had seen many times before. A look she hated. It was demeaning and patronising.

Before Stacey could form a reply, footsteps crunched on the gravel behind them. Owen appeared out of the gloom, his face etched with concern. He crouched beside Clara.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentle. He looked at Stacey. "Do you get the impression we’re dating a pair of arseholes?"

Clara’s tough façade crumbled under the simple weight of his kindness. A fresh wave of sobs wracked her body. "He told you?"

"He didn’t have to. I saw your eyes and confronted him," Owen said. His voice was low and full of contempt. "He’s a selfish prick. What he did... it’s not okay."

Stacey stood awkwardly, watching them. She felt a prickle of resentment. It was easy for Owen. He wasn’t the one who had to live with Clara’s suffocating righteousness day in and day out.

She’s probably loving this. Another reason to hate him.

Just then, a sound cut through the quiet night from inside the house. It was Dean’s laugh. Not his usual boisterous roar, but something different. A high, mocking shriek, sharp with cruelty. It was cut short by a loud, resonant crash of metal on stone. A horrible, final-sounding noise.

Clara flinched. Owen looked up towards the house, his expression hardening.

Stacey shook her head and rubbed her temples, her jaw clenched. The last dregs of the cocaine were wearing off. A thudding headache was starting. She needed to top off the booze or the hangover would start early.

"Right." Her voice was brittle. "I’d better go and check the idiot hasn’t brought the whole house down."

She did not wait for a response. She turned her back on her crying sister and walked towards the vicarage.

Hopefully Dean’s found the stash.

She paused for a moment, guilt flitting across her consciousness, before continuing.

Why does she always end up antagonising people. Why can’t she just be happy.

The thumping bass hit her as soon as she stepped back through the heavy oak door.

The main room was empty.

Empty bottles and crushed cans littered the flagstones like spent cartridges. A half-eaten bag of crisps lay spilled across the floor, its greasy contents catching the light. The coloured disco lights still swept across the room, flashing over the debris in garish strobes of pink, blue, and green.

Yep. The party is dead. Well done, everyone.

The fire in the grand hearth had died down to a pile of sullen, glowing embers that pulsed weakly in the gloom.

Where the hell are the boys?

"Dean?" Her voice sounded small and thin, swallowed by the music.

Whump-whump-tzzzzt. Whump-whump-tzzzzt.

With a surge of irritation, she strode over to the mixing desk and hit the rocker switch.

Silence. Now all she could hear was the frantic thumping of her own heart and the distant sound of her sister outside.

"Dean?" she called again, louder this time. "Gary? This isn’t funny."

Only the echo of her own voice answered.

She pulled out her phone, her thumb fumbling with the screen to turn on the torch. The glow fought to cut through the darkness, making the shadows at the edges of the room seem deeper, more absolute. She swept the light across the empty sofas, the makeshift bar, the dead fireplace. Nothing.

She moved out of the party room and into the corridor, the torch beam bouncing ahead of her. She peered into the ruined kitchen. Empty. She walked towards the back of the house, towards the study where Dean had found the plaque.

"Dean, if this is a joke, I’m going to kill you," she muttered.

She pushed open the study door. The beam of her phone’s torch panned across the room, over the scattered, water-damaged books and the overturned bust of Bishop Rowley. Then it fell upon a dark, wet smear on the floorboards near the far wall.

It was blood.

A thick, arterial red that soaked into the porous, grimy wood. Her heart gave a painful lurch.

The clumsy oaf has fallen over. Cut himself on something.

She followed the smear. It led to the small, heavy door beneath the main staircase.

The door Owen and Gary had found earlier.

The door that had been barred shut.

It was ajar. A sliver of profound blackness gaped in the gap. The trail of blood led directly to it. A cold dread uncoiled in her stomach.

"Dean?" She waited. He didn’t reply.

She pulled the heavy door. It swung outwards with a low, grinding groan.

A wave of cold, stagnant air washed over her. It was thick with the smells of damp earth, rust, and something else. Something metallic and sweet that made her stomach clench. Her phone’s torch revealed a set of steep, narrow stone steps descending into the darkness. They were worn smooth by age. Holding her phone out in front of her like a talisman, she started down, one slow, deliberate step at a time.

Each step took her deeper into the cold, the silence, the awful smell. The air grew heavy, pressing in on her. At the bottom, the steps opened into a small, vaulted chamber.

Her torch beam slid across damp stone walls, slick with a greenish slime. It caught the glint of rusted metal. Chains hung from the walls, ending in heavy manacles.

What the fuck?

The beam found a boot. Dean’s boot. It was covered with blood.

No, no, no.

The light played up from the boot and found Dean slumped in a heavy, throne-like wooden chair in the centre of the room. His wrists were locked into thick rust coated iron cuffs bolted to the arms of the chair. His head was thrown back at an unnatural angle, his mouth wide open in a silent, final scream. His eyes, once so full of life, were glassy and vacant. The tarnished silver crucifix he had found upstairs, the one he had joked about being worth something, had been hammered violently into his mouth. The crossbeam was wedged between his jaws, and the wide base had been driven so far down his throat it had shattered his teeth. Broken, bloody fragments sprayed across his chin and chest.

A gasp, thin and wet, escaped Stacey’s throat. She stumbled backwards, her leg bumping into something else. She swung the light around, a choked sob catching in her throat.

Gary.

He was mounted on the wooden rack, his arms and legs stretched taut, his back arched in agony. He was naked. His face was a contorted mask of unimaginable horror, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling as if he had seen the face of hell itself. A grotesque iron device had been inserted into his rectum. His anus had been brutally expanded from within, tearing him open. His torn body spilled out onto the blood-soaked wood beneath him.

A choked scream clawed its way up Stacey’s throat. It emerged as a strangled gasp. Her breath seized. Her vision tunnelled. The horrific tableau of her dead boyfriend and his butchered friend swam in a dizzying vortex of light and shadow. The phone slipped from her nerveless fingers, clattering onto the stone floor. Its beam now pointed uselessly at the ceiling, casting the monstrous scene into a hellish twilight.

Panic finally broke through her paralysis. She scrambled for her phone, her hands shaking so badly she could barely grasp it. She snatched it up. The beam of light danced wildly across the walls, the ceiling, the dead men.

Then the light caught movement.

In the deepest, darkest corner of the room, a shadow detached itself from the others. A tall, gaunt shape unfolded from the gloom. It straightened to its full, terrifying height. A skeletal figure draped in the tattered, mouldering remnants of clerical robes. Desiccated, parchment-like skin stretched taut over a framework of sharp bones. Its face was a skull. Its eye sockets were two pits of fathomless darkness, from which burned two points of incandescent, malevolent light. Around its skeletal neck, in a gesture of grotesque mockery, was the lurid pink feather boa Gary had draped on the statue outside.

The Bishop.

Stacey was frozen, pinned in place by terror. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.

She could not breathe.

She could not move.

She could only watch as the creature raised a long, skeletal finger. Its head shook in condemnation. Its eyes burned.

"Sinner," it growled.

With a speed that defied its desiccated form, the apparition lunged at her. Before Stacey could even think to scream, its cold, impossibly strong hands were on her. The touch leached the warmth from her body.

She was lifted from her feet as if she weighed nothing. Helpless, paralysed with fear, she gurgled as it carried her towards the far wall, where a large, ancient wooden cross was bolted to the stone. It was dark with old bloodstains. Two thick, rusted nails, their points sharpened and smeared with black, dried blood, were already hammered part-way through the crossbeam, waiting for her.

It slammed her against the rough wood. The impact knocked the last of the air from her lungs. He bound her wrists to the cross with thick leather straps, pulling them so tight they bit into her skin, ensuring she could not rip her impaled hands free. The Bishop raised her left hand, aligning her wrist with the waiting nail.

The searing pain finally broke her silence. A raw, piercing scream ripped from her throat as with unnatural strength he drove the nail through flesh and bone. The pain was absolute, eclipsing everything.

Before she could begin to process the agony, he seized her other hand and slammed it down.

Chapter Seven: Clara

The fine, cold drizzle had soaked through Clara’s thin jacket, but she barely registered it. She huddled on the wet stone steps, her arm around Owen, both of them reflecting on the disastrous night. The world had narrowed to the damp gravel, the skeletal trees, and the pink feather boa draped over the Bishop’s stony shoulders.

"I shouldn’t have bothered." A small puff of steam punctuated Clara’s sentence. "I knew this would be a disaster."

"It's not your fault." Owen’s voice was numb, hollowed out by his own regrets. "You can’t stop Stacey being Stacey. Just like I can’t stop—"

They were silenced by a scream.

Not a shriek of surprise, nor a cry of drunken laughter. A raw, piercing scream of pure terror that ripped through the night.

Stacey.

In an instant, the lingering effects of the alcohol and drugs vanished, burned away by a white-hot surge of adrenaline. Every fraternal, protective instinct in Clara’s body screamed to life. A cold, predatory calm settled over her.

Dean.

He had better not have hurt her.

"Wait here," Owen commanded, his voice tight as he clambered to his feet.

But Clara was already running. She ignored Owen, sprinting into the house, a black maw of darkness. She plunged inside, her heart hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against her ribs. The party room was silent now, the generator having finally died, plunging the space into a tomb-like quiet.

"Stacey!" she yelled, her voice echoing unnaturally in the derelict house.

There was no answer. Only the sound of her own ragged breathing.

Then she heard it. A muffled, guttural sob, followed by a wet, choking noise that turned her stomach to ice. It was coming from the cellar.

She ran back to the main entrance, her trainers skidding on the grimy floor. The door under the staircase, the door that had been rusted shut, now stood ajar. A sliver of darkness was visible in the gap. The bookcase that had partially covered it was in splinters.

The beam from her phone’s torch, shaking in her hand, found the smear of blood on the floorboards immediately. It was a dark, glistening slug trail that led directly to the open door and down into the foetid darkness below.

Owen appeared at her shoulder. He looked at the blood. “Don’t go down there. We should get a crowbar, hammer or something from the van first.”

“What?” She looked at him, breathing heavily.

“It could be dangerous,” he said quietly.

Clara disregarded him. She flew down the narrow stone steps, her phone held out in front of her. The air grew heavy, pressing in on her, thick with the coppery, visceral stench of blood, faeces and viscera that made her gag. Her torch beam cut through the gloom, and the scene from a nightmare resolved itself before her eyes.

The beam slid across damp stone walls, slick with a greenish slime, and found the corpses of the dead party goers.

Clara’s breath hitched. A wave of nausea washed over her. She forced herself to look away, sweeping the beam further into the chamber. The bile rose in her throat, hot and acidic.

But her eyes were drawn past the slaughter, to the far wall.

"Oh, God. Stacey."

Her sister was nailed to a huge wooden cross. Her head slumped forward, her blonde hair matted with sweat and blood, plastered to her mewling face. Her hands, impaled by thick, rusted nails, were bound to the crossbeam with thick leather straps. She was whimpering, a low, continuous sound of unbearable pain.

"Stacey!" Clara scrambled over to her, abandoning Owen at the foot of the stairs. She clawed at the leather bindings. "What happened? Who did this?" The straps were pulled brutally tight, the knots wet and slick with blood, impossibly firm. She pulled and tugged, her fingernails scraping uselessly against the thick, stiff hide. They bent and broke, sending sharp pains up her fingers, but she barely felt it.

Stacey lifted her head weakly, a flicker of awareness in her pain-glazed eyes. Then her head jerked up. Her eyes widened, focusing on something behind Clara. She began to struggle against her bonds, a fresh wave of terror giving her strength.

Clara froze, her hands still on the bloody leather straps. A cold dread, colder than the grave, washed over her. She could feel a presence at her back. A patch of absolute cold in the already frigid air.

Slowly, she turned.

It stood in the deepest shadows near the base of the stairs, a tall, gaunt figure coalescing from the darkness. Its clerical robes were rags, reeking of grave mould and damp earth. Its jaw elongated, distending. Red lipstick bordered a mouth of long, sharp fangs. From the black pits of its eye sockets, two embers of pure hatred burned with a cold, dead light. The lurid pink feather boa was still draped around its skeletal neck.

The Bishop. He was real.

Clara stumbled back, a strangled cry escaping her lips. It couldn’t be real. It was the drugs. It had to be the drugs.

The spectre raised a bony hand, pointing a single, accusatory finger at her.

"Sinner," it hissed, filled with ancient malice. It took a silent, gliding step forward.

"Get away from her!"

Owen barrelled past Clara, the lump hammer held high like a club. He swung the weapon with all his might, a guttural roar of fury tearing from his throat. The hammer passed straight through the Bishop’s form as if through smoke. There was no impact, no sound, just a brief, shimmering distortion in the air where the iron met the ghostly image.

The Bishop did not even flinch.

Owen staggered, off balance, his face a mask of disbelief and terror. The apparition turned its burning gaze on him.

"Sinner." It moved with unnatural speed, its skeletal hand lashing out to clutch his throat. Owen cried out, a sharp, strangled sound as the spectral fingers became horrifyingly solid. He dropped the lump hammer. It thudded on the floor.

Clara grabbed the lump hammer, swinging at the Bishop. Her attack was as impotent as Owen’s had been.

"Run!" Owen choked out, his eyes bulging as the Bishop lifted him from the ground.

Clara scrambled back up the stone steps, Owen right behind her, dragged by the Bishop. She burst out into the main corridor, the sounds of Stacey’s desperate, pain-filled sobs fading behind her.

“Sinner!” the Bishop howled after her.

She didn’t stop running until she was back outside in the courtyard, gasping for air in the cold, clean drizzle.

The Bishop glided out of the front door, Owen in one hand. It did not walk. It flowed across the threshold like a patch of mobile darkness, its burning eyes fixed on them. It raised its hand again, and an embedded flagstone at its feet ripped itself loose from the floor and flipped through the air, catching Clara squarely in the chest. She screamed in pain, stumbling back. The lump hammer smashed against the statue’s hand and shattered it.

Screeching, the hand holding Owen disappeared. He collapsed to the gravel, gasping.

CRACK.

This time a chunk of granite exploded from the statue’s cheek. At the exact same moment, the spectre keened a high shriek of agony. It staggered back, its one skeletal hand flying to its own face, to the spot where the statue was now damaged.

Clara continued her assault on the statue. Chips of stone flew with every impact. With every blow that landed on the statue, the spectre recoiled, screaming its unholy pain.

Owen scrambled to his feet and shoulder-barged the statue. It detached from its pedestal and fell to the ground.

Enraged, the spectre moved with serpentine speed.

The spectre’s remaining hand closed around Owen’s throat once more. Owen’s hands clawed at the skeletal fingers that were crushing his windpipe. His eyes met Clara’s, wide with terror.

"No!" Clara screamed. The Bishop’s burning eyes were fixed on the dying Owen, its red-lipped mouth stretched to an unnatural size, its long needle-like fangs wide in a triumphant rictus. It turned to look at her, snarling.

She swung again at the statue, screaming with rage, terror and grief. She hammered at the cracked stone, a two-handed blow that landed squarely on its neck. It released Owen, whose body dropped to the floor. The Bishop’s icy fingers closed around Clara’s throat, squeezing, the world starting to dim at the edges. With her last energy, she lashed out. The blow landed. The stone neck shattered. The broken head fell to the ground with a dull thud, rolling into a weed-ridden remnant of a rose bed. The feather boa, caught in the wind, blew free, a final splash of lurid pink against the grey dawn.

The Bishop screamed. A long, prolonged shriek. Its form flickered violently, like a faulty projection. Its substance unravelled, dissolving into black, greasy smoke that dissipated into the night air, leaving behind only cold and the cloying smell.

Clara stood panting, the lump hammer hanging limply in her hand, her throat raw and bruised. She dropped the weapon and rushed to Owen’s side.

"Owen?" She knelt, turning him over gently. His head was at a funny angle, his neck horribly bruised, his eyes open and sightless. He was not breathing. Tears of grief and fury fell down her face as she closed his eyes.

Stacey.

The thought cut through her grief. She needed to get her out. But how? The van was dead. No. She remembered Dean’s words. It’s an intermittent fault. She prayed silently.

He would have had the keys. On his body.

Forcing herself to her feet, she walked on trembling legs back to the house, back into the corridor, back to the cellar door. Each step was an act of will. The smell hit her again. She forced herself down, averting her eyes from the rack. She approached Dean’s body, her hand outstretched and shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut and fumbled in the pockets of his jeans, the feeling of his cold flesh against her hand making her want to vomit. Her fingers closed around a familiar metal shape. The keys. She snatched them out and fled, scrambling back up the steps into the clean air.

She ran to the van, her hands shaking as she pulled the side door open. Rummaging frantically through the toolbox in the back, her fingers closed around the familiar shape of a Stanley knife. She clicked the blade out.

She forced herself back into the house, back down into that hellish cellar for the last time. Her sister was unconscious, her head lolling.

"It’s okay, Stace," Clara said, her voice surprisingly steady. "I’m getting you out."

She worked quickly, sawing at the blood-slicked leather straps. The sharp blade caught and tore, the angle awkward. She had to be careful not to slice into her sister's already brutalised flesh. The sound of the parting leather was grotesquely loud in the silence. One wrist came free, then the other. Stacey’s arms fell limp. She would have collapsed if Clara had not been there to catch her.

Ignoring the searing pain in her own throat, Clara half-carried, half-dragged her sister up the stairs, past Owen’s body, and out of the Bishop’s cursed house. She did not look at the broken statue. Stacey woke, whimpers of pain escaping her lips, as Clara bundled her into the passenger seat of the van. She took off her T-shirt, ripping strips from it to bind her sister’s hands, a crude attempt to staunch the bleeding.

Then she climbed into the driver’s seat, stabbed the key into the ignition and prayed. The engine coughed once, a wet, pathetic sound.

No. Please, no.

She turned the key again, slamming her foot on the accelerator. The van roared to life. With a screech of tyres on wet gravel, she swung the vehicle around and sped away from the Old Vicarage of Bishop Rowley. She drove, her hands smeared with her sister’s blood, gripping the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on the ribbon of tarmac that promised a motorway, and then a hospital.

Epilogue: Clara

White light from the fluorescent tubes bleached the colour from the room, reflecting off the polished lino and the padded walls. The air smelled of antiseptic and over-brewed tea. For three weeks, this room, or one just like it, had been Clara’s world.

Opposite her, in an armchair that looked far more comfortable than her own moulded plastic seat, Dr Finch steepled his fingers. His eyes held a measured sympathy.

“I want to see my sister.” Clara bit her lip. The medication left her mind fuddled.

Dr Finch shook his head. “As you’ve been told, she is still in a coma. Perhaps you would like to talk about the injuries she sustained?”

“I told you, we were attacked.” She repeated wearily.

"Yes, by the ghost of a 16th century priest. The police report is quite clear," he closed the folder in his hands. "But, they found no bodies at the house. They are still searching for your friends, perhaps you could think of–"

"They are all dead. Dead in the basement." Clara’s voice was a dry rasp.

"Clara, there is no basement."

"No basement?" she repeated. "Dean had a crucifix hammered down his throat. Gary was… torn apart. I told you exactly where it was."

"The coroner found traces of a powerful synthetic hallucinogen in both of your systems, Clara. A substance known to induce paranoia, and delusions."

"What about Owen?" Clara leaned forward, her hands gripping her knees so tightly her knuckles were white. "He was in the courtyard!"

Dr Finch made a note on his pad, the scratch of his pen unnaturally loud. "Clara, it is not uncommon for the mind to create a narrative to process trauma. To invent a 'monster'. It is a classic response, a way of displacing guilt."

"Bishop Rowley is not a narrative," she insisted, her voice gaining a sliver of its old strength. "He was real. And there is proof." She saw a flicker of interest in the doctor’s placid gaze and seized it. "We fought him. Owen and I… we destroyed the statue. We smashed its head in. Send someone. Go and look. You will see."

Dr Finch’s professional expression did not change. He set his pen down with a quiet finality. "We did, Clara. I had an officer take a photograph for me this morning."

He picked up the tablet from the table.

She leaned in, her heart hammering, desperate for vindication, desperate to prove she was not insane. On the screen was the vicarage courtyard, washed in a weak, autumnal sunlight. And in its centre, the statue of Bishop Silas Rowley stood whole. Its granite face was stern and unblemished. Its head was firmly attached to its neck.

No. I destroyed it.

The blood drained from her face. The image was impossible. A lie. It had to be a lie. Her vision swam. The room tilted. She stared, her breath catching in her throat, her own reflection was a pale, terrified ghost on the tablet's dark screen as she switched it off.

In the black, reflective surface, she saw the room behind her. The white walls. The empty chair.

And the man standing behind it.

A shadow drinking the sterile light. Tattered robes. A skull for a face. From the black pits of its eye sockets, two points of burning, malevolent light were fixed directly on her.

A scream tore from Clara’s throat, raw and ragged. She recoiled, her heavy plastic chair tipping and crashing to the floor as she scrambled away, crab-walking into the padded wall. "He is here!" she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the empty space. "He is right there. Can you not see him?"

Dr Finch was already on his feet, his finger pressed firmly on a button on his desk as a security guard raced in. "Clara, there is no one there," he said, his voice calm, the voice of reason against her madness. "You are safe. There is nothing here that can hurt you."

He reached for his prescription pad, his movements smooth and practised. "I think we need to adjust your medication. Something a little stronger."

But Clara was no longer listening. She was staring at the Bishop, who growled at her, exposing his fangs.

The guard was moving towards her, syringe in hand. The doctor was writing his script, in neat, illegible loops.

The Bishop was advancing, his hands reaching for her throat.

THE END

If you enjoyed this story, then consider reading the rest of my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.