The Cold Dead Sea by Newton Webb
A World War 2 Occult Horror Short Story: Ignatius Barnes, a downed RAF pilot in WWII, discovers a secret Nazi U-boat pen, only to find there are far worse threats than Germans.
Contents
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The Cold Dead Sea
By Newton Webb
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Chapter One
Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. North Sea. 5 June 1942.
The North Atlantic stretched below the Short Sutherland aircraft in long ridges of slate water and broken foam. The sea slid beneath the wings as the plane hugged the rugged Norwegian coastline. Ten hours into the patrol, the drone of the Pegasus engines had become a steady pressure inside Ignatius Barnes’s skull.
Wind hammered the plane. Their patrol sector south of Norway had shown nothing all day.
“Anything, Barnes?” the pilot asked over the intercom.
“Nothing, mate.” Barnes cracked his neck. He reached for a locket around his neck. In it was a lock of hair, and a small photo of his wife Natasha. “Same as the last eight hours.”
Six months with RAF Coastal Command had removed any romance from the job. Six months of ten-hour patrols, numb hands, and nothing to show but the empty, roiling sea.
Their orders were simple. Guard the convoys. Find the submarines before the submarines found them.
Movement.
A dark line broke the water two miles ahead. The swell swallowed the outline whenever it lifted. Barnes leaned closer to the Perspex and wiped condensation away with his glove.
The shape rose again.
“Possible contact. Descend two hundred feet.”
The plane descended towards the water.
“What have you spotted, Barnes?” the pilot asked.
“A submarine.”
It rode low in the sea, the deck awash between waves.
Surfacing in daylight during a vicious summer squall made no sense. Any escort vessel or patrol aircraft could see it.
Barnes raised his binoculars.
The conning tower turned slightly in the swell. A wolf’s head was painted on the steel.
A Type VII U-boat.
“Pilot,” Barnes said into the intercom. “Contact. U-boat. Type VII sighted. Bearing three four zero relative. Range two miles. No identification markings visible.”
The deck was empty. No lookout stood on the conning tower. No officer faced the wind, watching for the Navy.
It was uncanny.
“It looks abandoned, but I’m not seeing any damage.”
The pilot banked the Sunderland to begin an attack run.
“Time to get a new stencil for Old Bess.”
“Depth charges set,” the bomb aimer said.
The aircraft rolled left. Spray streaked across the windscreen.
“Depth charge racks ready,” the pilot announced.
“Steady. Steady,” the bomb aimer murmured.
Barnes braced his boots against the fuselage.
Keep her steady.
“Release!”
The flying boat lurched as four heavy depth charges dropped from the racks. The pilot hauled back on the control column. The massive aircraft clawed upward as the Pegasus engines roared.
Barnes twisted in his seat to watch through the Perspex blister.
Seconds later, the sea erupted.
Four towering columns of white water blasted upward around the submarine. Shockwaves rippled across the grey surface in expanding rings.
The U-boat vanished beneath the spray.
“Good pattern!” Barnes shouted.
“Banking right,” the pilot said. The Pegasus engines groaned as the aircraft banked right. “Keep your eyes peeled. Watch for survivors.”
The Sunderland circled back through the gale.
The submarine wallowed, stern dropping lower with each wave. The deck tilted sharply as water flooded through unseen ruptures below the surface.
For a moment, the conning tower remained visible, rolling helplessly between the swells.
Then the bow dipped.
The boat slipped slowly beneath the North Atlantic.
Only a widening slick of diesel oil and scattered debris marked where it had been.
“She’s going down,” Barnes said quietly.
God save the poor bastards.
Oil spread across the waves in a dark, shimmering film.
The engines coughed, then began to die. One propeller slowed. Then another.
He stared out into the howling storm, for a moment, he swore he could see a face, the flickering of a white dress. Then it was gone.
The lights flickered. Instruments died across the panel.
“What the hell?”
The wind howled around the aircraft as the pilot fought the controls.
“I’ve lost power!”
The Sunderland sagged towards the raging sea before hitting it like a hammer.
The impact threw Barnes against the bulkhead. Metal screamed. The hull shuddered violently as the flying boat skipped once across the surface and slammed down again. Freezing water burst through the ruptured fuselage.
“Out! Out!” someone shouted.
The cabin lights were dead. Only grey daylight filtered through the fractured Perspex. Water poured in faster than Barnes could think.
He tore at the harness buckles with numb fingers. Around him men shouted, cursed, prayed. Something tore loose from the wing with a crack, and the aircraft lurched and rolled onto its side.
Barnes dragged himself along the tilted floor. His boots slipped on fuel and seawater. Someone grabbed his arm.
Sergeant Tim Jones, the wireless operator, eyes wide with shock.
“The door’s jammed!”
Barnes kicked at the emergency hatch. Once. Twice.
The metal frame bent under the third blow, and cold ocean water exploded through the gap.
The water closed over their heads and drove them under. Barnes swam clear of the plane and surfaced among wreckage and spreading oil slicks. Waves rolled through the debris field, tossing broken fragments of aircraft across the grey water.
Nearby, bubbles and diesel marked where the U-boat had gone down.
The Sunderland was following it. One wing jutted briefly above the water like the fin of a dying whale before sliding beneath the oil-streaked surface.
Men screamed somewhere in the storm. Another wave pulled them under, and they did not surface.
Barnes bobbed in the water, his life vest inflated, gasping, the wind tearing at his soaked flight suit. Tim surfaced nearby, coughing seawater.
“Barnes!” Tim shouted through the gale.
He dragged himself towards him.
“Hold onto something!”
Another wave slammed into them, spinning them through the freezing water. The wreckage scattered across the rising swells.
The pilot rose from the water, reaching for them, but he was too far away. He sank beneath the waves and did not reappear.
Barnes’s fingers stopped closing. The crate slipped twice before he felt it again. Barnes could barely feel his hands anymore. His muscles refused to obey him. He tried to kick and felt nothing below the knee.
“Land!” Tim croaked suddenly.
He forced his eyes open.
Through the sleet and spray, cliffs rose ahead, black stone sheer above the surf. The current dragged them towards it.
“Swim,” Barnes rasped.
The next wave hurled them forward like driftwood.
Barnes slammed into rock. Pain burst through his ribs. He clawed desperately at barnacle-covered stone as another surge tried to drag him back into the sea.
His fingers found a ledge.
Tim hauled himself beside him, coughing violently.
Together, they dragged their half-frozen bodies onto a narrow strip of shingle beneath the cliffs. Wind hammered the cliff face above them. The North Sea pounded the rocks only yards away.
For several minutes, neither man moved.
At last, Barnes rolled onto his back, staring up at the iron sky.
“Where are the others?”
Three bodies lay broken against the stones. He raced to check each one, finding them dead. Looking out over the waves, he tried to spot any more survivors.
“We have to move, Barnes.” Tim grabbed his jacket with stiff fingers.
“Wait, we don’t know what’s happened to the rest of the crew.”
Tim jerked him towards the cliff face.
“They are dead, Barnes, and we’ll be joining them if we don’t find shelter soon,” Tim muttered.
Barnes pushed himself upright. His grip on the rock face failed without warning, and he slipped before catching himself. As he righted himself, something caught his eye along the base of the cliff.
A dark gap in the rock.
A sea cave.
The tide surged in and out of the opening, as if it was breathing.
Barnes staggered towards it, boots slipping across the slick stones. The cave widened quickly. Darkness swallowed the fading daylight behind them.
The air smelled wrong. He could smell the strong scent of salt and seaweed, but there was another smell pushing through it.
Diesel.
Barnes stopped.
Far ahead, deep within the cavern, a dull yellow glow flickered against the rock walls.
Electric light.
Dread filled him.
“What is it, Barnes?” Tim asked through chattering teeth. “Barnes! What... Oh hell—”
On the back wall of the sea cave hung a black swastika on a red flag.
It was a Nazi U-boat pen.
Chapter Two
Sergeant Tim Jones. Norway. 5 June 1942.
Tim shivered violently. Seawater soaked into his heavy RAF flight suit. Beside him, Barnes hugged his own ribs. His teeth chattered loudly enough to echo off the damp rock.
They moved deeper into the cavern. The pen was crude. Scaffolding clung to the rock walls. A single U-boat could fit in the docking trench. The dark water currently lay empty. Stacks of torpedoes rested on wooden chocks near a line of rusted diesel drums.
“Tim,” Barnes whispered. “Over there.”
A cast iron workshop heater glowed cherry red in a hollowed alcove.
Tim nodded. He had to look at his hands to make them move.
If we don’t get warm, we’re dead.
They hurried to the alcove. The heat hit them in a physical wave. Barnes clawed at the frozen buckles of his flight gear. Throwing off his sheepskin jacket, he dragged the heavy canvas over his shoulders and dropped it to the concrete floor. Tim did the same. They stripped down to their pale, shivering skin. There was no shame in their nudity as the two men let the heat soak into their bones.
Barnes opened a row of grey metal lockers against the wall. He pulled out thick woollen sweaters and heavy canvas trousers bearing the naval eagle.
“Put these on.” Barnes threw a bundle to the sergeant.
Tim caught the clothes and shoved his legs into the trousers. “Yes, sir.” He pulled the heavy navy blue sweater over his head. The coarse wool scratched against his skin. He checked the remaining lockers, finding a heavy iron wrench and a hip flask amongst the personal effects. He sniffed at the hip flask before taking a long swig and passing it to Barnes. “Schnapps, sir.”
Barnes took it gratefully. “We need to find the radio room.” Barnes rubbed his hands together over the iron stove. “A base this size will have a transmitter. We can signal Coastal Command, and then we find a way out of here.” Barnes looked at the dark tunnel leading deeper into the cliff. “Where is Jerry hiding? This place should be crawling with Nazis.”
“Keep your voice down, sir.” Tim gripped the iron wrench tightly in his right hand. “Reckon you’d best stay behind me, sir.”
The tunnel walls wept cold water. Bare incandescent bulbs hung from the hewn rock ceiling every forty feet. The steady thrum of a diesel generator vibrated through the rock floor.
Then a scream tore through the cavern.
It was a high, tearing sound. A man in absolute agony.
Tim stopped dead. “Jesus wept.”
Barnes pressed himself against the rough stone wall.
The scream cut off abruptly into a wet gargle. Silence flooded the tunnel again.
“We need to move, sir,” Tim whispered.
Footsteps slapped against the concrete ahead.
Someone was running.
Fast.
Tim raised the heavy wrench. He pressed tight against the rock beside a side tunnel entrance.
A young German sailor burst from the corridor, his bare feet slapping on the floor. His thick woollen jumper was torn. Blood smeared his face and hands.
The boy collided with Barnes. Both men fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
“Hilf mir!” the sailor screamed. He clawed at Barnes’s sweater. “Sie ist wach. Der Teufel ist wach!”
“Shut him up!” Tim hissed.
Barnes clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth. The sailor bit down hard. Barnes yelped and jerked his hand away.
“Sie sind alle tot!” the German yelled. He scrambled backwards across the floor. His eyes were wide with primal terror.
Tim stepped forward. He swung the iron wrench down. The heavy metal crushed the sailor’s skull with a sickening crack. The boy slumped against the rock and lay still. Dark blood pooled around his head.
Barnes stared at the corpse. He breathed in ragged gasps. “You killed him.”
“He was compromising our position, sir.” Tim wiped the wrench on the dead boy’s tunic. “Come on, sir. Let’s move. If anyone’s here, they’ll have heard that.”
Barnes nodded slowly, his eyes still on the dead sailor.
“First priority should be to contact Command.” Tim pointed down the corridor. “We should split up, sir. I’ll take this corridor. Find a transmitter and call our position. Quick and quiet.”
Barnes snorted. “Stay out of trouble? You’d better believe I will.” He crept down the narrow side passage, disappearing from view.
Tim took the other corridor. The smell of diesel and salt faded, though the pervasive damp remained. He pushed open a heavy wooden door, entering what appeared to be an officer’s quarters. A neat cot sat against one wall, while a mahogany desk faced the other. A thick leather bound book lay open on the blotter.
Tim leaned closer. The pages were thick and fibrous, like treated hide. Intricate charcoal drawings depicted grotesque figures and geometric symbols. He didn’t recognise the language, but its runic script clearly wasn’t German. He turned a page. A drawing of a woman with hollow eyes, sagging breasts, and a gaping mouth stared back at him.
Christ.
The temperature in the room was icy cold. The bulb overhead flickered before stabilising.
He looked up at the bulb, shaking his head.
So much for German efficiency.
A wet tearing sound came from outside the door.
Tim gripped his wrench tightly as he slowly approached the door. Standing by it, he waited, poised to strike.
Three.
Two.
He reached for the handle.
One!
Savagely pulling open the door, he leapt out into an empty corridor.
Looking up and down, he shook his head.
I’m jumping at shadows.
A faint breath touched the back of his neck. Tim spun round, lashing out with the wrench, but his wrist was grabbed. Cold fingers closed around his windpipe. He gurgled with desperation.
Chapter Three
Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. Norway. 5 June 1942.
Barnes found empty desks and half-finished cups of black coffee in the administration block. He sniffed one of them. They only drank tea back at base. The last time he’d had coffee was in his previous life as a schoolteacher.
He checked his watch. Seven minutes had passed.
Where the hell is he?
He crept back to the junction. The dead sailor lay where he had fallen. Barnes shook his head. Before the war, the boy was young enough to have been one of Barnes’s students.
He headed down the corridor Tim had taken and saw a door standing wide open.
The stench hit him first. An overpowering smell of rent flesh and voided bowels.
Gritting his teeth, Barnes stepped into the room.
Tim was slumped forward over the mahogany desk, his face pressed into the scattered papers. The heavy wool of the German sweater suit had been sheared cleanly down the centre of his back.
Barnes took a step closer, his breath catching in his throat as his mind struggled to process the grotesque architecture of his crewmate’s corpse.
Tim’s spine was exposed, the flesh filleted open. His ribs had been brutally severed from the backbone and bent outward by unnatural strength. The pale, blood-slicked bones jutted from his ruined back like a pair of macabre, skeletal wings.
Draped carefully over these protruding bones were the dark, deflated sacks of Tim’s lungs.
Barnes backed away, his boots sliding in the thick pool of crimson that dripped from the desk. His hands began to shake.
Christ... Tim.
Barnes took a step back, shaking his head.
No, no.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Barnes spun around.
A pistol hilt smashed into his temple. White light burst across his vision.
His knees buckled and hit the floor hard.
A pair of black leather boots stepped into his fading line of sight.
Then the darkness took him.
#
Barnes woke to the smell of stale cigarette smoke. His head throbbed in time with his pulse. His vision swam. He tried to lift his hands, but they refused to move. Thick ropes bound his wrists to the wooden arms of a heavy chair.
He blinked against the harsh glare of a single overhead bulb.
A German naval officer sat behind a steel desk. He wore the dark uniform of a Korvettenkapitän. Silver braid caught the light on his shoulders. An Iron Cross rested at his throat. He observed Barnes over a steaming mug.
“You are awake,” the officer said in perfect English with a clipped accent. “I am Korvettenkapitän Felix. Name and unit.”
Barnes tested the ropes. They held firm.
“Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. Royal Air Force.”
Felix set his mug down. “And what are you doing so far from home? Are there others?”
“Name, rank, and serial number.” Barnes stared flatly at the German. “That’s all you get.”
“I do not have time for this, Flying Officer. My men are dead. This facility is compromised. I need to know if you transmitted our coordinates to your command.”
“Go to hell.”
Felix snorted. “And what, Englishman, makes you think we haven’t already?” He walked around the desk.
A woman screamed. The jagged shriek echoed through the tunnels.
Barnes flinched. “Who is that?”
Felix hesitated. His jaw tightened. “It does not concern you.” He wiped a hand across his pale forehead. His gaze moved from Barnes to the door and back again. His fingers tapped on his holstered Luger. “I will return shortly. Think about your situation, Englishman.”
The German walked out of the room, locking the heavy iron door behind him.
The footsteps faded.
Barnes twisted his wrists against the coarse rope. The friction burned his skin. He leaned his weight to the right. The heavy chair tilted.
He threw his weight left. The chair slammed into the concrete and one side of the chair snapped, the wooden arm breaking free. Wriggling clear of the broken chair, Barnes pulled his wrists under his body and up to his face. He used his free hand to work the knot loose. He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his bleeding wrists.
Nausea overwhelmed him. He vomited onto the floor. He rubbed his bruised head, wincing. As his balance started to return, he grabbed the broken chair leg and tried the door handle.
Locked.
The hinges were on the inside. Barnes wedged the broken wood under the latch mechanism. He threw his shoulder against the iron panel. The old lock groaned. He hit it again. The metal latch gave way.
The corridor stood empty.
Another scream echoed from deeper within the cavern complex.
He stepped into the corridor and followed the sound.
Chapter Four
Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. Norway. 5 June 1942.
The air grew colder as the tunnels narrowed, winding further down into the depths of the earth. Electric light faded, replaced by candles set into the rock.
Footsteps echoed ahead.
Barnes gripped his makeshift club. He travelled down a series of winding passages. The scent of diesel faded, replaced by the sickly sweet tang of blood and rot as he descended deeper into the earth.
The tunnel opened into a massive natural chamber.
A large chalk symbol resembling three interlocking triangles had been inscribed on the floor and dark red runes that looked like the letter F covered the walls. Six bodies had been arranged at the points, all of them with their ribs torn open.
Barnes recognised one of them as Tim and charged forward.
Ahead of him, the few remaining bulbs flickered. One of them pinged and then went dark, their feeble light supplemented by dozens of candles.
Felix stood near the centre of the room, his hands on his hips.
A woman knelt in the centre, shrouded by shadows, her pale dress hanging loose, dark hair falling over her shoulders. She lowered her hands and looked up with a familiar set of green eyes.
His breath caught.
Natasha.
Her green eyes fixed on him. Her familiar face held a look of profound sorrow.
“Ignatius,” she whispered. “You came for me.”
He dropped the piece of wood in shock. “Natasha. What are you doing here?”
Felix turned sharply and drew the Luger from his leather holster.
“No!” Barnes lunged forward.
The pistol barked.
Heat tore through Barnes’s left shoulder. He crashed hard onto the cavern floor. Pain radiated down his arm and across his chest.
He pressed his right hand against the wound. Hot blood spilled through his fingers.
Felix walked towards him. The Luger remained levelled at his chest.
“You should have stayed in the room, Barnes.”
“What have you done to my wife?” Barnes gasped.
Felix let out a harsh laugh. “Your wife? Is that what you see?” The German gestured to the woman. “No, Englishman. This is no woman. She is older than your Empire and mine. We found her bound beneath a church near Tromsø and broke the seals.”
Natasha watched them. “He’s trapped me, Iggs.” She reached out to him. “Please, break the circle and set me free.”
“Let her go!” Barnes struggled to sit up.
“Or you’ll do what?” Felix scoffed. “Watch, Englishman.” Felix walked to a metal bucket near the wall. He reached inside and pulled out a severed human arm. A torn Kriegsmarine sleeve clung to the dead flesh.
Felix threw the limb onto the floor in front of the woman.
The glamour collapsed. The beautiful face melted away into grey, leathery skin stretched tight over a gaunt skull. Sunken black eyes stared with predatory hunger. Too many teeth crowded a lipless mouth. Long claws extended from her pale fingers.
The thing fell upon the severed arm. She tore into it, ripping flesh and crunching bone. Blood splashed across the chalked circles.
The pain in his shoulder dulled against the shock as he watched.
Felix watched the creature feed, a grim smile spreading across his face. He lowered the pistol slightly.
Barnes drove forward, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, and slammed into Felix’s midsection. The German grunted as they crashed to the stone floor. The Luger clattered away into the shadows.
Felix clawed at his throat. Barnes pinned the officer’s arm with his knee. He grabbed a heavy stone from the cavern floor.
“Wait!”
Barnes paused.
“Kill me and she walks free. Do not be a fool. I am the only thing keeping her contained.”
“If you can restrain her, then what happened to your men?” He raised the stone higher. “To my sergeant?”
Felix waited, as if gathering his thoughts. “We didn’t have enough bodies to power the runic prison. Now we do, we can control her.”
“You used my sergeant to perform your little ritual?”
“What choice did I have? Most of my men tried to flee on our U-boat, until she killed the power in it.”
“That’s not control.” A desperate urge to drive the stone into the side of Felix’s head filled him.
Felix’s voice faltered, his earlier arrogance fading. “I just need more time, don’t you see? Unless I complete the ritual, she’ll open a bridge to her world. Her people will consume the glorious Reich and the British Empire.”
Hatred filled his gaze. He hesitated.
“I was going to complete the ritual with my aide.” He began to plead. “But you killed him. Perhaps together we could...”
A desperate urge to crush his skull surged through him. He sucked at his teeth, holding eye contact with Felix as he considered his options.
Then he brought the rock down.
The Korvettenkapitän went limp. Dark blood welled from a deep gash above his ear.
“I don’t know if I need you, but I certainly don’t need you awake right now.” Barnes rose.
“Don’t leave me, Iggs!” the witch cried.
“And you. Your games are only going to make matters worse for you.”
Barnes dragged himself into the side passage, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
#
Barnes found a small storage alcove out of sight from the main chamber. He slumped against the wall and breathed heavily.
The bullet remained lodged in his muscle. He had to get it out.
He searched through the cabinets, ignoring the plates, dishclothes, cans of tinned rations and boxes of biscuits, and found a small blunt knife in one of the drawers. He stripped off his heavy sweater. The cold air bit at his skin.
Barnes placed the blade into the flame of a nearby wall candle. He held it there, then, biting down hard on the heavy woollen fabric of the sweater, drove the hot blade into his flesh.
Agony flared through his entire body. He twisted the knife, probing the wound. The metal scraped against the lead bullet. He gritted his teeth and dug upwards.
The deformed slug popped free. It hit the floor with a dull clink. He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.
Barnes spat out the wool. He tore a long strip of fabric from a dishcloth and bound it tightly over the bleeding hole. His grip slipped twice before the knot held, as he tied it with one hand and his teeth.
He picked up the Luger from where it had fallen near the entrance. He ejected the magazine. Five rounds, six including the one in the chamber. He slammed it back into place.
He approached Felix. The officer still lay unconscious, bleeding heavily from the head wound.
Barnes’s left arm hung useless at his side as he searched the German’s uniform. He found a small leather pouch hanging from a cord around Felix’s neck. He pulled it free and opened the flap.
Inside sat a small runic icon, carved from what looked like bone, he hefted its weight, thinking.
Felix groaned and shifted on the cold floor. He opened his eyes, blinking blood away from his vision. He looked at the pouch in Barnes’s hand.
“Give that back.” Felix coughed weakly. “I need it.”
Barnes aimed the Luger at the German’s face. “Start talking.”
Felix pressed a hand to his bleeding head. He leaned against the rock wall, breathing hard.
“Orders from High Command,” he said. “An occult weapon to shatter your armies.”
A wet tearing sound echoed from the chamber. Bone cracked. Something chewed slowly in the dark.
Barnes flinched despite himself. He kept the Luger steady. “You brought that thing here.”
Felix nodded once. “Yes, I did. I was chosen to lead the Ahnenerbe expedition. We found the book first. Then we had to hunt until we found her prison beneath a church near Tromsø.”
Barnes’s jaw tightened. “You should have left her there.”
“We tried to move her.” Felix wiped blood from his eye with the back of his hand. “Berlin wanted her. But she can’t cross running water. We brought her into this cave to contain her for now.”
A dull thud came from the chamber floor.
Barnes shifted his stance. “Contain? She butchered your men.”
Felix’s mouth twitched. “Jah, she slaughtered them. Tore them apart when the wards failed.” He glanced towards the chamber. “She cannot touch me, though.”
Barnes narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”
Felix glared at him. “Because I translated the contents of the grimoire. I know her secret.”
“And if we leave her?”
Felix’s gaze hardened. “Then the prison fails. She opens the bridge to Vanaheimr, her world, and she brings her people through to feed.”
Barnes tightened his grip on the pistol. “And you think you can stop that?”
Felix looked at him with a grim smile.
“I do.”
Chapter Five
Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. Norway. 5 June 1942.
Felix leaned heavily against the damp rock wall. Blood crusted along his hairline. The Luger remained trained on the German.
“Take me to the radio transmitter,” Barnes ordered.
“Give me the pouch first,” Felix said, extending a shaking hand. “She will kill me if I step near the threshold without it.”
“I don’t think so. What’ll stop her from killing me first?”
Felix pursed his lips. “I can protect you, but only if you give me my amulet.”
“You’ll be quick. Radio first.”
Felix considered him with narrowed eyes before he turned and limped down the narrow corridor. Barnes followed close behind. Pain throbbed in his left shoulder with every step.
They reached a heavy steel door. Felix pushed it open.
The naval radio room was small and smelled of ozone. A Telefunken transmitter dominated the wooden desk. Valve tubes glowed a faint amber in the gloom.
He gestured with the pistol. “Step back into the corner.”
Felix moved away from the desk.
Barnes slid into the operator’s chair. He kept his eyes on Felix while his right hand found the telegraph key. He tapped out on the Coastal Command frequency. Static hissed as he sent the emergency broadcast. “Sunderland downed. German submarine refuelling base discovered. Grid reference zero four niner. Survivors one. Require immediate extraction.”
He repeated the message twice. He shut off the power switch. The amber lights faded into darkness.
“They will not arrive in time to save us,” Felix said.
“They will.” Barnes stood up and tossed the small leather bag onto the stone floor. “They have to.”
Felix snatched it up and hung it around his neck. The German tucked the pouch beneath his uniform shirt.
“Now we finish this. How do we send her back to Vanaheimr?”
“I need the grimoire. And my pouch.” Felix walked towards the open door. “And we need to speak the reversal incantation together.”
They walked back through the twisting tunnels. The temperature plummeted the closer they got to the main chamber. Frost coated the stone walls.
The witch waited in the centre of the chalk circles. She wore Natasha’s face again. Her green eyes tracked their movement. The severed arm was gone. Only a smear of dark blood remained on the floor.
“Get rid of my wife’s face. It doesn’t belong to you.”
She hissed, reverting to her true form. Pale grey skin and hollow black eyes replaced the beautiful illusion.
Felix walked to a wooden lectern near the edge of the runic boundary. The thick leather book sat open on the slanted top. “One with water. One with fire.” The German traced his fingers over the charcoal symbols in the grimoire.
“Hold the bowl of sea water.” Felix passed a metal bowl to Barnes, who reluctantly took it. “And read this section from the grimoire after I read mine.”
He moved to the lectern. He kept his distance from the chalk line. The foreign text looked like chaotic scratches, but as he stared at the page, the shapes seemed to twist into phonetic sounds in his mind.
This is wrong.
“Begin.” The German, holding a bowl of burning oil, chanted in a guttural language. He stopped, nodding at Barnes.
He read aloud his section as the witch watched him, the grin still stretched across her face, her eyes wide with excitement.
The candle flames flickered and turned a sickly blue.
Felix slammed the heavy book shut.
He stepped back, raising the Luger. “Careful.”
“Feeling jittery?” Felix gestured towards the circle. “Now we end it. We both step inside at the same time.”
“Are you insane? She’ll murder us.” Barnes took a step back.
“You English lack Prussian courage.” Felix stepped toward the circle. “She is bound. Now we drive her back to her world. We must do it at exactly the same time.”
“Absolutely not.”
Felix sneered. “So, a German can do what an Englishman cannot? Predictable. Now, step into the circle, Englishman!”
Shifting his weight from one side to the other, Barnes scratched his head, his heart pounding in his chest. The creature stood quietly watching them both.
This is madness...
“Do it!” Felix shouted. “Do it, you coward.” He raised a boot in preparation to cross.
Barnes took a deep breath. His left arm hung uselessly. He stepped over the chalk lines. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His skin prickled as if static electricity coursed through him.
Felix stepped in at the same time. “Verzehre ihn.” He smiled at the witch.
“What are you doing?” Barnes pointed the Luger at the German.
The witch moved between them, blocking his line of fire and turning to face him.
He froze as he replayed the German’s words in his mind. Then gritted his teeth. “Nein, verzehre ihn.” Barnes locked eyes with Felix, then added. “He is all yours.”
“You speak German?” Felix stepped back as the witch turned back to face him.
He gave a smile of grim satisfaction. “I taught it before the war.”
The monster approached Felix, her nails outstretched.
Felix swore, holding up his pouch. When she continued to approach, he stared at Barnes with panic, emptying the pouch into his hand. A blood-soaked spent bullet fell into his palm.
Locking eyes with the German officer, Barnes pulled out the runic icon from his pocket and waved it at him.
The witch recoiled and looked over her shoulder at Barnes. She snarled at him, before turning back to Felix.
“Nein!” he screamed as she rushed him. “Stand down. Stoppen!” Her elongated claws sank into Felix’s shoulders. The German shrieked as she lifted him off the floor. She unhinged her jaw. Row upon row of jagged teeth sank into his neck.
Felix thrashed wildly. Blood cascaded over the chalk lines. The witch tore his throat out with a violent jerk of her head. She dropped his twitching body to the floor and began to open his chest cavity.
His screams died as she tore through his uniform and ripped open his rib cage. Plucking out his heart, her teeth tore the flesh, blood pouring down her chin as his lifeless carcass fell to the floor.
Barnes stumbled back as she feasted.
“The bodies do something to keep you trapped here, don’t they?”
She ignored him, feeding with a sucking sound that made him feel sick.
He looked at Tim’s body, the man who he’d flown with for nearly a year. The only other survivor of the crash.
I’m sorry mate, I can’t bring your body back to England with me.
The Witch looked up at him, a long black tongue playing across her teeth and chin, lapping up the blood on her face. Stepping towards him, she stopped at the chalk outline and hissed at him.
Barnes, grabbing the grimoire from the lectern, turned his back on the chamber and walked into the dark tunnel. At the top, he looked back once at the chamber. Then turned for the torpedo racks.
I’ll bury this place. And her with it.
Grabbing a tool kit from the maintenance lockers, he opened the warhead on one of them, twisted off the safety cap and exposed the detonator.
Chapter Six
Flying Officer Ignatius Barnes. Norway. 5 June 1942.
The cold morning air stung Barnes’s face. He stumbled out of the sea cave and moved stiffly along the shore, his left side dragging as he walked. Behind him, the warhead detonated with an explosive roar, triggering the other torpedoes and collapsing the cave entrance, burying the U-boat pen and the base. The blast blew him onto the frozen shingle. Rolling flames from ignited diesel lit the gloomy morning, and a wave of heat washed over him as he lay on the ground.
The storm had broken during the night. A dense grey fog drifted across the North Atlantic, masking the horizon. The tide washed gently against the rocks.
Barnes sat in the damp sand. His injured left arm throbbed. He set the grimoire down beside him, he’d no doubt Command would want to see it. Pulling out the hip flask of schnapps, he took a drink to fend off the chill. He reached for his locket with his right hand. Opening it, Natasha smiled back at him, as he remembered her.
Barnes pulled a crushed cigarette from his pocket, placing it between his lips. Striking a match against a rough stone, he cupped the flame, inhaled the harsh smoke, and let it out in a long sigh.
A grey silhouette pierced the mist. The sleek bow of a Royal Navy high speed launch cut through the dark water. The vessel moved cautiously towards the coastline. Barnes read the painted letters of its parent ship on the hull.
HMS Foxglove.
He took another drag as the ship drew closer through the fog.
Tales of the Macabre
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