January 2024 Newsletter
EDITORIAL
Okay, let’s try this one more time.
I’ve been on the internet for – Lordy – more than twenty years. I’ve had some form of blog for around fifteen of those, and been haunting message boards and social media for nearly all of it. Ever since I started this writing gig, every few years I’ll try and optimise my online presence through a variety of synergistic tactics and brand strategies. Or, more simply, I keep starting blogs and newsletters and what have you.
None of them last. Nothing lasts, really. The longer I’m on it, the more I’m convinced that the internet is a vast psychomanteum…it’s all mirrors and darkness and reflected candlelight. You scratch out messages and hope that someone, somewhere, sees and understands them.
This time around, I’m keeping things simple. Every month, at the end of the month, I will post a newsletter. Free to read, free to subscribe to. Each one will contain the same mix of stuff – an editorial, the latest news, and a monthly story. The latter will be mostly, if not all, reprints. Simple and to the point.
Since this is technically a blog and not a proper newsletter, there may come a day where I post other stuff. Essays, reviews and what not – things I have done before and would like to do again, but can’t be arsed at the moment.
The sad fact is, I’m tired. I’ve had Covid three times in three years and I no longer possess the mental resilience of my misbegotten youth. My brain is barely limping along and I cannot be having with extra work at this point. I’ve got a kid and a dog and a garden that needs weeding. I’ve got books that need reading and movies that need watching. I mean, I finally found a copy of Dark Intruder (1965), starring Leslie Nielsen as occult investigator and playboy, Brett Kingsford, that I’m looking forward to watching but haven’t yet because of deadlines.
So, this is it. The last stand. This far, and no further. My back is to the sea, my boats aflame, and my sword heavy in my hand. Here, I plant my flag.
At least until something shinier comes along. Or I decide to become a social media hermit, which is looking more appealing with each passing year.
But until then, here we are. Me and hopefully thee.
Welcome to my psychomanteum. Mind the candle.
NEWS
It’s early days yet in 2024, but things are a-changing. As of today, a few of my long-term contracts are coming to a close, leaving me with that most dreaded of foes – free time. I’m finishing up my next novel for Aconyte – A Bitter Taste, noted below – and preparing for the one I’ll be writing over the summer (Return of the Monster-Men) for Edgar Rice Burroughs Inc. But more on that later.
I’m not certain what I’ll be working on when I finish up A Bitter Taste; I’ve got a few short stories on the go that I’d like to finish before the summer, as well as a two novels in progress. But even so, my schedule is relatively light at the moment. It’s an odd feeling. I haven’t had this much free time in – oh, years. Years and years.
I’m not certain that I like it.
Anyway, here’s this month’s new releases.
New Novel – A Bitter Taste: A Daidoji Shin Mystery
The fifth Daidoji Shin Mystery will be out later this year, but its up for preorder now if that’s the sort of thing you’d like to do. The novel ties together a number of the dangling strands from previous books and introduces some new ones, just to keep things interesting.
This time around, Shin is accused of a crime he didn’t commit and must go on the run, pursued by a posse of Crane auditors and a dogged Kitsuki investigator. It’s a bit of a spoiler, not to mention a cliché, but after this one – things will never be the same. If you’d like to catch up on the story thus far (and I encourage you to do so if you haven’t), be sure to check out the rest of the series.
New Reprint – “A Tiger’s Heart, A Player’s Hide”
Not really a new short story, but a reprint, courtesy of Occult Detective Magazine’s Cthulhu Mythos Special 2, which will be out soon-ish. Still, possibly new to someone reading this. One of my favourites, as a matter of fact. It’s a Royal Occultist story, but one that takes place during the tenure of the first to hold the office, Dr. John Dee, and sees him matching wits with a cosmic horror known as Sebastian Melmoth.
Melmoth, of course, first appeared in an earlier Royal Occultist story, “The Gotterdammerung Gavotte”, set a few centuries later. “A Tiger’s Heart…” originally appeared in 2016, in the Snow Books anthology, Shakespeare Vs Cthulhu.
MONTHLY STORY
This month’s story is a firm favourite of mine – “The Campo”, which first appeared in 2020, in the Pavane Press anthology, A Winter’s Tale. It’s equal parts M.R. James homage, Manly Wade Wellman pastiche and a love letter to La Serenissima. Venice has a weird power over me; I’d live there, if I could, aqua alta and all. That said, this story perhaps does not portray it in the best of lights, but hey-ho…
Venice in winter is a solemn sight.
The colors are muted, the canals dark. A sort of resigned solemnity hangs over the city. Tourists are thin on the ground and a pervasive silence shrouds the twisty streets. The city is a shadow of itself, and I said as much as my companion and I ambled along the empty, winding paths of the Cannaregio.
“I love this time of year,” Moultrie drawled, in amiable disagreement. He was a few years older than me, though you wouldn’t know it despite the silver in his hair. My hair hadn’t gone gray yet, but I’d lost so much of it, it didn’t matter. “One can breathe and see, without the threat of crowds of sweaty tourists and their gelato.”
“I thought you liked gelato.”
Moultrie chuckled. “I admit, I’m particularly fond of that place we went over near the Misericordia earlier.” He patted his stomach and smiled contentedly. “Still, sometimes it’s hard to see the city for the people, if you follow me.”
“Is that why you invited me along, then? To see the city?” I pulled my coat tighter. The sky was still a smear of pink and orange overhead but night came swift to Venice, and brought a biting Adriatic chill with it. “Not that I’m against a vacation,” I added.
Moultrie gave me a lazy look. “You didn’t think twice about coming with me, Fowler. Not looking forward to spending the holidays alone?”
Being recently divorced, the jab hit home. I grunted and shook my head. “Sometimes I wonder why you and I are friends.”
He opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by a sudden cry. It was thin and sharp – a child’s yelp, abruptly truncated. We looked at one another, all thought of our burgeoning disagreement forgotten. “This way,” Moultrie said, and took off. I followed with only a moment’s hesitation.
The cry came again, closer this time – or so it seemed. Around us, the shadows lengthened as the sun shrank. The city was so small in the daylight. But as night came on, the streets unfurled and it became something vast and unknowable.
We followed the echoes across one of the little footbridges that connected the islands and down a narrow, unfamiliar street. I had no idea where we were, or whether we were even still in the same sestiere.
Finally, we slowed, listening. But the only sound we heard was that of our own footsteps on the damp stones. “Whatever it is seems to be over,” Moultrie said, his tone doubtful. “It might have just been kids roughhousing. I think – wait, what’s that?”
I spied the church even as he spoke. It nestled between several taller buildings at the end of the narrow alleyway, as if trying to remain inconspicuous. It was the smallest such structure I’d seen in Venice – barely more than a chapel with a square, gothic façade. “Odd place to find a church,” he continued. “They’re usually located on or near the campi.”
Curious now, we drew closer. A pair of stone angels guarded the doors, slouched like weary sentries, their wings folded, heads bowed. I paused, struck by their expressions – there was weariness there, but also a fierce alertness.
Moultrie must have had similar thoughts. “Sentries on the walls of Paradise,” he murmured, as he gave a cursory rattle of the doors. “Locked.”
“Is that so surprising?” I realized that the church wasn’t quite centred. Instead, it was angled slightly, so that the eyes of the angels were turned towards the all but hidden entrance to an unobtrusive side-street.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Moultrie said, when I directed his attentions to it. “I wonder if that’s where our crier in the night is. Or was.” As he spoke, he patted absently at his coat and then sighed. He’d stopped smoking the year before on orders from his doctor, but hadn’t shaken the habits of a lifetime. “Maybe we should check it out.”
“It’s getting dark,” I said. “Let’s head back to the flat. Or, better, go find dinner.” My stomach gurgled as if in agreement. Moultrie gave me an amused smile.
“Just a quick look.” He started down the side-street. “Just in case.”
I wanted to argue, but knew better. Moultrie had a passion for the outré, the stranger the better. Like me, he was a folklorist, though his interests were more wide-ranging than mine. He wrote on everything from ancient ballads to thoughtforms, and did the odd bit of consulting for friends in Hollywood.
I kept to more respectable paths, hoping to reach the end of the tenure-track before I was too old to appreciate it. But even so, I envied his freedom. Perhaps that was why I jumped at every opportunity to accompany him, my responsibilities permitting. Or why I followed him down dark alleys, when I damn well knew better.
A building blocked off the end of the street, but a thin, claustrophobic archway had been cut into the foundation. An iron gate hung ajar, its hinges rusted and a loose chain looped about it. I wanted to turn back, but Moultrie tapped his lips for silence. A moment later a thin, light sound trickled out of the passage.
I realized that it was muffled laughter, childish and shrill. I began to wonder if this were all some form of elaborate prank. “Let’s leave them to it,” I said. “Whatever this is.”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious? Come on,” Moultrie said, as he made to squeeze through the gap. I considered abandoning him, but only for a moment. With a sigh, I followed him and we soon found ourselves in a smallish campo.
There was a disconcerting absence of the usual newsagents, cafes and the like. The few visible doorways were boarded over, and the windows bricked up. Odder still, there were no other entrances. It was as if the campo had been utterly severed from the city by common agreement.
The only occupant of the square was a lonely wellhead sitting at its heart, equidistant from the surrounding buildings. Something about it put me on edge, though I couldn’t say what. Perhaps it was the way the shadows cast by the setting sun danced across the nearby stones. Moultrie seemed equally discomfited. “The buildings look as if they’re leaning away from it, don’t they?” he murmured.
“This is Venice. Everything is leaning or sinking or both.”
Moultrie shrugged. “Maybe. You never read de Castries, did you?”
“I’m not familiar with the name, no. Why?”
“No reason. Not your field, really. He theorized that the stones of cities held onto memories – bad ones especially. That they played them over and over again, refusing to let them fade. Sort of a precursor to the stone tape theory.”
“I don’t see anyone,” I said, refusing to be drawn into another argument about residual hauntings. My words fell flat on the air. It was too quiet here. The only sound was the slap of water against the sides of the canals.
Moultrie looked around. “Maybe it was a cat.” He was hunched slightly, hands thrust into his pockets, head bent, shoulders folded. I thought maybe it was just the cold. I felt it myself, seeping through the material of my coat. A piercing damp, and the taste of salt on the tip of my tongue. The chill I’d felt before hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had only gotten worse. Feeling nervous, I cleared my throat. “Come on. Let’s go get dinner.”
Moultrie started across the square. “I want to take a closer look at that wellhead first.”
“It’s just a well. There are hundreds of them in the city.”
Moultrie didn’t reply. I hurried after him, and as I caught up to him, the thought struck me that the stillness of our surroundings was not simply silence, but somehow anticipatory. As if some unseen giant had inhaled suddenly at the sight of us. I tried to dismiss the thought as we neared the wellhead, but I couldn’t shake my growing unease.
My grandmother had always maintained that she had a touch of the sight. Sometimes I wondered if I had it as well, for I was unduly sensitive to certain quirks of atmosphere and temperature. But I’d never seen a ghost, and had no wish to do so. I’d been inside one or two supposedly haunted houses in the course of my research, but never felt anything like what I was feeling now.
It was as if we were being watched – though by who or what, I couldn’t say. There was nonetheless a definite air of observation about the campo. A watchfulness that I found increasingly oppressive. “It will still be here in the morning,” I said, as we reached the wellhead. “We can come back. Unless you think it’s Venice’s answer to Brigadoon.”
Moultrie laughed. “Hardly. I doubt either of us will find a new love here.”
I felt a sharp pang at his words. I missed Ellen more than I cared to admit. Moultrie saw the look on my face and sighed. “It’s no use moping, Fowler. Like they say, if you keep picking at it, it’ll never heal.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, sourly. “And I’m not moping.”
Moultrie laughed again and crouched down in front of the wellhead. He pulled off a glove, and gently traced a faded grotesquery carved onto the front of the wellhead, his expression intent.
For my part, I felt only revulsion as I studied the faint sheen of mould that clung to the whitewashed Istria stone. It was on the stones and walls of the nearby buildings as well. But it rose thickest around what I thought must be faint cracks in the foundation of the wellhead. An image of what it might look like inside rose up unbidden and my stomach gave a querulous twitch. I wasn’t hungry anymore.
I spied several nearby drains that might once have collected rainwater. Upon a closer inspection, I realized that they had been filled with lead, effectively sealing them. “Moultrie – take a look at this.”
He grunted, wholly focused on his study of the grotesquery. Shaking my head, I took in the curved metal lid and the smooth grooves around the rim where ropes had been used to haul up buckets. My eyes strayed to the trio of heavy padlocks that kept the lid sealed. It was usually done with bolts or melted lead. I wondered why this one was different.
I lifted one of the padlocks, and something – a loose sliver of metal, perhaps – stung my palm. I drew it back and saw that rust and mould stained my hand. Disgusted, I wiped it on my coat. “I’m ready to go,” I said, palm still smarting.
Moultrie glanced up. “Not yet. Look at this.”
“It’s just a carving.”
“Not the carving. Below it.” I stooped and saw that letters had been carved into the stone beneath the grotesquery. “How’s your Latin?” he asked.
“Worse than my Italian.” I gave it a shot regardless. Even with the aid of the flashlight app on my phone, I couldn’t make out the words.
Moultrie had better luck. “Hic…jacet…something,” he sounded out, tracing the letters with his fingertips. “Last word is too faded to make out.” He sat back on his heels, clearly frustrated.
“Here lies,” I translated, after wracking my memories of high school Latin. I stood abruptly, suddenly aware of the cold and the shadows that surrounded us. The sun was almost gone now, and the last dregs of light drifted across us. Soon the campo would be shrouded in darkness. “Here lies whom?”
“That is the question, ain’t it?” Moultrie pushed himself to his feet. “I’m going to take some pictures.” He began to rummage for his phone.
“Let’s go,” I said. “We’ll come back tomorrow. When the light’s better.”
“What’s the hurry?” Moultrie said.
“I’m hungry,” I lied. “Aren’t you?”
Moultrie retrieved his phone. “Dinner can wait.”
“So can this.”
He paused and turned. “Something wrong, Fowler?”
“Low blood sugar,” I said, letting a bit of sharpness creep in. My hand still hurt so it was easy enough. Moultrie got a familiar mulish look on his face and made as if to argue.
Salvation came in the form of a priest, or so I judged him to be from his vestments. An older man, with flyaway white hair and lined features, he shouted something in Italian, so quickly I couldn’t catch it. From his gestures he looked to be haranguing us. Indeed, he seemed desperate to get our attention.
Moultrie slid his phone back into his pocket and went to intercept the newcomer. His Italian was better than mine, and soon they were chatting away. Moultrie could be charming, when he put his mind to it.
As they talked, my attentions strayed to the edges of the campo, where the shadows were deepest. For an instant, I thought I glimpsed something – a flash of movement, or maybe a face – but it was over and gone before I could tell what it was.
I realized that it had gone quiet, and that the priest was looking at me. So was Moultrie. Both of them had queer looks on their faces, and I wondered if they’d seen it as well. “We’re being asked to leave,” Moultrie said.
“How unfortunate.”
Moultrie smiled. “But he’ll show us around the church tomorrow, if we like.”
I sighed. “I assume we do.”
Moultrie’s smile widened, but he didn’t reply. The evening shadows stretched across the campo as we headed back the way we’d come, led by the priest. It was as if they – or something – were following us. I imagined a stealthy, catlike padding in our wake, and, unable to help myself, I looked back.
The campo was utterly dark, utterly still. A sudden metallic clang startled me. It sounded as if something heavy had fallen to the ground. I thought of the padlocks, though I could not say why. Maybe they weren’t as solidly fastened as they’d appeared.
I wasn’t the only one who heard it, for the priest whirled. His face was pale, his eyes wide. “Lei si agita…” he murmured, and hastily crossed himself. Moultrie glanced at me, eyebrow raised, but said nothing as the priest pushed past us and hurried back through the gate. He urged us on with frantic gestures and slammed the gate shut after we’d squeezed through it. He hauled the chain tight, and snapped a shiny new padlock in place.
“The old one broke,” Moultrie explained, as we walked back to the church. “He was out getting a new one before the shops closed. That’s why he wasn’t around to tell us off earlier when we went in.”
“Before we trespassed, you mean.” I paused. “Did you tell him about the children?”
“Didn’t seem relevant.”
“They might still be in there.”
Moultrie shrugged. “I doubt it.”
It was only when we reached the little church that I felt able to relax. The sensation of pursuit faded as we passed beneath the stony gaze of the two guardian angels and I allowed myself a sigh of relief. The priest seemed equally relieved. He spoke to Moultrie again, and they shook hands. He didn’t offer to do the same with me, for which I was peculiarly pleased.
“What was that he said as we were leaving?” I asked, as Moultrie finally joined me. “Something about someone getting angry?” I rubbed my hand as I spoke, trying to ease the growing ache. It felt as if a sliver of metal was stuck in my palm.
“Or waking up,” Moultrie said. “My conversational Italian isn’t much better than yours. Maybe we disturbed someone in one of the houses near the campo.”
“Hard to believe. I didn’t see any lights.”
“Doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”
I looked back towards the campo, half expecting to see a child’s face pressed to the bars of the gate. But there was nothing there, save shadows.
After we left the church, we had a satisfying dinner at an establishment that Waugh had referred to as ‘the English bar’ in one of his novels. Or so Moultrie claimed. I’d never gotten on with Waugh, being more a Wodehouse man. Despite our differing opinions on literature, I tried the shrimp risotto on Moultrie’s recommendation. I wasn’t disappointed. Then, if there’s one thing Venetians do well, it’s sea food.
The meal was expensive, as were the drinks, but Moultrie was covering both, so I didn’t give it much thought. The place was a tourist trap, but we were tourists, so it seemed fitting. We’d gotten seats near a window, and I had a good view of the waterfront.
As we ate, Moultrie expounded his theories about the iron hook set at the apex of one of the city’s bridges – how you were supposed to tap it for luck, and if you refused, you invited disaster. I only half-listened, watching the last embers of the sun vanish into the wide, black sea. Idly, I thought of other sunsets and the wood frame mill house in West Columbia where Ellen and I had lived. Where I still lived.
We’d spent the better part of a decade turning the place into a home, but without her, it felt empty – hollow. As if she’d somehow taken all the joy with her when she’d left. Given how much I’d taken for granted during our marriage, a part of me thought it was only fair that she be allowed to keep the happy memories, few as they were. Fair or not, it hurt all the same. Perhaps Moultrie was right, and I’d gone with him to escape being alone.
I was still thinking of my broken marriage when I saw the woman. I almost mistook her for Ellen at first. She had the same dark hair, the same olive complexion. It was only when I took a second glance that I realized my mistake. Her eyes met mine for an instant and slid away. I felt there was something odd about her, but couldn’t say what. My hand throbbed suddenly and I turned my attentions back to my food.
I pushed the thought aside and, feeling somewhat bolstered by our well-lit surroundings, said, “So what were you two chatting about? You and the priest.”
“Hmm?” Moultrie said, as I interrupted his train of thought. “Oh, I asked him about the wellhead. I wanted to see if he knew what the inscription meant.”
“And?”
“He does.”
“And did he tell you?”
“He did not.” He traced thin lines of condensation on the table as he spoke, as if drawing a map. “In fact, he seemed quite agitated by the question.”
I recognized the look on his face immediately. “Is that why you want to go back?” I glanced out the window. The movement of the water made me think of the shadows in the campo. Suddenly no longer hungry, I pushed my plate aside.
“Part of the reason.” Moultrie took a swallow of his beer before continuing. “The wellhead…the campo…it reminds me of something. A story, I think.”
“What sort of story?” I heard a low laugh and turned. The woman again, talking to someone perhaps. She laughed again, and I felt the sound deep in my bones. She was attractive, but that wasn’t it. Unnerved, I looked away.
Moultrie shook his head. “I’m not sure. I seem to recall it was about someone being immured, like Fortunato, but I might be confusing it with something else.”
“For the love of God, Montresor,” I said, and finished my drink.
“Something like that. There was a crime committed – something nasty. Nastier than warranted a clean execution, I guess.”
I shivered slightly at the thought. “Not a good way to go.”
Moultrie laughed and signalled for the bill. “Is there such a thing?”
I was about to reply when I caught what I thought to be a hint of furtive movement at the window. At first, I took it to be a reflection, but there was no one behind me. It was as if someone were peering in at us. Then, between one moment and the next, it – she – was gone, and there was only the night pressing against the glass. The waitress came over then, and I forgot what I’d been about to say.
The walk back was quiet, save for a brief moment’s disruption. A sharp sound echoed through the streets, and we stopped, startled. There had been a definite metallic quality to the noise, but I could not think what it might be. At the instant it had occurred, my hand had spasmed. There was no blood, no sign of a wound, but it still hurt nonetheless.
As the spasm faded, I thought I heard someone singing. Far away at first, but drawing closer. A gondolier perhaps, or a drunk. The song was in Italian – must have been in Italian. It seemed at once plaintive and demanding, and then it was fading away, fading north into the convolutions of the Cannaregio. Moultrie was talking about something inconsequential and didn’t appear to have noticed. I said nothing. What was there to say?
By the time we got back to our little rented flat in the Cannaregio, the pain had faded to a dull ache. The alcohol had likely helped. I choked down a pair of aspirin and bid Moultrie a good evening. I was asleep so quickly, I barely had time to shed my shoes.
That night I dreamed of the wellhead.
Or, to be more accurate, I dreamed of Venice. Of narrow streets and lagoon mist, of deep shadows and muffled voices. I half-stirred, thinking Moultrie had fallen asleep with the television on again, but as I sank once more, I realized they were the voices of children. Laughing, singing, crying out. Running along the canals, and I was chasing them. I didn’t recall leaving the flat, but I must have done.
I tried to catch them, but they slipped away from me just as I got close. Just as my hand – was it my hand? – snapped shut, shy of an arm. It felt as if they were all around me, pressing close and then whirling away, like leaves in a strong wind. I called out, but they only laughed all the louder. I thought they might have been calling out a name – but not mine.
Ellen and I had never discussed children. It was something other people did, having a child. But hearing their laughter, a pang cut through me. Made me wonder what if.
They led me on a riotous gallop through the streets until I was once more standing in the empty campo, with no idea how I’d gotten there or why they’d brought me. Before I could ask, I heard a clang and my tormentors went instantly silent.
I turned. The wellhead sat in the center of the square. Three padlocks lay rusted and forgotten on the ground. Somewhere, a child began to weep. Then another, and another, until the stones echoed with disconsolate wailing.
Someone began to sing. Softly at first, and then more loudly. As if they were drawing steadily nearer over some vast distance. As they did so, the wailing faded and soon was drowned out entirely by the unseen singer. I thought it might have been the same song I’d heard earlier.
It was coming from the wellhead. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something move, but ignored it. The wellhead was the whole of my world in that moment and I went to it, stumbling on numb feet.
I could hear only the singer now, and her voice – it was a her, I was certain – was unsettlingly familiar. Ellen, or maybe the woman from the restaurant. In my head, they became one and the same. But what was she doing here? I called out to her, softly at first. The singer paused, and then started anew.
I reached out with my aching hand. The unlocked lid scraped against its rim, as if something were pressing insistently against it from below. Was she trapped down there? I don’t know why the idea had occurred to me, but suddenly I couldn’t shake it. I knew – I knew – she was down there.
She was down there and she needed me. Needed my help. She was calling out to me. But still, I hesitated. Something held me back. The whispers of children, the feel of small fingers plucking at my legs, my elbows. The singing became a raw, red rasp of sound. It didn’t sound like a woman anymore. Instead, it reminded me of an animal’s growl. It sawed at the air and my ears. Demanding. Greedy.
Something that panted in my ear, just over my shoulder. A low laugh, but not that of a woman. Eyes like twin lamps caught mine, and shaggy hair brushed against my cheek.
I smelled – God, that smell…
Then I heard the bells of the little church sounding as if from a great distance. And wings – pigeons, I thought, but so many and so loud it was like soft thunder. The rasp of sound rose to a shrill shriek and I was falling back – back…my head connected with something hard and the pain jolted me awake.
“Fowler. Fowler!”
I was on the ground. Moultrie crouched above me, shaking me. Nearby, the priest was watching, his lined features set in a solemn expression. It was morning, early enough that the sky was a blur of pink and purple. I was wet – cold. I tried to push myself up, and a jolt of pain pulsed through my hand. I gasped and pulled the injured limb to my chest. “Where – what…?” I croaked, utterly bewildered.
I was in the campo. But it had only been a dream – hadn’t it? Moultrie leaned close, concern etched onto his face. “You were gone when I woke up. Thought you’d gone out for coffee, but you hadn’t bothered to put on your shoes.” He gestured to my feet, and I realized they were bare and aching. As if I’d been running across cold stones all night.
“I don’t understand. Was I sleep walking?”
Moultrie hesitated and glanced at the priest. The old man looked away, his eyes straying to the wellhead. His expression was one of resignation. I wondered if it had been him ringing the bells I’d heard in my dreams.
“In a sense.” Moultrie helped me to my feet. “We found the padlock on the ground. Broken just like the last one.”
“It wasn’t me,” I protested. Again Moultrie looked at the priest, and I had the feeling that some understanding had passed between them.
“Era lei,” the priest muttered and made the sign of the cross in the direction of the wellhead. Moultrie nodded and looked at me.
“No, he knows.”
“What was I doing? Why was I on the ground?”
“You fell – I think we startled you. As to what you were doing, no need to worry about it. You didn’t manage it, whatever it was.” As he spoke, the priest replaced the padlocks reverentially, his lips moving in what I took to be a silent prayer. When the last one was clicked shut, I felt a sense of relief that I could not explain.
“I don’t understand.” My head felt foggy. I looked at my hand. My palm was raw and bleeding, as if the flesh had scraped – or gnawed.
Moultrie was looking at my hand as well. “This has happened before, I think. Come on, let’s get you out of here.” He helped me back to the church, the priest following us. As the angels came into sight, I thought again of the sound of wingbeats. I could barely recall the dream now, though it had seemed so vivid while it was occurring.
“Someone was singing…a woman?” I said, hesitantly.
The priest spat on the ground. I realized somewhat belatedly that he must understand English. He shook his head. “Non una donna,” he said solemnly. “E morto da tempo, inoltre.”
I looked back at Moultrie. “The children…I heard them too. Just as we did earlier. I – I followed them, I think.”
Moultrie did not meet my gaze as he helped me sit on the church steps. “No children come here, Fowler. Not for a long time. They know better, these days.” He looked at the priest. “The only ones at risk are tourists.”
“At risk from what?”
The priest smiled sadly. “Il ricordo di una corsa malvagia.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, as they helped me inside. Moultrie glanced back towards the passage, his expression solemn.
“Just a bad memory,” he said, softly. “One that refuses to fade.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s see to that hand and go get a coffee.” He forced a smile.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use one.”
And that’s it for this month. If you made it this far, thanks for giving it a read and possibly even subscribing. I hope you enjoyed this back-to-basics newsletter. Check back next time for more new releases (hopefully) and a new (old) monthly story.
But for now, to paraphrase the estimable Carnacki – out you go!
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