Marty Lucas was ten again, and wandering through a misty graveyard. It was dusk, and the place was eerily quiet.
The mist clung to his bare feet and surged in great, lazy waves over his knees as Marty struggled to move. Every step felt as though he were walking through molasses, and he strained to life his legs for each step.
Around him, behind him, there was a great, heavy presence, something huge and dangerous coming up behind him. Marty tried to turn his head to see, but something prevented him.
Ahead, figures loomed out of the mist. He gasped; three big men stood in front of him, beckoning for him to come forwards to meet him. Two of the men looked really old and grey, and dressed in some really out of date clothing; but the third man, the one on the right ...
Marty tried to yell "Dad," but his lips refused to work. He surged on ahead, edging ever closer to his parents, to safety.
Suddenly, he felt cold, clammy darkness close about his waist. Whatever it was, is had him about the waist and was lifting him off the ground. Marty struggled against the darkness holding him, in vain. He closed his eyes as the breath came out of him ...
There was a burst of golden light. Marty opened his eyes, looked down, saw the impossible. The old men were standing in front of the being of darkness, holding their hands out.
Manifesting edges ...
The policeman who knocked on Mrs Spencer's house was tall, dark haired and slim with soulful brown eyes. The WPC beside him was shorter, with deep blue eyes and short, neat blonde hair.
Mrs Spencer opened the door, looked at the two police officers standing there. Mrs Spencer's hair was mousey, slightly greying. She wore spectacles, and she was slightly taller than the WPC, although presently she was still in the wheelchair the hospital had loaned her.
"Mrs Spencer?" asked the policeman. "I'm PC Croft, and this is WPC Brennan."
"Can I help you?" she asked. "Only, my husband's due home any minute. I do wish he'd phone me. He said he'd be there to pick me up from the hospital, but he never arrived."
"May we come in, Mrs Spencer?" asked the policeman. "It's important."
Mrs Spencer led the police officers into the house, where they stood before her, solemnly.
"I'm very busy right now," the woman said. "Trying to get everything in order. It's so hard, after surgery, and the hospital said I had to come home right away, because they didn't have any beds for outpatient care." She sighed, pushed the wheelchair towards the kitchen. "Can I get either of you a cup of tea?"
"Mrs Spencer," said PC Croft, "I'm afraid we've brought some very bad news for you. It might be better if WPC Brennan makes you the cuppa ... I think you're going to need it."
Cleaner244, her cheeks flushed from the workout, slowed her bicycle to a crawl as she rounded the country bend, and saw the police cars and the small crowd.
A policeman came up to the redhead, shook his head. His expression was grim; his face, ashen grey. "Sorry, love," he said, "you can't come this way."
"What's happened?"
"There's been a multiple murder, Miss," the young copper said. "If you want to get to Cutts' Grove or Goatswood farm, you'll have to go round Taplin way."
"Oh no. That's twenty miles out of me way, and I live in Cutts' Grove," Cleaner whined.
"Hold on, then, love, I'll try and see what I can do," the policeman said. "You stay there. I'll talk to the people in charge, see if they can free up the road."
"All right, ta," Cleaner replied. As the policeman turned to wander back towards the cordon, Cleaner reached inside herself and turned on the sight with a little grunt of effort.
Instantly, things stood out in relief. The copper was young, inexperienced, but as far as Cleaner could see he was normal, if a little shaken by what he had seen.
But there was something wrong in the area, although Cleaner couldn't exactly say what it was. And the source of the wrongness came from the field where the murder had occurred.
Cleaner looked at the tracks heading towards the huge gap in the hedge. With the sight on, there was nothing apparently supernatural or unclean about the scene. Whoever it was who'd done this, they'd driven in through the hedge and done the deed in the field, possibly pulling out and driving away somewhere.
The policeman came back, mumbled something about giving Cleaner clearance, as long as she passed through the area on her bike and didn't stop to dawdle or gawk; something about being very busy, and no time to waste being on traffic control duty.
Dutifully, she got on the bike, pedalled it past the police, who kindly lifted the cordon to let her pass. As she drew by the scene, she looked in the field, caught a glimpse of the carnage, and the disturbing sight of a neat row of white - sheeted shapes on the ground, awaiting loading into a coroner's van.
She also caught a glimpse of the pattern of tread marks in the ground.
"This is the BBC News, presented by Huw Edwards."
"Good afternoon. The brutal murder of a TV crew has shocked the locals of a sleepy village in Cheshire.
"Police have been at the scene of the tragic killing, which took place in a field between Peterleigh and Taplin. The film crew were completing filming of the TV archaeology show "Hidden Legacy" for the BBC Knowledge digital channel. Their deaths come at a time when the public in the area are already reeling from the confirmation of the first foot and mouth outbreak in nearby Goatswood Farm.
"At present, no further information is available as to the exact death list, but concerned families will be notified as soon as the remains can be identified.
"A police spokesman has stated that a press conference has been scheduled for later this afternoon. We will keep you informed on any updates then.
"The future of the show could now be in serious jeopardy, if its main presenter, Sheila Armstrong, is among the list of casualties. Already, letters from local celebrities expressing concern are flooding regional BBC studios.
"Still in Cheshire, farmers around the region are in fear for their herds as the foot and mouth epidemic sweeping Britain claims another case: this one confirmed in Goatswood Farm, near Taplin …"
"They led in a circle around the murder site," Cleaner reported later that day to Libra and the gang. "The car obviously needed to turn around, if it was going to come back the way it came, so it turned in the field."
"Right over two of the victims," Libra said. "The owners of the vehicle?"
"Only the driver was in charge," Cleaner said. "The woman was his PA. Apparently, they'd been having an affair together. According to the report, they came out to the country for a bit of a fling, having already had sex once in his office."
Libra and Vestal exchanged glances, said nothing.
"They found a layby somewhere else, and did it there, and then - and this bit makes no sense at all - drove into a field where there was a TV show being recorded, killed everybody with blunt instruments - tyre irons - and smashed up the equipment. And then somebody else takes over the car, drives over the two killers lying prone on the floor in his car, and drives off.
"None of it makes sense at all, does it?"
Libra shook his head, steepling his hands and looking stern.
"Did you get an impression of what was wrong, or unclean?" he asked.
"The bodies were on site still," Cleaner replied. "The unclean feeling was strongest there."
"On all the bodies, or just some of them?" Vagabond asked.
"What are you trying to say here?" Cleaner said.
"Could it be that you were looking at the bodies of two victims, who got killed when their usefulness had been outlived?" Vagabond replied. "You ride, Cleaner. What'd happen if your bike got too clapped out to ride any more?"
Cleaner's eyes widened. "They'd been possessed by something?"
"Could be," Libra replied. "That, or some sort of mind control. A witch or warlock spell, maybe. Couldn't be vampires, could it?"
"Not unless they like to stay awake during the day and not move around their basements too much," Vagabond said. "Though I'll wager some vampires might be capable of riding inside people's bodies so they can experience the day safely, I'm putting my bets down on it more likely being hitchhikers."
"Ghosts with a thing for possession," Vestal explained to Libra's slight look of confusion. "His first imbuing was in front of a hitchhiking spirit."
"Oh yeah," Libra replied, to Vestal. "You said."
"Any chance of our being allowed to visit the site tonight?" Libra asked Cleaner.
"Don't see why not," Cleaner replied. "The police have gathered what evidence they could find, and they've buggered off. The field's wide open. The insurance chap came and took photos of the scene for the property damage claim, so the owner's happy and not too inclined to hang around either. He might try to pop back late tonight, maybe, to increase the damage to the land, maybe add weight to the compensation claim, but I don't think he's going to notice a couple of crop circle investigators as long as we don't step in front of his tractor."
Everyone laughed, except Libra and Vagabond.
"You know what you need to do," he told Vagabond.
"I'll get myself ready," Vagabond replied.
"Any insights on that puzzle, Zeiss?" Libra asked Zeiss, as the latter hunched over his laptop. Zeiss looked up, shook his head.
"No. As far as any imbued is aware, the first of us emerged out of whole cloth some unspecified date in August 1999, or thereabouts. The exact month is hard to pin down - except that there were no imbued in existence in June 1999 or earlier, and that's a fact."
"None?"
"Absolutely none whatsoever."
Libra looked at the puzzling photo, which Zeiss had scanned to disk and posted, encrypted, to every net hunter who could help. "It doesn't make sense, either."
"Either?"
"Dead bodies out in the countryside," Libra said. "And this ... these symbols. Who'd know about The Word two hundred years ago?"
"Nobody," Zeiss replied.
"But somebody took the time to engrave it on this guy's headstone. Who is this Isiah Lucas, anyway?"
"Vagabond's ancestor," Zeiss replied. There was an ominous pause.
"What did you just say?" Libra said.
"Vagabond's - Martin's - ancestor was called Isiah," Zeiss said. "He told me, when he was describing this morning's dream to me - hey, where are you going? -"
The library of Libra's home had been converted into an office away from work, with full broadband access to the premises. Libra's desk sat in the corner away from the large bay window onto the street. The office was lined with bookshelves bearing antiquated books. Libra led Vagabond into the office, seated him in the chill section beside the window. A moment later, Cleaner entered with a tray with tiny cups and some green tea.
"One of your ancestors," Libra said to Vagabond, "lies buried with what looks like hunter sign on his headstone ... two hundred years ago. How? And more importantly, why?"
"I - I haven't a clue," Vagabond said, holding his head in his hands. "It's doing my head in."
"Here," Libra said, offering Vagabond the tiny cup. Vagabond accepted it, winced at the taste.
"It'll calm you," Libra replied. "Go on."
"It's all tied to this dream I have been having of late."
"A dream? About what?"
"I dream," Vagabond said, "of things that are impossible. I dream of family members, ancestors of mine and even my own father who died in 1988, all of them manifesting edges as if they were all imbued."
"But ... that is impossible," Libra said.
"I know," Vagabond said. "And not for the reasons you think. I knew my Dad. He wouldn't have raised a finger to harm a thing. He was the kindest man, always giving of himself to help others in need in his community. The idea of him turning out like me ... raising my fists to hurt things, to fight ... let alone the fact that he's manifesting edges in my dream ... impossible. All of it."
"And yet, this dream ... it's recurring?" Libra asked. Vagabond nodded.
"And we could be facing hitchhikers in town," he added to Vagabond, who turned to face Libra, dawning comprehension in his eyes.
"Could this be some sort of ghostly trick being played on me while I sleep?" Vagabond asked. "Maybe they're sneaking into my head, doing these things to me."
"Whatever it is," Vagabond replied, "we're going to clean out your room tonight and have Cleaner walk the compound and stand watch. Anything crosses the perimeter, she'll wake you up and tell you. All right?"
Vagabond nodded.
"Because, if I recall rightly, you're going to be hitting the sack pretty hard, once you've opened yourself up to whatever it is we're going to find out in that field tonight."
The car formerly owned by the late Gordon Spencer was found abandoned on the outskirts of Chester, in a car park operating a park and ride scheme. Apart from the mud and grass inside the car, nothing had been touched. The car had not been vandalised.
But of the occupants, there was no sign.
Nor, in the end, was there any sign of Sheila Armstrong or of the cameraman, Kevin White, among the bodies at the scene. Identification of the bodies had been relatively easy - the killers had not bothered to attempt to cover their tracks in any way.
There was every indication that the couple who'd killed the TV show team, Gordon and his mistress had also had sex in the back of Gordon's car. DNA tests on semen and hair samples showed that the couple who'd had sex last in the car were, in fact, Sheila and Kevin: an act which caused the police considerable consternation, because Kevin was well known in Chester's thriving gay scene ... and according to one rumour, allegedly to a few of the officers presiding in the investigation, as well.
It was almost dark. The sky was overcast. It was cold but dry. Libra pulled the car up about a hundred yards clear from the scene of the incident, put on traffic hazard lights.
"Right, people, I am now going to set out the hazard stuff," he said to Vestal, Cleaner and Vagabond, the passengers in the car. "The road sign, the lights, everything. As far as the world's concerned, I'm stopping to fix a blowout." He held up a rusty, bent masonry nail. "Caused by this." He opened the door. "You all have twenty minutes, tops. Better put your skates on. Then you come back here, and I'll come up and give the place a once over myself."
Vagabond nodded quietly, led the team to the incident. Everyone put the sight on as they came closer to the scene of the crime. Vagabond shuddered.
"I know, the whole place feels creepy," Cleaner said.
"No, it's not that," Vagabond said. "It's something else. Something much older than just this crime." He glanced around at a sound. It was an owl hooting. "Owls. Nanna hated them. She said they were an evil omen."
"Superstition," Vestal replied.
"That's what they said about vampires," Cleaner replied.
The bend curved around, and Vagabond stopped. Cleaner and Vestal kept close.
"What do you feel?" Cleaner asked.
"Near here," Vagabond said. "Something very wrong happened here. A long time ago, but this place ... remembers," he said. "It's like the ground it walked on is still screaming. I -" he shook his head, trying to control the violent shudders.
"It's connected to the crime today," he said, pointing into the field. "This way." He led the way into the field, followed by the others.
"Wow," Vagabond said, as they approached the site. "Eeurgh." He stumbled.
"What?" Vestal cried, as the women stooped to pick him up. He was trembling uncontrollably, now, and sweating, his eyes wide open, staring, seeing nothing but the past.
"A cart," he said, "lurching through the country lanes, followed by ..." he turned his head to see, and gave a little cry of fear and pain.
"What?" Vestal cried.
"Don't make me look again!" Vagabond cried. "Don't make me look at it!" He struggled to break free of the women's grip. "It's coming! It's coming for me!"
The woman restrained Vagabond gently, continued to lead him towards the site of the murder.
"What's it got to do with the killings?" Cleaner whispered to Vestal. Vestal shrugged, said "Beats me."
They arrived at the dig, and here Vagabond seemed to come to his senses. He looked at the test pit, visibly relaxed. "I'm all right," he said, "I can handle it." He closed his eyes, allowed the flashes of inspiration to come.
Ghostly superimposed images shone darkly over the outlines of a couple getting out of a car, which had only just piled through the hedgerow a moment before. The images looked like the dark sort of oily patch seen on roads, shimmering with sluggish rainbow colours mixed in with a grimy sort of dark blackness.
"Ancient spirits ..." Vagabond said. "Hateful, filled with spite ... two of them, mated in life ... an evil couple."
"A sort of ghostly Bonnie and Clyde?" muttered Vestal. Cleaner shushed her.
"I see them," Vagabond said. "They're ... oh God, they've killed. And they've now slid over into new bodies. The old ones are looking at their hands ... they used spades to kill ... oh, no ... poor bastards ... they're trying to get up, but -" he looked away sharply.
"The new hosts ran them down as they knelt there," Vagabond said. "The police will deduce that the car driver and his mistress may have been attempting a sex act in the car or something. The car span out of control, ran through the hedgerow, and killed the TV crew. The two survivors may have had some sort of breakdown, and ran off in the car."
"You got all that from your vision?" Vestal replied.
"No," Vagabond said. "They'll deduce that Gordon Spencer and his mistress actually killed the crew, but they'll cover it up, make it look like a tragedy." He sighed. "There was a common element between the incident, and that ... other one," he said.
"Which was?"
"Something was lost here," Vagabond said. "An item." He pointed to the wreckage of the table. "It was on here, on that table. The killers have got it." He shook. "And that's a bad thing."
"What was it?"
"I don't know," Vagabond replied. "Some sort of box, maybe. Long and thinnish. Maybe a foot long. Dark, heavy. Faint markings. Looked like lead. But I couldn't get a clearer view of it."
"And that other incident?" Vestal asked.
"That was somehow connected to the box, too," Vagabond replied. "There was ... something in the road. It was chasing a man in a cart. The cart overturned, and threw the man into the corner of the field, about ... here," he said, putting his foot on an unassuming patch of land. "The road was closer here at one time; this used to be a midden and a ditch."
"How do you know all this?" Cleaner asked. Vagabond turned to face her, and his face was grim.
"Because," he said, "this is actually a piece of personal family history." He looked around him. "Here is where, if I recall, my ancestor took a dip in a midden to escape being eaten."
"Eaten? By what?" Cleaner asked.
"What else? By the Devil himself."
By: Fiat Knox
Copyright © Fiat Knox, 2001