Feet whirling over the polished floor, Maxwell and his
companion fled as fast as they could go, five of the grey-skinned warriors at
their heels. His companion almost stumbled, her heels not altogether suitable
for a frenetic chase pursued by fiends hell-bent on destruction, but Maxwell
held her upright and forced her onwards. They flew headlong through the nearest
open door, and Maxwell slammed it shut and forcing his weight against it. There
were thumps from the other side, muffled by the heavy oak, as the warriors
slammed their fists against the door, making it vibrate with the force of their
blows. Maxwell’s shoes began to slide across the floor.
“Help me!” he shouted to his companion, who had fallen to
the floor as if waiting to be picked up. Her hair had fallen over her face, so
all he could say for sure was that it was one of the Tunnicliffes. She did not
stir, just lay still, one hand thrown dramatically across the floor.
“Help me, damn you!” he said, panting with the effort of
keeping the door shut fast against the monsters trying to get in. He was only a
slight man, and the slippery soles of his smart new black shoes could find
little purchase on the stone floor. The girl seemed to realise that her sudden
faint was not going to pay any dividends, and added her weight to the door,
pushing it backwards just enough for Maxwell to fasten the heavy iron bolts and
anchor it shut. The thumping continued, and the door kept vibrating; but they
were safe, at least for now. They both slumped, panting, to the floor. Maxwell
took his handkerchief from his front pocket and mopped the perspiration from
his forehead. For the first time, he was able to take stock of his
surroundings, and he sighed with appreciation and not a little released tension
as he realised where they were.
Like many of the larger mansions in the grand old British
countryside, Tunnicliffe Manor had been built around the partially ruined
structure of a long-deserted castle. Not only did this explain the abundance of
corpses under its grounds, but also the presence of the chapel, a throwback to
medieval days when the Church had to be treated with respect rather than slight
pity and mild disdain. Thick stone walls and a rough granite floor spoke of the
age of the room; a thick layer of dust showed how much it had been used
recently. Two stained glass windows on the left hand side of the chapel threw
coloured light over the row of pews along each wall, positioned so that each
worshipper would be looking straight at the person opposite to check if they
were praying or snoring. A stone font stood in one corner of the room; in the
other was an old and rotten wooden lectern, surrounded by empty wine bottles
which testified to the jocular alcoholism of the last paid chaplain who called
this his parish, over a hundred years before Louisa Tunnicliffe had inherited
the house. To Maxwell, it felt just like home. If it hadn’t been for the army
of fiends intent on his murder banging on the door, he would have been quite
content; he felt as if he had been meant to come here, called by his faith to a
place of safety.
Slightly out of breath, but ever mindful of his manners, he
turned to his companion to express his feeling of divine providence, and his
heart sank as he recognised with whom he
was stuck, with whom he was to share his last few precious moments on this earth.
It was Lydia.
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