Whitby Vampyrrhic
Simon Clark
Recent Titles by Simon Clark
BLOOD CRAZY
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VAMPYRRHIC RITES
LONDON UNDER MIDNIGHT *
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*available from Severn House
WHITBY VAMPYRRHIC
Simon Clark
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2009
in Great Britain and 2010 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2009 by Simon Clark.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Clark, Simon, 1958-
Whitby Vampyrrhic.
1. World War, 1939-1945–England–Whitby–Fiction.
2. Hotels–England–Whitby–Fiction. 3. Motion picture
industry–Employees–Fiction. 4. Vampires–Fiction.
5. Horror tales.
I. Title
823.9'2-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-113-2 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6831-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-204-6 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To Whitby, its people, its legions of dedicated visitors –
and to its exquisite spirit of enchantment, which is
difficult to describe, but is impossible to forget.
{Anonymous graffiti, circa 1940}
HELL IS A STREET IN WHITBY
THAT FIRST TIME IN THE CAVE
{From the YORKSHIRE EVENING MERCURY,
October 1, 1924}
Buried gold, a sea monster and an invasion of gulls. It’s not often a newspaper reporter is gifted the opportunity to write about such marvellous things. However, all three presented themselves in just one night in Whitby – a coastal town that is famous for its windy shoreline and smoked kippers, rather than a welter of unexplained mysteries.
On Friday evening, Mr Walter Parks of Fishburn Road, a retired farm labourer, decided to harvest the last of the potato crop from his backyard. Instead of lifting the common-or-garden spud, he unearthed a dozen gold amulets of Viking origin. Mr Parks confesses to being on ‘the rough side of the poverty line’, but now he and his family will be assured a comfortable future.
Later that same evening, a huge flock of seagulls descended on Whitby town. Like vengeful demons they did their level best to swoop down on men and women in the streets, then these vicious creatures flew into the windows of St Mary’s Church, cracking several panes of glass.
And to complete this trio of miracles: just after midnight, an enormous creature swam into Whitby harbour. It slammed into fishing boats, causing mooring lines to break. One local gentleman insisted the creature to be a hundred feet long with a snake-like neck. Others reasoned that the creature was a whale that had mistakenly entered the confines of the harbour. Then, who are we to question what manner of creatures spawn in the depths of the ocean? Or, for that matter, the depths of the Earth?
One
Fear of Falling
Eleanor Charnwood ended the argument with her mother by slamming the front door. Then she raced into Whitby’s tangle of narrow streets. The argument had been an old one. The same angry words received an airing at least once a week. Eleanor wanted to leave this out-of-the-way English town at the edge of the ocean and find work at one of the new advertising agencies, springing up all over London. And after London? Who knew? Paris? Berlin? New York? But Eleanor’s mother always shook her head. ‘No. Not ever.’
The October sun hung low in the sky as Eleanor strode out in all her righteous fury across the swing bridge that spanned the River Esk. Her long black hair fluttered in the sea breeze; the heels of her ankle boots clicked against the pavement.
‘I’m nineteen years old,’ she seethed. ‘I’m not going to be trapped in this prison forever.’ The rush of anger turned into something near gloating. ‘I’ll show her. I’ll prove I’m not some stupid child.’
On the bridge, she saw Gustav Kirk. At eighteen, he had a lot in common with Eleanor. Although he lived in Whitby, he seemed adrift from the town somehow. A doctor’s son, slightly built, fine blond hair that looked as if it would blow away in the wind, he enjoyed his own company. More than anything, he liked to tuck himself into some corner or other to read books about Norse mythology, visionary tales by Machen, Stoker or Poe, and the bone-chilling ghost stories of Edith Nesbit. He also enjoyed an eccentric dress style. Under that heavy overcoat, he’d be wearing his customary tennis whites. And instead of a belt around his waist, he’d always use a red and white striped necktie. Oh . . . and another thing . . . a deep shyness of girls made it nigh impossible to hold a conversation with him. He’d nod politely, offer a shy, ‘Hello.’ That’s just about it. Then he’d back away so quickly that he’d often stumble into passers-by, which would result in him stammering, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and, ‘I do beg your pardon.’
So, when Eleanor blocked his path across the bridge, his blue eyes met hers with a startled flicker.
‘Eleanor? Good evening.’
‘Gustav. Do you ever feel like doing something forbidden? Acting in a way that’s so wrong that your parents would cover their eyes and scream in horror?’
‘Oh? Erm.’
‘Even though you were born in Whitby, you don’t feel as if you belong, do you?’
‘Well . . .’
‘We went to the same school. We grew up in these streets, yet we still feel like strangers here, don’t we? As if we really belong somewhere else? And to other families?’
‘Well . . . I’m sure I don’t have much in common with, ahm . . .’ His shy blue eyes darted over men and women bustling across the bridge; they were busily attending to their own lives, which revolved round work and families, and chatting to the same friends about the same old thing. Or so it seemed to Eleanor.
‘This is 1924, Gustav. Nearly a quarter of the way into the twentieth century. It feels as if we’re trapped in the past here.’ Eleanor Charnwood surged on, gripped by a searing passion. ‘Damn Whitby, I tell you. Damn everyone in it. What do you say?’
‘Eh, you have strong opinions, Eleanor. Hmm, have you seen your brother?’
‘By that, Gustav, you really mean you want Theo to save you from this wild woman who’s confronting you now.’
‘No, that’s not, ahm—’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Oh—’
‘Usually, you’ve got an armful of books. What’s in the sack? A shovel! Crowbar. Rope. Satchel. You’re going to break into a house! Whose?’
Gustav fluttered in shock. ‘No. Not burglary.’
‘I know, you’re going to the cemetery to rob graves.’
Her accusation made him appear light-headed. ‘No. Nothing l
ike—’
‘Take me with you.’
‘I . . . I don’t think that would be really—’
‘Alright. If you don’t let me come, I’ll take off all my clothes.’
The shy youth backed away in horror.
‘Starting with my blouse.’ She undid the top button. ‘When I take off my stockings you’ll have to put your arm around my waist, because I always fall over when I slip those off.’
Despite his embarrassment, his eyes rolled down to her calves, which were clad in black silk.
Grinning, she undid another button of her blouse.
‘Alright, alright!’ His voice rose so much that pedestrians on the bridge shot him quizzical glances. ‘You can come with me. But I warn you. It’s not safe. Not safe at all.’
‘Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.’
Suddenly affectionate, she linked arms with Gustav. His slender limb quivered beneath the coat sleeve.
They crossed the bridge together back into the old half of Whitby town, with its amazing profusion of red-roofed houses that climbed up the hillside towards the church on the headland. To Eleanor, it seemed as if the town had crashed into England from another mysterious realm. Despite the fact that there were motor cars, steam engines, electric lights, and Woolworth’s had stocked the first wireless sets, there was something unearthly and disturbing about the way Whitby clung to sides of the estuary. Certain buildings employed the jawbones of whales to frame doorways. Fish aromas filled the air, courtesy of dozens of herring boats that docked in the harbour each day. And there was always the restless vista of the ocean. This was where two worlds collided – the world of deep, dark waters and the dry world of humanity.
From an early age, it struck her that these two worlds were at war. Whitby was the battlefield. There were dangers everywhere. Tides raced in fast over the sands. Often huge waves would explode over the piers. Down through the years, many a person had been swept away. Vicious currents swirled around the timber posts that supported the wharves. Underwater, discarded nets lay in wait to trap unwary swimmers. The cliffs were towering, precipitous rock faces. And always, in the twist and turn of dark alleyways, she was convinced that one grim night she’d come face to face with something monstrously inhuman.
They passed by the Leviathan Hotel on Church Street. Owned by Eleanor’s father, the big red-brick building boasted starkly white window frames that reminded her of bones snatched from a tomb.
From Gustav’s expression, he clearly hoped she’d tire of teasing him and return home to the hotel. But this was no tease. This was serious. Today, she was determined to commit a reckless act. Whitby be damned. Caution be damned.
Seeing the doorway she’d stormed from just minutes ago made her decide to air her grievances before an unprepared Gustav, the pleasantly shy man, who loved nothing more than to read his books about Viking gods and demons.
Eleanor began. ‘I told my mother that I wanted to move to London to work for a company that make advertisements for magazines. This is 1924, not the dark ages. Women can have professional careers, too. But, no, my mother won’t have it. She says I’m too fearful of people. That I’m far too timid to live in a big city. Mother says I must stay here and learn the hotel trade, so I can take over from my father when he retires. Charnwoods are doomed to be hoteliers. We even have one up in godforsaken Leppington.’
‘Oh . . . and your brother?’
‘My brother can escape Whitby. They’re happy with him enlisting in the army. Then, the pair of you are the best of friends so you’ll know that already. But I’m a prisoner. In Whitby! The bloody town!’ She saw that he appeared to regard her with genuine sympathy. ‘So, Gustav. Where are we going with your shovel and crowbar? To do something illegal, I hope?’
By way of answer, he pointed at a piece of paper pasted to a municipal notice board.
Whitby Town Council, October 3, 1924
The Council receives requests from members of the public to reopen the cave known as ‘Hag’s Lung’ near the abbey ruin. The police have objected to its reopening on the grounds that it has always attracted individuals of unsound mind. Indeed, there are well-documented cases of self-injury and suicide occurring within the cave. Therefore, the Council hereby resolves to keep ‘Hag’s Lung’ closed, and access by the public is strictly forbidden.
His shy demeanour evaporated as he grinned. ‘Turn back now, Eleanor, if you’re afraid.’
Two
Benighted Place
Their route took them further along Church Street: a thoroughfare lined with houses that faced each other across a street so narrow that they were almost close enough to kiss . . . or, maybe, bite each other, if they were so minded. Soon they reached a flight of stone steps that rose up a cliff face (the stairs always reminded Eleanor of a knobbly stone spine). They climbed these to the graveyard of the church, then they followed the path to the other side, which, in turn, took them by the vast towers and archways that formed the ruined abbey. To their left, the cliff edge. The ocean stretched away into the distance, a metallic blue in the late-afternoon sun.
Gustav Kirk, with the sack over his shoulder, headed for a clump of trees.
Eleanor eyed the man with new-found respect. ‘You’re so shy, Gustav.’
‘I like to keep myself to myself,’ he replied softly.
‘But you saw the council notice. You’re not allowed into Hag’s Lung Cave. It’s dangerous.’
He shot her a grin again that raised a sparkle of delight in her veins. ‘You’re right, we are alike. Every so often, the boredom here threatens to break me in two. The only way to beat it is to do something crazy. This morning I thought to myself, shall I run through the streets, yelling rude words? Shall I kick the mayor in the backside? Or should I raise Satan, just so I can talk to someone with interests outside of that town back there?’ The grin widened. ‘Or shall I break into Hag’s Lung and see what it’s really like?’
‘You’re insane.’
‘No. I’m inspired.’ He laughed. ‘Then madness and inspiration are different sides of the same coin.’
I want to kiss him. Here’s my soulmate. But she must bide her time before making a move. And wasn’t love merely a trap lying in wait for free spirits? Goodness! Her heart thrashed against her ribs. Make conversation, or I really will kiss him. ‘Why do they call the cave Hag’s Lung?’
‘Not been here before?’
‘Never.’
He led her through the trees to a bulge in the earth. Just as in a fairy tale, a timber door had been set into the earth. It was padlocked. Not just once, but four of them. Great rusty blocks of iron that locked their iron loops into corresponding lugs in the door frame. No one comes in, it seemed to say. Keep out. Go away. No entry. Not ever.
‘They call the cave Hag’s Lung because . . .’ Instead of completing the sentence, he touched his ear. ‘Listen at the door.’
Eleanor did so. She heard a faint breath of air blow through gaps in the timber. Air so cold it caused her breath to turn ghostly white. All of a sudden, the blood-chilling draught stopped; a moment later it started again. Only the air was being sucked inwards. It drew her long black hair with it.
‘My God! Gustav, it’s breathing. The cave is really breathing!’
‘Actually, no. But geologists believe a tunnel connects it to the sea. The action of waves gushing into a cavity at sea level causes it to mimic respiration. It pushes air out – then sucks air in. Hence the name, Hag’s Lung.’ That grin again. ‘Nobody’s been in there for fifty years. Until now.’
As the sun dropped towards the horizon, Gustav wielded the crowbar to snap each of the massive padlocks. Metal broke with the sound of gunshots. Eleanor flinched, covering her ears with her hands at the shocking punch of sound.
‘Strange things have been happening,’ he told her as he worked the hasps free. ‘Did you read in the paper that old Mr Parks found Viking gold in his garden?’
‘Good. He deserves it. Have you seen how decrepit his cott
age is? And his wife is crippled with rheumatism.’
‘And did you know he only eats half his dinner every night? The rest he offers to Tiw on the old altar stone up on the moor.’
‘Tiw?’
‘A Norse god – mysterious, unknowable. Tiw is more ancient than Odin and Thor. His origins lie in a horrific and violent spirit that haunted the tundra when mammoths still roamed.’ He smiled as he threw open the door. ‘Tiw. Long gone. Forgotten. But we speak his name every week.’
‘Gustav, you’re starting to frighten me.’
‘Tiw? He has a day of the week named after him. Tuesday.’
He lit a candle, set down the sack at the entrance, then went down into the cave.
I’m entering the jaws of a monster, Eleanor thought. But there’s no going back. Air blew into her face one moment, then was sucked in against her back the next. For all the world, it felt like being in the trachea of a huge creature that aspirated – and had done so for ten thousand years. Back to a time when a princess would be selected from the tribe that lived in these borderlands between mountains and ocean. A princess to be married to the god of this cave . . . by the simple act of opening a vein in her neck. Then tumbling her into the velvet darkness below.
Gustav stepped into the body of the cave. His candle revealed its dripping interior of black rock. There was something organic about the stone. It appeared slick with mucous. It smelt ‘animal’ too. His voice shimmered from the walls. ‘There are other strange things, too. Can’t you feel the tension in the air? Like an approaching storm? Flocks of seagulls have attacked the town. Then there was the creature that came into the harbour to break ships’ moorings.’
‘A whale.’ Her voice sounded tiny. ‘Just a lost whale.’
‘Believe me, something strange is happening to Whitby. Can’t you sense it? As if the atoms in everything you touch are tensing. Almost like everything’s going to explode.’ He indicated a hole in the cave wall. At shoulder height, perhaps four or five inches in diameter, it was roughly circular. From the way the candle flame flickered, as he approached, this was where the air gushed in and out. Once more, she was struck how ‘biological’ it all seemed, rather than geological. It made the earth a living, breathing thing. This was the airway, the throat, the channel into which it sucked life-giving oxygen, then expelled cold, damp vapour. A vapour that smelt of the sea, and of something else she couldn’t quite place.
