THE SPECTRE OF THE STONES
By PETER BUCKMAN
My sister was staying with us one Midsummer’s Eve when the vicar
dropped in. He often did, even though we weren’t believers, because he
knew he could rely on a stiff drink after the gallons of tea pressed on
him by his lady parishioners.
As he relaxed with a single malt, he happened to mention that he’d been
asked to go to the Rollright Stones at midnight. The woman who then owned
them wanted him to bless and protect them, to prevent a repeat of the
previous year, when someone had tried to sacrifice a puppy to Satan. The
vicar, a tolerant and amiable man who maintained the local god was Pan,
had readily agreed.
My sister, who lived in Islington and thought the worst that could
happen in the country was that a spider dropped into your muesli,
immediately asked if she could go too. I was uneasy, because I don’t like
messing with other people’s rituals, but my sister nagged the vicar until
he said yes, and then she nagged me too. In the end I tagged along, with a
show of reluctance and a hipflask, to provide brotherly support.
It was a fine night, dry and cool, with clouds scudding across the moon
that made shadows skitter down the fields to the whispering knights
huddled below the stone circle. I showed my sister the king stone, looking
sternly out over four counties, but then we joined half a dozen other
people in the circle itself. The trees whispered and creaked, but we felt
quite snug, as if the stones were protecting us. Those present included
the owner and some friends, a couple of archaeologists who went round
patting the stones and murmuring to them, a uniformed policeman, and the
vicar in billowing white surplice and stole. He held a large cross in one
hand, and in the other a plastic bottle that might have contained
washing-up liquid.
My sister immediately enquired about the bottle’s contents, and was
told to wait and see. The vicar then decided to "entertain" us with the
story of how he was called to a nearby cottage where an upside-down cross
had appeared. It shone through everything that was put in front of it,
from a horse-blanket to a wardrobe, until he performed a full exorcism and
it disappeared. My sister giggled nervously, and though I don’t believe in
ghosts, I took a big pull at the hipflask to make my neck hairs lie down.
Being surrounded by an edifice older than Stonehenge, that might have been
used for anything from selling local produce to sacrificing local virgins,
was suddenly a little scary. Especially when an owl shrieked and the
sensible creatures in the fields scuttled away to hide.
As midnight approached, the vicar went round each of the stones, said a
prayer, and squirted the contents of the plastic bottle on them. It was
what he kept his holy water in. When he’d finished, the archaeologists
suggested we hold hands and listen. My sister gave me a funny look, but
she grabbed my hand and we all formed a circle. A car slowed down, but
rapidly drove off again, obviously alarmed by the sight of grown-ups
holding hands by moonlight. Or maybe it was the presence of the police –
anyway, we were left to listen to the silence.
There was a strange hum, as if there was a current rising up from the
stones that made everything jangle. It wasn’t sinister, but it wasn’t
pleasant either – a reminder, perhaps, of ancient powers that may have
resented our presence. Then the church clock in the village below began to
strike twelve.
On the fifth stroke there was a rustling in the field. It must have
been made by something larger than a rabbit or a deer, and it got louder
and nearer. On the sixth stroke we heard scrabbling, which on the seventh
turned into sobbing. Yet none of us could move, as if the stones and the
chimes held us in some sort of spell. My sister just managed to tighten
her grip on my fingers, and though that hurt enough to make me open my
mouth, I couldn’t utter a sound. It was like a nightmare when you can’t
frighten off a nameless threat with a shout of warning. Only this time I
didn’t wake up in a sweat.
When the clock struck eight, the sobbing turned to rasping. On nine, it
became moaning. On ten there was panting. On eleven there was a despairing
and high-pitched howl. And as the last stroke died away, a figure
appeared. It started small, and then it seemed to grow in front of us. It
was all in white – and it was holding, upside-down, a large cross...
That was that frozen, dream-like silence that seems to go on forever.
Then the apparition spoke.
"Sorry I’m late," it said. "My watch stopped and I thought I’d run
across the fields. I fell and tore my trousers. Have I missed it all?"
No one dared speak, until our vicar stepped forward. "Martin?" he said.
"What are you doing here? I’ve already done the business."
"That’s all right," said the owner cheerfully. "I thought if I got two
of you along, we’d be doubly protected. Nice of you to join us, Martin.
Now, who would like some cherry-cake and coffee?"
Copyright © Peter Buckman, 2003
