The Mammoth Book of Terror

BRIAN MOONEY’S FIRST PROFESSIONAL sale was to The London Mystery Selection in 1971. Since then, his fiction has been published in such anthologies and magazines as The Pan Book of Horror Stories, Dark Voices, The Mammoth Book of Werewolves, The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein, Final Shadows, Dark Horizons and Fiesta.

His adventures of the psychic detective Reuben Calloway have appeared in Dark Detectives, Shadows Over Innsmouth, The Anthology of Fantasy & the Supernatural Cthulhu: Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos #2 and Kadath, and the author is currently working on a new tale featuring the character.

“The idea for ‘Maypole’ came to me during a rail journey,” recalls the author, “and was just one of those odd chains of thought which lead to inspiration. The train passed a field where a solitary tall post or stake had been driven into the ground. Several children were chasing each other around this post and it occurred to me that they had a ready-made Maypole for May Day.

“This led me to remember something I had once read about the possible origin of the Maypole and in turn, the wonderful ‘What if . . .?’ question popped into my mind. I pulled out a large notebook I had in my case and by the time I reached my destination, I had roughed out the opening section of the story.”

DEATH’S EMISSARIES CAME FOR Thomas Comstock a few minutes before midnight on a fine spring evening. The limping man was there, as was the man with the blemished face. The two were overshadowed by their companion, the giant. The three were expected and Comstock received them with joy in his heart.

When the men arrived, one of them gave a sharp rap on the front door of the tied cottage and they entered unbidden. Comstock had prepared himself in the ordained fashion and he awaited them in his cramped living room.

The mantel above the open fireplace was littered with tacky souvenirs and a wall-mounted pendulum clock ticked away the minutes of Comstock’s life. A battered Welsh dresser, its shelves crammed with paperback Westerns, stood against one wall, while at the opposite was a folded dining-table with two ill-matched chairs. A greasy black leather sofa faced the television and the floor was covered with a threadbare carpet. Amidst this mundane clutter, the men’s garb was incongruous and anachronistic.

The three newcomers were clothed in ankle-length white gowns, secured at the waist with silken cords, and their brows were adorned with circlets of some silvery metal.

In contrast, Thomas Comstock wore a coarse shift, several pieces of sacking loosely sewn together with light thread, which reached no further than his knees. His thick, reddish hair was crowned with a wreath woven from young oak leaves.

The men nodded to each other but there was silence between them. All the visitors pressed Comstock’s hand and the biggest man patted him gently on the shoulder before indicating that they should go. Comstock was careful to turn off the light before he left the cottage.

The air was sweet and mild after several days of warm weather but Comstock was unable to suppress a slight shiver. The giant saw and once more gave him a reassuring pat.

About half-a-mile distant, across the flat landscape, the angular shapes of village dwellings were silhouetted against a star-bright sky, the chunky tower of an ancient church looming above all the others. There was a lazy breeze and Comstock thought that he could hear the creaking of the old sign at the pub. In the east, a rising full moon was shedding its mellow light over fields and hedgerows.

They moved with slow but purposeful steps towards the moon, the limping man and his disfigured companion flanking Comstock, each lightly clasping one of his elbows.

The more than seventy-eight-inch bulk of the giant trod closely behind them. All knew that Comstock would not flee but each man was deeply imbued with a sense of occasion. More than that, though. They were not merely an escort: they were also there to impart, by their presence and touch, some of their strength to Comstock. At times such as this, even the most stalwart man needed the strength of his friends.

When at last they reached the appointed place – a large and freshly-ploughed field – a small crowd of some thirty to forty people awaited them. Many held fiery torches and all but one wore long white robes. The exception was a woman lightly gowned in floating, pale-green chiffon which did little to conceal her slim body. A garland of wild flowers rested upon her cascade of ash-blonde hair and from a fine gold cord about her waist was suspended a sickle, its curved blade gleaming. As Comstock’s escort faded back into the crowd, the green-clad woman and two handmaidens advanced to greet him.

The woman took both of Comstock’s hands in hers, and he gazed at her with uncritical adoration, thinking as always how very beautiful she was.

“Welcome to this place, Thomas,” she said. “Do you come here of your own free will?”

“I come most willingly, Mother Priestess,” the man replied, rural burr contrasting strongly with her educated tones.

“Then hail and farewell, Thomas.” She moved closer, kissed him on the mouth, then seized and ripped his garment, tearing away the flimsy threads and leaving him naked. In the pallid moonlight and the light shed by the flickering torches, his muscular torso and limbs spoke of peasant vitality and his erection appeared to be enormous.

The handmaidens began to caress Comstock’s body with light, butterfly strokes and the priestess gently clasped the rigid penis. Her fingers were long and elegant, her manipulations soft and skilled. Thomas Comstock’s face was a graven mask of fierce pride.

The woman’s movements were languid at first, then became more urgent as the man’s breathing quickened. Suddenly he ejaculated, semen spurting silver in the moon’s glow. The surrounding men and women echoed Thomas Comstock’s cry of ecstasy as if they too had climaxed. The priestess genuflected, tenderly cupping his testicles and the still engorged and throbbing phallus in her left hand. Then with a swift upward stroke of the sickle she scythed Thomas Comstock’s genitals from his body!

A single shriek of anguish was torn from the man’s throat to be almost drowned by the shout of exultation which burst forth from the onlookers.

For several seconds, or for a thousand years, Comstock just stood there, gouts of blood spilling in a grisly second orgasm, spilling onto the seed he had shed and soaking with it into the soil. Then, despite his agony, he began to run about the field, splashing his blood until his run became a stagger and his stagger a series of stumbles. He fell to his knees with head bowed, as if to watch his own life flood out.

The priestess ran to Comstock, to kneel and cradle his head against her breasts, a living and pagan Pieta. He raised a tortured face to her and his voice was just a whisper. “Was I worthy?”

Love shone from her eyes and her kiss was light upon his cheek. “The most worthy of all, Thomas,” she assured him.

He smiled a tired smile and nodded his thanks. Then he held his head back, exposing his throat for the final merciful stroke of the sickle.

Several men came and lifted his body with reverence, bearing it face down about the field so that as much as possible of the rich earth was sanctified by his precious blood.

Anthea Moore took a surreptitious glance at her wristwatch. About ten minutes to go. Too late to start something completely fresh but she could give them a minor research project. The question was, what? Well, May Day was coming up – something to do with that, perhaps? She turned back to the twenty-odd teenagers who made up her folklore and mythology class.

Anthea had been sceptical when a friend, the principal of a sixth-form college, had approached her with the idea of conducting a class once or twice a week.

“Modern teenagers won’t be interested in folklore,” she had said.

“Don’t be cynical,” her friend had replied. “Give it a try and be surprised.”

So she had given it a try and had been happily surprised. Her students were aged between sixteen and eighteen, all of them studying subjects such as literature, history and religious studies. They seemed to enjoy Anthea’s class although she was unsure whether it was because of the subject or because of the fund of often-bloody anecdotes she could tell them or because they were proud of being taught by a genuine published writer.

“Listen carefully,” she said. “Beltane, Lughnassadh, Samhain and Imbloc.” They goggled at her and at the alien-sounding words. She snatched up a piece of chalk and printed the four words on the blackboard. “Those were the four great festivals of the Celtic year. You may not know much about the Celts but you’ve almost certainly heard of their priests, the Druids. Take a note of those names, discover what you can about them and we’ll discuss your findings at the next session. See if you can link them to any of the Christian festivals or folk celebrations. If you look at the right sources, you’ll probably discover that by our standards the Druids were not nice people.”

“In what way, Miss Moore?” Stumps of pencil and nibbled pens were poised over dog-eared notebooks.

Anthea smiled. So many of them reminded her of her own younger self. “Well, in common with many ancient religions, fertility rites were important to the Celts for a good planting and a good harvest. The Druids tried to ensure their harvests were good by sacrificing human beings.

“The popular concept now of Druids is of a bunch of harmless eccentrics who gather together every once in a while to worship at Stonehenge.”

She paused to write the word “Stonehenge” on the board and drew an immense question mark behind it. “I don’t know if anyone has bothered to tell the modern Druids but their predecessors are unlikely to have worshipped at Stonehenge. For a start, Stonehenge predates the first Celtic invasion of Britain by at least a thousand years and probably much longer; and secondly, the Druids venerated trees – the woodlands were their preferred places of worship.”

“You mentioned human sacrifice, Miss Moore,” said a stout youth with thick glasses, “Aren’t you going to tell us about that?”

“I might have expected you to pursue that one, Charles,” grinned Anthea. “I had noticed the latest Stephen King among your books.”

She waited for the smattering of laughter to die down and then continued, “Some of you may have heard of the Wicker Man. The Druids built great wickerwork cages, often in human form, in which they would burn living slaves and captive enemies.”

“Oh, is that all?” said a disappointed Charles.

“No, that’s not all,” Anthea told him. “I think you’re all mature enough to be told about the Corn King . . . even you, Charles.

“The Corn King was selected from among the most physically strong and most ferocious fighters in his tribe and was often – dare I mention it? – the most sexually potent man in the community. He was the Celtic stud.” She raised a hand to quell the sniggers. “Many social wild animals know instinctively that it can benefit the herd or pack if the genes only of the most powerful male are passed on. Many pre-Christian pagan tribes had the same instinct. The Corn King was literally a stud. It is believed that the Celts willingly gave the Corn King access to their wives, and if a child resulted from the union then it was treated as the husband’s own. I think this could possible be the origin of the changeling legend.”

“Nice work if you can get it.” Tim Finnegan was what American students would call a “jock”, an all-round athlete and self-appointed God’s gift to women. He waggled lascivious eyebrows at several girls nearby.

One of them sighed. “And to think Miss Moore believes we’re all mature.”

Anthea nodded at the boy. “Yes indeed, Tim, nice work if you can get it. But I’m not so sure you’d like it.”

“Try me,” Tim laughed.

“Okay, submit your application through the usual channels,” Anthea said, “but read the job description very carefully. The Corn King reigned for a single year. At the end of that time he was sacrificed to ensure the fertility of the fields. He might be skinned alive or have his throat cut or be dragged by horses – anything at all to give his blood to the land. Now that you know what it entails, Tim, how soon can you start?”

Mocking shouts were interrupted by the bell signalling the period’s end. “Right, that’s it for now,” Anthea told them. “Please leave quietly and enjoy the short break. I’ll see you soon, and don’t forget—” She tapped the four words on the blackboard.

“You going anywhere good for the break, Miss?” someone asked as they gathered their books together.

“I’m getting into my car and I’m going to drive around looking for interesting May Day customs,” Anthea said. “I don’t know where yet, but the weather has been very good recently and I hope to have a pleasant trip.”

Famous last words, thought Anthea Moore ruefully. She was sitting in her car staring out at a grey-white cocoon of fog which surrounded her.

She had decided on East Anglia for her holiday drive. There was an out-of-the-way village called Bresslingham Market which was said to have some very interesting old May Day revels. There might just be the basis for an article or the start of a book there.

The weather had started out well – “Bright periods,” the radio weather forecast had promised – but conditions had worsened gradually after she had driven off the A11 onto the secondary road system which would bring her to Bresslingham Market.

The change had started with a sudden dip in temperature. There had been nothing disturbing in that. After all, cold snaps in late April and early May are only to be expected, particularly in the eastern counties. Anthea had turned up the car’s heating system and was soon warm. Then thin tendrils of mist had started to creep across the broad, flat farmlands, climbing the low hedgerows and sliding through shallow ditches towards the road until the whole day was wrapped in a light monochrome shawl.

Still, it wasn’t too bad. Visibility was down to several hundred yards and the car’s headlights were well able to deal with that. Anthea had slowed down to compensate for her unfamiliarity with the convolutions of the narrow country road. Thank God, she had encountered very little traffic and she guessed that most drivers stuck to the main roads. After all, this part of East Anglia was sparsely populated.

And then without warning Anthea Moore had found herself in the middle of the thickest fog she had ever seen. She reduced her speed even more, down to about ten miles an hour, leaning forward with her face almost touching the windscreen in a vain attempt to see through the murk ahead. The wipers clacked back and forth but made little difference to the viscous droplets which smothered the vehicle.

Fate had been reserving its dirtiest trick. One moment the car was crawling ahead and then, for no apparent reason, it just stopped. The engine seemed to be running sweetly and then . . . silence.

“Shit!” muttered Anthea Moore.

There was a minor consolation. She was on a straight run of road which stretched for some distance ahead and so there was little chance of an accident. Unless the oncoming driver was a road maniac, she realized, and there were plenty of those on the loose. She steered as far in to the left as the narrow road would permit and applied the handbrake.

For several minutes she tried the ignition and pressed the gas-pedal. Nothing, save for some odd choking noises from the engine. For the first time ever, Anthea regretted that she knew so little about the working of cars. But this was supposed to be one of the most reliable small cars on the road. “Excuses don’t start engines,” she told herself. “Decide what you’re going to do.”

Expert opinion was that a woman finding herself in this position should lock herself in the vehicle and await the next police patrol. Trouble was, this particular good advice was aimed at women stranded on motorways, not on very minor roads in the middle of nowhere. The police patrol around here was likely to be a bicycle-riding bobby who passed by once every three or four months.

Anthea consulted her road atlas but it was of little help. She could see where she had left the major road and she was able to pinpoint Bresslingham Market in relation to that junction. But she had little idea of how far she had travelled through the thickening murk. The town could be around the next bend or it could be an hour away at fog speed. God, in this blinding mess she could well have driven through the town and never have realized it.

Decisions, decisions! She could stay here in the car, cold, miserable and hungry, for any length of time. Alternatively, she could get out and walk and hope that she would soon arrive at Bresslingham. She glanced at her wristwatch. Two o’clock. At least it was still daylight (ha, ha). Anthea reached into the back seat for her overnight bag. Her suitcase could wait until she returned with help. She took a flashlight from the glove compartment.

She carefully locked the car door and began to walk. The idea of the walk itself did not bother her. She often walked for pleasure and she was wearing sensible shoes. But the fog was heavy and damp, clinging to her as she moved, and all sound – even that of her own footsteps on the road – was muffled. Anthea felt as if she was treading the depths of a lifeless sea.

Perhaps ten minutes passed and Anthea began to imagine things. Or, rather, she hoped that she was only imagining things. The fog, as if sentient and inimical, seemed to press closer. The woman’s spine began to itch with a sensation of being silently watched. Several times she wanted to whirl about and scream into the gloom but controlled herself. It’s natural to be apprehensive in this situation, she told herself fiercely. Succumb to panic and you’ve really got problems.

She used the flashlight sparingly, switching it on briefly and casting the beam around. She got the impression that the hedges bordering the road were becoming higher and Anthea was sure that she could hear strange rustlings coming from within their depths. Another flick of the torch’s button and – What was that? That silent, flitting shadow just beyond the beam’s edge?

Anthea stood still and took deep breaths to calm herself, suffering a coughing fit for her pains. Bloody fool, it was a fox or something. Wasn’t it?

An unexpected chattering noise from behind made her spin about. That wasn’t imagination! The beam of light punched into the haze. Nothing. Another animal? Anthea shifted the torch to her shoulder like a cudgel. “Who’s there?” she called out. “I know you’re there. Be careful, I’m armed!”

There was an empty feeling in her stomach and her heart beat more rapidly as she backed away, staring into the fog, wary for the unseen pursuer. She could neither see nor hear anything and relaxed slightly. And bumped straight into something behind her.

Anthea whirled, ready to lash out with the flashlight. Then she gasped and laughed weakly. Her assailant was a wooden post. Anthea leaned against it, giggling. She had often prided herself on her strong nerves but this fog had cut her down to size.

A wooden post. Could it be . . . ? Anthea grinned and shone her torch upwards. Yes, it was. A signpost. An arm, pointing the way she was heading, carried the legend, BRESSLINGHAM MARKET 7. Great! Then she noticed the second pointer, indicating a road off to the left. Anthea strained on tiptoes to see it.

The letters were rather more worn that those on the main arm but Anthea deciphered them as NAYSHAM ¾ . So, there was a village or hamlet called Naysham nearby. Anthea had never heard of it, nor could she recall noticing it in the road atlas. But it was much nearer than Bresslingham and she was sure that at least she could find shelter until the fog lifted. Feeling much happier, she walked on and within a few minutes found the side road to Naysham. Giving a little sigh of relief, Anthea stepped out briskly.

The fog still clung to her in soggy caress and there were still noises in the hedgerows but Anthea did not care. She was no longer facing the unknown: the fog was just fog, the noises just natural noises. Within a few minutes she was even whistling.

At last through the denseness she began to make out the shapes of low buildings, a corner here, an odd line of thatching there, an occasional low gleam of light-bulbs within cottages. Then she saw the most welcome thing of all, a mirage-like haze of blue. She approached carefully until the blue shape solidified into an old-fashioned carriage lamp surmounting a sign which announced POLICE.

Anthea grinned and punched the air before pushing her way through a heavy door and into the friendly warmth of a gas-fire and the welcome glow of electric light. Her way was barred by an oak counter on which stood a gleaming brass bell. Anthea gave a tentative tap and there was a friendly jingling noise.

A voice from somewhere towards the rear of the building roared out, “Now which of you lot’s daft enough to come out on an afternoon like this? Just hang on a minute!” Despite the volume of the bellow, the voice sounded amiable enough.

Anthea heard the flushing of a toilet followed by the running of a tap. Then the biggest man she had ever seen strolled into the lobby, drying his hands on a piece of rough towelling.

“Where’s the bloody fire then –?” He stopped, embarrassed. “Oh, sorry, Miss. Thought it was one of the neighbours.” He ran a huge hand across a stubble of grey hair and gave Anthea an awkward grin. The policeman had an ugly, craggy face which Anthea thought oddly attractive. “We don’t see many strangers here in Naysham,” the man continued. “What can I do for you?”

Anthea told the man her name and explained her predicament. The police officer nodded. “You poor lass. Rotten thing to happen. We do get these sudden fogs around here at this time of the year. Well, we’re only a small village but we’ve got all that’s needed to help you out.

“There’s Dick Brand who owns the filling station and garage, although he’ll not be able to do anything for you until the weather clears. I’ll fix that for you as soon as I can. Then we’ve got a nice little pub here, The Maypole. They don’t normally cater for travellers but there are a couple of spare rooms. It’s clean and comfortable and I know Reg Feltham and his missus’ll be glad to put you up for the night. I’ll take you over there now if you’ll just give me a minute to get my jacket. I’m Constable Lewis, by the way – Jack to my friends.”

They stepped out into the bone-gripping damp and cold. Anthea shivered. Jack Lewis, buttoning his tunic, said, “Don’t worry, Miss Moore, soon have you comfortable.” He sniffed at the air. “This’ll be clear, probably by tonight sometime, tomorrow morning at the latest. Here, lass, give me that little bag of yours. And you’d better take my arm. Don’t want to lose you as soon as we’ve found you.”

Anthea did as bid. She was above average woman’s height but the policeman was a good head and shoulders taller than she. The kind of man a girl feels safe with, she thought. Then, what do you mean, girl? You’re thirty-two and self-sufficient. Well, not this afternoon, you’re not. She chuckled.

“What’s funny?” asked Jack Lewis.

“Oh, me,” said Anthea. “I’ve always been full of spit and independence and then a few noises in the hedgerows this afternoon and I came near to panic.”

“Understandable,” the man said. “The countryside’s not so peaceful as townsfolk think and this fog would confuse anyone. This way, Miss.”

They crossed the road. The half-seen shape of a squat grey shadow triggered a memory for Anthea. “Am I imagining things or is that a genuine Saxon church?”

“Yes, Miss, St Alaric’s. Believed to date from the ninth century and we’re very proud of it. And here’s The Maypole. You can just about see the inn sign.”

Anthea looked up, following his pointing finger. The sign was old and ill-painted and she could see little more than a pale shaft which could have been anything. There were marks which might have represented dancing figures but the dirt of ages made this uncertain.

Jack Lewis opened a low door and allowed Anthea to precede him. He had to bend to follow her. Anthea found herself in the warm fug of a public bar, redolent with the rich odours of strong ale and tobacco. The floor was of stone flags, the walls and ceiling smoke-darkened. A cheerful fire roared in an inglenook, its flames reflecting in the burnished surfaces of brass and copper artefacts dangling from blackened beams. Furniture was sparse, a few high-backed settles around the walls and several wooden stools and chairs by the fireplace. Two elderly men, retired farm labourers perhaps, sat at the bar, drinking pints and playing cribbage. They had probably been coming in here for years and were not to be put off by a little fog. Anthea smiled at them. The Maypole was not the sort of place she would normally have chosen – wine bars being her preferred watering-holes – but in her present mood it seemed to be the most welcoming room she had ever seen.

A skinny man with side-whiskers stood behind the bar polishing glasses. He wore a chequered shirt and a chequered waistcoat, both loud and in clashing colours. The whiskered man looked up as Anthea and the policeman entered. “Hello, Jack. Usual?” Although speaking to Lewis, he stared at Anthea with unabashed curiosity.

“Nothing thanks, Reg,” the police officer said. “Wonder if you’ve got a room for Miss Moore here? Her car broke down and she’s stranded in the fog.”

“But of course,” the publican replied, manner instantly full of bonhomie. “I’ll just call the wife.”

“I’ll leave you with Reg then, lass.” Jack Lewis grinned at Anthea. “I’ll arrange for your car to be fixed in the morning. Hope I’ll see you again before you go on your way.”

Twenty minutes later Anthea had signed the register and was relaxing by a cosy gas-fire in the small chintzy bedroom to which she had been shown by a fat and chuckling Mrs Feltham. She had been served toasted ham sandwiches, a pot of tea and a large brandy – “On the house, my dear, to get the chill out of your bones.” The deep armchair was soft and comfortable and Anthea dozed.

She was jerked from sleep by a steady knocking at the bedroom door. For a moment she was disorientated, wondering where she was. Anthea glanced at her watch. She had been asleep for a couple of hours. There was a stale taste in her mouth and she drained the dregs of cold tea. It helped a little.

She had a fuddled impression of a disquieting dream but was unable to recall details. There had been half-seen figures in a fogscape and there had been some sort of tall column. Phallic symbol? Wonder what Freud would make of that? She shook her head. Of course, the answer was obvious. She had had an anxious time this afternoon and now she was lodged at The Maypole pub. She had probably been dreaming of the fog and the old inn-sign. Phallic symbol was right. She glanced towards the latticed window. The fog outside was still thick.

The knocking continued. Anthea pulled herself from the armchair and went to open the door.

The tall woman who entered was dressed for bad weather in the countryside – waxed jacket, green gumboots, man’s tweed cap – but there was no disguising her striking beauty.

“Hello. Do forgive the intrusion. We don’t get many strangers in Naysham, you know.”

Anthea took the proffered hand. “Anthea Moore,” she replied.

“I know. I peeked in Feltham’s register. Tell me, are you the Anthea Moore who wrote Ancient Cultures and From Dark Memory? You are? I’m so pleased.” The woman gave a bright smile. “I’m sorry. I must seem very rude. My name’s Melissa Taybourne. If I were a man, I suppose you’d say I was the squire in these parts.

“Jack Lewis came to see me about something and mentioned that a young woman was stuck here. I wandered over out of curiosity to find out about you. Imagine my pleasure when I saw your name. I thought it was too good to be true that you should be one of my favourite writers on folklore. Anyway, regardless of who you had been, I intended to offer you dinner this evening. Bonny Feltham’s a dear but her cooking leans towards the homely. Do say you’ll accept. And I’ll insist that you sign my copies of your books.”

Anthea laughed. “In the circumstances, I can’t refuse,” she said. “And I would have been at a loose end. Pubs aren’t much in my line and I haven’t even got a decent book in my overnight bag. Of course I’ll come to dinner, and thank you.”

Melissa Taybourne nodded. “Good. About seven o’clock then. Feltham will show you how to get to my home. It’s only a few minutes walk.”

When Anthea descended a few minutes before seven, Reg Feltham was waiting for her at the foot of the narrow staircase. “This way, Miss. I’ve got strict orders from Miss Melissa to get you to her house.” He led the way to the front door, moving with a peculiar strutting gait as if one leg was slightly longer than the other. “Fog’s lifted a fair bit,” he added, “reckon it’ll be clear later tonight.”

He was certainly right in part. Although the air was still misty, visibility was now several hundred yards. Reg Feltham pointed down the street. “Go back the way you came here,” he instructed. “Past the church, across the road and it’s the big detached house a little way beyond the police station. You can’t miss it. Enjoy your evening, now.”

Anthea found the house easily. As she passed through the gateway, the front door was flung open and Melissa Taybourne was there to greet her. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited another guest,” she said as she took Anthea’s hand to draw her into the house. “Our rector, Mr Luckhurst, is another folklore enthusiast and he’d not forgive me if he missed the chance to meet you. He’s in here, in the sitting-room.”

It was a comfortable, chintzy room and logs crackled and blazed in the fireplace. A thin man in clerical garb leaned against the mantel, sipping from a glass of sherry. His face, in profile, was fine and sensitive-looking, with fine lines radiating from the corner of eyes and mouth. Sandy-white hair, a trifle too long, maybe, was brushed straight back from his brow.

“Rector,” Melissa Taybourne called. “Come and meet Anthea Moore.”

The man turned towards them and Anthea struggled to keep from gasping. The rector’s features, so pleasing in profile, were marred by a purple, warty birthmark which clung like a cancer to the left side of his face. But his handshake was warm and dry and reassuring and his voice, as he greeted Anthea, was pleasantly deep and soothing, exuding charm.

Dinner was served in a small, panelled dining-room, the only illumination coming from tall white candles in a silver candelabra. “I don’t usually put on the dog like this,” laughed Melissa Taybourne. “But it is good to have a new guest. We tend to be very insular in Naysham.”

Anthea enjoyed the meal and the conversation. It quickly became evident that neither Melissa Taybourne nor the rector were claiming devotion to folklore for the sake of politeness and entertainment. Both were knowledgeable and Mr Luckhurst was scholarly in his approach to the subject.

Over coffee, the rector said, “Although we’re grateful for your presence here, Miss Moore, what on earth could have brought you to this remote place?”

Anthea drained her cup and accepted a refill from her host. “I just suddenly decided to come to Bresslingham Market for the holiday. I wanted to witness their May Day celebrations.”

“They are interesting,” said Luckhurst. “But before travelling on you must come and see our own modest maypole ceremony. We hold it very early in the morning, so there will be no bar to your continuing on to Bresslingham once your car is mobile again.”

“Yes, do. It would be a pleasure to have you attend,” added Melissa Taybourne. “Hardly anyone but the villagers come and we could do with some new blood.”

“I’d like that,” said Anthea. “I wonder why I’ve not heard of this village and its May celebration.”

“As I said earlier, we tend to insularity. I can’t think of anyone in the village who’d want tourists tramping everywhere.”

“I concur,” said the Reverend Luckhurst. “You must promise, Miss Moore, that if you write about us you will give the village a fictitious name.”

A light ground mist lingered when Anthea finally left Melissa Taybourne’s house, but above the sky was speckled with stars. “It looks as if it will be fine tomorrow,” observed the rector. “That’ll be good for the maypole ceremony.”

“We’ll call for you early, Anthea,” said Melissa Taybourne. “You’ll find the ceremony unusual but I hope interesting. We’ll involve you so that you don’t feel left out of it. Good night and sleep well.”

Anthea walked back towards the pub, mellowed by fine food and feeling pleasantly tired. As she neared St Alaric’s she heard a creaking noise, as if of a door opening on rusty hinges, and there was a glimmer of scarlet light spilling from the church. A huge shadow detached itself from the church doorway and turned towards The Maypole. It had to be the policeman Jack Lewis.

Anthea almost called out a greeting, then checked her tongue. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was something almost furtive about the way Lewis was moving, as if he had something to be ashamed of and wished to sneak away unseen.

As Anthea drew abreast with the church, she noticed that a sliver of ruddy light still fell across the footpath and that the main entrance door had been left slightly ajar. She pushed gently until the door was no more than wide enough to admit her. Anthea found herself in a small porch.

Keeping as quiet as possible, she closed the door behind her. The red light was from an oil-lamp hanging from the ceiling and beyond was another doorway. Venturing on, Anthea came into a cramped and claustrophobic nave, the walls bleak and moist. The nave, like the porch, was lit by a pendant red lamp. There were no pews as such, just a few time-polished wooden forms on the stone floor.

Down to the left was a wall broken by a low archway. Remembering what she did of Saxon architecture, Anthea knew that through the archway she would find the chancel. She tiptoed to the archway and had to stoop slightly to pass through.

The chancel was deeply shadowed, being lit only by two candles on the small altar. As Anthea straightened, she noticed something which made her catch her breath. It was the marble outline of something – someone – lying still upon the altar. Anthea put her hand to her lips to stifle a giggle. Of course, it was an effigy. But then, she wondered, did Saxon churches ever have commemorative effigies? She could not quite recall.

For some reason, she suddenly wanted to run away; only her enquiring mind prevented her from doing so. She took several deep breaths and approached the altar slowly. When she was what was there. Anthea moaned softly and bit fiercely on the knuckles of her right hand.

The man was naked and there was no doubt that he was dead. His face was peaceful but beneath that mask of serenity an appalling, mirthless crimson grin split his throat. That was not all. Anthea’s eyes, taking in detail piecemeal, wandered to a dreadful raw wound at the groin. Then, most terrible of all –

Anthea wanted to be sick and only with great effort managed to swallow the rising vomit. The hands were crossed on the corpse’s broad chest and below them the genitals had been placed on the abdomen in such away that they appeared raised and offered.

Shaking, Anthea backed away until she was brought up short by the wall between chancel and nave.

Her thoughts tumbled. What was going on in this place? With those frightening wounds, the dead man had to have been murdered. And it followed that Jack Lewis must be involved somehow, the way he had appeared to slink away from the church. If the victim had been slaughtered by – what? a maniac? – then the place would be crawling with police and the killing would have been he talk of the village. Perhaps Jack Lewis was the maniacal killer. But then, leaving his victim in the church like this meant that others would be in on the secret . . .

Anthea felt giddy. She ducked under the archway and fled the church. Outside, the mist had finally dispersed but in her distraught state she hardly noticed. She was aware that the village street was empty and she made a dash for the pub, flinging back the door which led into the public bar.

The bar was almost full and the hubbub of talk and laughter ceased as Anthea crashed into the room. She stood there, trying to catch her breath, and everyone turned to look at her. A huge figure moved from a dim corner into the light to confront her. It was Jack Lewis, a pint glass almost hidden in his fist.

“Why, Miss Moore, is anything wrong?” The policeman’s voice was kind and concerned.

Lips tight, she backed away a little and shook her head. Seconds later she managed to speak, doing her best to sound calm. “No, I’m just a bit more tired than I realized and I feel a bit unwell. I’ll go to my room.”

“I’ll get the missus to bring you up some cocoa, shall I?” offered Reg Feltham.

“Thank you, no,” said Anthea. To her own surprise she managed to sound normal. “I just need sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Anthea turned and left the public bar, walking up the stairs as slowly as she dared. Once in the room she locked the door and removed the key from the lock. She noticed strong iron bolts at both top and bottom of the door and she rammed them closed. There was a murmuring noise from below, as if things were getting back to normal in the bar. Or were they discussing her odd behaviour?

A worrying thought came to her. Had she left the church door open when making her frantic escape? If so, Lewis and any accomplices he might have would realize that she knew their terrible secret. Going to the window, she looked out into the street. It was still empty. From where she was she could not see the church doorway. She pulled the weighty velvet curtains closed. This at least gave her a feeling of security and safety.

Anthea had stopped smoking some years previously but now she felt the urgent desire for a cigarette. She slumped into the armchair and thought.

There was no doubt that she must get away from Naysham as soon as possible. Tonight was certainly out, even though the fog had evaporated. She didn’t know the area and could easily become lost. And yet if she stayed, would Lewis try to come for her in the early hours? The room door seemed to be solid enough and she doubted that the man could get in without rousing the rest of the pub. But suppose that they were all in on it? Stop it now! she scolded herself – you’re becoming paranoid.

The best thing to do, Anthea concluded, would be to stay awake all night and make her getaway at first light. At this time of the year, that should be a little after four-thirty. She was fairly fit and seven miles was not so far. By the time the village came to life she could be in Bresslingham Market, reporting the savage murder to the police there.

The thought of using the bed was attractive but Anthea resisted temptation. She turned the chair to face the door and then snuggled into it, trying to make herself as comfortable as possible. She prepared to face a long night.

Anthea awoke with a slight cry. She fumbled with her watch, pressed the stud which illuminated the dial. Almost five-twenty. Stiffly, body protesting, she uncurled herself from the armchair and tottered to the window. God, she felt as if she had been on an all-night bender. The old brass rail squealed as she pulled apart the curtains.

The room was flooded with the saffron glow of early sunlight. Anthea opened the window a little, peering out with caution. The village was quiet and she could neither see nor hear any sound of life. Now was the time to be gone.

She wrote a cheque to cover her night’s lodging and clipped it to the bedspread with a safety-pin. Stealthily, Anthea drew the bolts and unlocked the door. She listened for a moment but The Maypole was still. Taking up her shoes in one hand and her overnight bag in the other, she left the room and crept downstairs.

As she descended, imagination took over again. The pub door would be locked by an ancient iron key which was kept beneath the landlord’s pillow while he slept. She would not be able to escape the place . . .

She need not have worried. The door was fastened by a simple Yale lock. Anthea left the premises and pulled the door shut behind her.

They were waiting for her at the first corner. There were four of them: Melissa Taybourne, Lewis, the rector and the publican. “Why, Anthea,” said the woman. “Don’t tell me that you meant to leave us without witnessing our May celebrations?”

Shocked, Anthea lost power of movement and her case slipped from her hand. Jack Lewis stepped forward to pick it up. “I’ll look after this for you, Miss Moore.”

Anthea stared at the four. The men wore flowing white robes while Melissa Taybourne, hair loose and flowing, was clearly naked beneath her flimsy green gown. But it was the scintillation of early sunlight on the sickle at Melissa’s belt which caught and held the eye rather than her lovely form.

“The maypole’s not very far away, Anthea,” Melissa said. “Just a short walk. I’m sure that if you’re not feeling well these gentlemen will lend you support.”

Reverend Luckhurst took Anthea’s left arm in a firm grip. “It will be a pleasure, Miss Moore,” he said. Reg Feltham, with a friendly nod, grasped Anthea’s other arm.

“Shall we go?” asked Melissa Taybourne.

Anthea stumbled along with them, any will to resist drained from her. She became aware of a noise from somewhere ahead. It sounded like singing and clapping.

She had her first glimpse of the maypole at a distance and her mind tried to tell her that it was all right, that everything was normal after all. The singing came from a crowd of villagers while others were dancing around the maypole in threes, each middle dancer holding the ribbon which spiralled around the tall shaft. It was just a simple village tradition.

Then as they drew near, Anthea knew that it was not all right. There was something truly strange about the dancers, or at least about the ribbon holders.

The flanking pair of each trio wore the long white robes but the middle dancers, men and women, were naked. And the ribbons were wrong. They were not gay strips of multi-coloured bunting but thick and greasy-looking, aberrant purple-grey coils.

And then Anthea saw that the naked dancers’ chests and bellies were spattered with what seemed to be red paint, and seconds later she knew that it was not paint and that they were not holding the ribbons but that the ribbons protruded from their lower bodies and were growing longer as they stumbled about the maypole.

“You’re all insane,” Anthea whispered.

Melissa Taybourne smiled and shook her head. “What is insane about propitiating the old gods of the land as our ancestors did?” She waved an elegant hand at the dancers. “These are all volunteers. Thomas Comstock – you saw him in the church, Anthea – gave his blood for the fertility of the land but he has left his seed in many wombs. The ceremony of the maypole is to ensure the fertility of that seed.”

“And you were sent to us for a purpose, Miss Moore,” said Jack Lewis. “From time to time it is only good and proper that an outsider be brought into our rites. Fresh blood, you know, can only be beneficial to the community.”

“We thought that you, Anthea, of all people would understand this,” said the rector.

Anthea wanted to scream but she could only whimper. With firm gentleness her escort led her to the maypole. They cut away her clothing until she was quite naked, after which Melissa Taybourne went to work with the sickle.

Then Anthea was able to scream.