The Mammoth Book of Terror (26 page)

“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.”

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.