Horror 100 Volume 2

Yellow

The day after the funeral I knew I would have to leave the village. Its crooked streets, that I had once thought quaint, now seemed sinister as if dark secrets festered around each bend in the road.

George, of course, doesn't understand. But then, he couldn't be expected to. He has no idea of the part I played in Harry's death.

"What do you mean? I thought you liked it here?" With an irritated shake of his newspaper, he had stared at me over the top of his spectacles.

I had lowered my head in a mute and miserable silence. I couldn't meet his eyes and I couldn't explain. Things had changed. Every day, the odour grew stronger and now its sickly scent permeates the whole house.

A few days ago I had stood, my nostrils flaring, trying to identify its source.

"Are you getting a cold?" George had said.

"Can't you smell it?"

"Smell what?" He had looked at me, his eyebrows raised.

I clamped my lips together, fighting the urge to scream. Our daughter's baby is due soon and she wants to stay with us while her husband is away on business. George was flabbergasted when I refused. But, I am adamant. I cannot allow my daughter into the house when its very air is tainted. That is why I am determined we must leave before the baby is born.

Abruptly, I turn away staring out of the window at the maze of streets that seem to have a single purpose. They all lead to the church on the hill: the place where I had first met Harry.

****

After arriving back in England, after many years spent abroad, George and I had fallen in love with the small village, nestling in a valley surrounded by wave upon wave of forested hills. Too far away from the coast and lacking a river, it was largely ignored by tourists and was, we agreed, a forgotten jewel. Both of us thought it was our lucky day when we eventually managed to find a house that fitted our budget.

A few days after moving in, we decided to take time out from unpacking and explore our surroundings. Eventually, our wanderings led to St Etheldreda's, a sturdy Norman church perched on top on the highest prominence in the village and obviously built to withstand all that nature could throw at it. As we pushed open the heavy oak door, its quiet beauty delighted me and suddenly I felt so happy. It was as if I had come home.

"It's idyllic." I said. "I swear I shall go to church every Sunday."

George laughed and shook his head but I was determined to play my part in the life of the village. After all, this was where I intended to end my days.

The next Sunday I sat lost in the music until the swelling chords of the organ faded away as the service ended. Gradually, I became aware of rustling as the congregation rose and shuffled along the uneven stone aisle towards the entrance and the waiting vicar with his outstretched hand. When it was my turn I found his handshake firm, he seemed genuinely pleased to see me and I walked out into the chill afternoon insulated by the warmth of his greeting.

Once outside, I stood looking at the gravestones tilting towards the earth. Encrusted by lichen, their lettering was difficult to decipher and as I bent to peer closer, I felt a light touch on my arm.

"Excuse me, madam."

The voice was soft and as I looked up I saw it belonged to the verger who had been standing in the porch when I arrived.

"May I?" He extended a hand.

Blood rushed to my cheeks as I realised I was still clutching the prayer book he'd handed to me as I entered the church.