The Book: Chapter 40

Alice tried to focus on vital research, but the repercussions of her job loss made it difficult to concentrate. She’d expected to be a doctor forever. The suddenness of her dismissal left her hollow, questioning everything she knew about her worth. It was a foregone conclusion that she’d be struck off.

As they worked, the silence in her house mirrored her feelings, as if the world and everything outside her window had paused. She felt conflicting emotions, a swirling mass of anger, fear and frustration, and settling into her new way of life was more difficult than she could have imagined. Losing her career was akin to losing her identity, and she ached with physical pain. She wanted to cry but buried her thoughts in distraction to take her mind off the mess she’d made of everything. At least she still had Mick—for now, and that was a miracle to give thanks for. She smiled at him and his returning grin warmed her.

The book was being its usual bastard self. She wanted to get on with the task it had set in exchange for their freedom. They knew the risk but had no choice. The book had been very explicit on the terms of engagement—do it or die.

She opened the book but, as always, it relished torturing them.

It’s all about the suspense my fallen doctor.

Alice recoiled under its mocking.

All will be revealed in good time, it whispered. The words were cruel and dripped with contempt. We will do it on my terms. Perhaps as the blue moon wanes.

 She clenched her fists and hurled the book across the room in frustration. It dangled the prize out of reach, taunting them with its infuriating silence. In some ways, it was worse than the chanting jack-hammering into her brain day and night. They had no option but to be patient. But in the pit of her stomach, she knew that throwing the book in a tantrum had raised its game stakes. She couldn’t afford to waste time.

Mick had been philosophical during her rant. He picked the book up and put it back on the table. ‘We just have to wait.’ He’d rescheduled carpet fittings and had taken the rest of the week off to support her. She supposed she was that frail. ‘Come on you.’ He rubbed her shoulders. ‘Back to it. Let’s get this bugger on the run.’

Alice sat cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by books, old maps, and loose sheets of scribbled notes. The book watched them from the centre, smug and silent. She could feel its amusement, daring them to unravel its latest riddle. It talked to her all the time now. She heard it projecting as a voice in her head—but it had been quiet all day. Rather than bringing her joy, that worried her but she kept her thoughts to herself and read its rubbish again.

Where the faithful knelt.

Where the forgotten rot.

Truth waits in the dark, far below.

Or not.

Mick rubbed his eyes. ‘This could mean anything. A church, chapel, a graveyard—Jesus, even a basement bar in Soho after the last fiasco. It might even be referring to hell.’

Alice stared at the words, willing them to reveal their secrets. ‘It’s too vague. There are thousands of places fitting that description. We need something to narrow it down.’

She turned to the scattered books, moving old records and brittle newspaper clippings out of the way. The mess covered the floor like the remnants of a crime scene investigation. She flipped open one of the heavier textbooks. ‘Think about what the book told me before—about losing its virginity to religion. It made a point of that wording. What if its first host was a religious fanatic? Or someone in the clergy?’

Mick frowned, dragging one of the books toward him. ‘Okay, that makes sense. But it still leaves us with endless possibilities. It could be priests, bishops, cult leaders, Charles Manson. The world is built on religious foundations—there are ruins everywhere. It could be Machu-bloody-picchu.’

Alice leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Every inch of her body and mind ached and she thought about giving it all up in favour of a back rub. ‘Let’s look at the rest of the clue. The forgotten rot suggests abandonment and decay. Whatever we’re looking for might not be an active place of worship. It might be a ruin.’

‘Again, Your Honour, let me present to my learned colleague the horrendous freaking mess of the last ruin.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘So am I. All right. It’s logical, though knowing that thing, it could be talking about anything from a rotting egg to a rotten government. We’re thinking too literally, and that got us into trouble last time.’

‘Will you shut up about last time?’

‘Yes, boss. Knowing when to speak, ma’am. I suppose it could be another ruin. But we still need a more specific lead.’

Alice scanned the rest of the carnage and she pounced on an old, hand-drawn map. They’d had to send away for it after the book had taunted them with several references to religion. ‘See, I told you this would be handy,’ she said. It was an 18th-century sketch of religious structures on a map of the Furness to Carlisle region. She pulled it toward her, smoothing out the creases.

‘Look at this,’ she said, pointing to the faded ink. ‘There used to be dozens of chapels and monasteries here that are long gone. It could be any one of them or none at all. It’s like pissing in the wind.’ She stretched her neck and tried to be more positive. ‘It shows here that the diocese ran from Carlisle to Barrow and beyond. Some churches were destroyed in Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries, others fell into ruin over time. But most of them are well documented—except for this one.’

Mick leaned in, squinting at the barely legible name. ‘St. Eustace’s?’

Alice’s heart kicked up a notch. She rifled through the pile of books and snatched up an old, yellowed volume, flipping through its fragile pages. ‘It’s briefly mentioned here—St. Eustace’s Priory in between Muncaster Castle and the old Ravenglass Roman Bathhouse. She pulled up a modern Google Map and traced her finger along the grey line indicating the road. ‘It’s in the middle of nowhere,’ she said.

‘I like the look of this. You could be onto something. The priory was tucked away in a tiny hamlet, and in the shadow of the fells about an hour away. It would have been perfect for dark deeds,’ Mick agreed.  

‘It says it was shut down in the 1500s after allegations of occult practices.’

Mick’s brows lifted. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. What happened to it?’

She skimmed the next paragraph. ‘As well as being a working monastery, it says the priory was a place where ‘tired’ monks from Furness Abbey were sent to ‘rest.’ I think this could be it.’ She made the air quotes on tired and rest and then gasped. ‘Oh my God, Mick. All the remaining monks were burnt at the stake.’

Mick gave a low whistle. ‘Blasphemous phrases, think about it, a disgruntled monk burnt at the stake comes back to take revenge. I’d be pretty pissed if it was me. What if he’s back with an elephant-sized flea in his ear? And, it sounds like exactly the kind of place our book would call home.’

 Alice’s head shot up and she stared at Mick. ‘What did you say?’

‘What? About a ghost monk being pissed off?’

‘No. You said blasphemous phrases. It’s what the book says.’

Mick laughed but seemed bemused. ‘No, I didn’t. You must have misheard me.’ He shook his head and changed the subject.

Alice let it drop and went with the new train of thought, but she hoped the book wasn’t crawling too deep inside Mick’s mind. ‘Don’t forget, the book turns people. They don’t usually start out messed up. Don’t let it in  your head, Mick.’

‘I’m fine. I know what it’s capable of with what it’s done to you. And don’t you think the fact that you work at a mental health facility appealed to its twisted nature?’

‘You got me,’ Alice nodded. She flipped to another section. ‘There’s more. I’ll paraphrase. Although it’s further up the coast, St Eustice was a dogleg of Furness Abbey and was founded around the same time, by Stephen, who became King Stephen. Wow, who knew? The Cistercian monks lived by a strict code of prayer, work, and study. It says agriculture was at the heart of their life as they grew crops at the smaller Priory and raised cattle. The monks built fishponds and developed the saltworks, trading to sustain the abbey’s wealth. They were involved in ironworking and mining, adding to their riches. They were scholars too.’ A tone of excitement crept into her voice. ‘And get this, they had scribes to copy and produce manuscripts of the day. They were writing books. That’s got to be relevant?’

‘Maybe. I think it’s too good a link to ignore,’ Mick said.

‘One of these monk writers could have been the first victim.’

‘Does it mention our book?’

Alice bristled, it wasn’t theirs. It was hers. ‘Hardly. We can’t expect spoon-feeding.’

‘What else does it say?’

‘It just goes on about the abbey and the priory. During the Dissolution of the Monasteries Henry VIII drove the monks out and stole the lot. Furness Abbey’s land was seized by the Crown. And both of the monasteries fell into ruin. Okay, this bit’s interesting.’

Mick heard the gasp in her voice and leaned forward. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Hang on, I’m reading. It says the priory had underground chambers. It describes a labyrinth of Catacombs.’

Mick tapped his fingers on the map as he thought. ‘Right, but this doesn’t make sense. If St Eustace’s was abandoned that long ago, why haven’t we heard more about it? A priory that had monks burnt alive for occult rituals should be famous. Look at the Pendle Witches.’

‘There isn’t much more. There’s loads of information on Furness Abbey but not much on this offshoot. The records are vague. Too vague. It’s as if parts of it are missing.’

‘Not again, It does like to harp on a theme, doesn’t it?’

‘There’s barely anything here aside from mentioning its destruction. Unlike all the other places, there are no firsthand accounts or detailed records. Someone wanted it erased.’

‘Or something.’

‘Exactly.’

Mick sat up and grinned at her. ‘Don’t look so disheartened, this could be it. We need to confirm if any of it still exists. They were a superstitious lot, and if the monks were burnt, someone must have done something with their remains.’

‘What, a load of old ashes?’ Alice said. ‘You think?’

‘Bound to be, but they might not be buried on consecrated ground. It’s like the medieval version of being kicked out of their group chat.’

Alice laughed, sensing that he joked to keep her spirits up. She was fragile.  ‘Assuming the remains have survived, what good are they? A bit of ash isn’t going to tell us anything.’

‘If the ashes were buried, then it stands to reason that there are records about who they belonged to.’

‘Smart thinking, Batman, but we need to look at the underground chambers? If they sealed them, there could be something left.’

Mick pulled up another old map on his phone, scrolling through black-and-white images of the area. ‘St Eustace’s. It’s in the middle of nowhere, mostly ruins now. But look at this.’ He traced a faded line with his finger. ‘There’s a cemetery behind it. If the monks are buried, they’ll be there, or just outside the consecrated ground. And they’ll be encased in a tomb to stop the dead from walking.’

Alice remembered something and flipped to another book. It was an unofficial history of forgotten places in England, compiled from eyewitness accounts rather than state records. Her fingers trembled as she scanned the page.

‘Mick?’

He looked up at her tone. ‘What?’

She pointed at a passage halfway down the page.

‘An old ruin on the Furness Coast in the heart of Cumberland is said to house a sealed chamber beneath the altar. The last record of its existence was in 1843. Holy shit. A group of men broke into the priory looking for treasure. They disappeared, never to be seen again and a message was scratched into the stone:

They whisper from below.

The air thickened around them and they recognised the sign of paranormal activity. Alice looked terrified, and they moved closer together as Mick put his arm around her.

‘I can feel it. It doesn’t want us to continue.’ I think we might be onto something,’ Alice said.

 The book jolted once, then remained still. Alice felt it waiting for their next move. The atmosphere was heavier, and a dirty, earthen, smell rose into the room. The air was pungent, tinged with the scent of damp parchment and something bitter and old, like charred wood.

Mick swallowed. ‘I know that look. You’re going to make me traipse through another haunted wasteland, aren’t you?’

Alice didn’t hesitate. ‘Grab your jacket. Let’s go now.’

I write under the pen name Katherine Black and I have 17 books published. All on Kindle Unlimited. I’d love it if you’d try one.

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