The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books) Read Online Free PDF Page B

won’t.” Ailen flexed his large fingers around the winged extension of the pipe. Thom stared around the room, enthralled.
    Willy began to chant – weird, ancient, dangerous words in the language of the dead Ailen did not want to understand. Instead he played the long, slow notes on his dragon pipe and walked in a circle around the sigil chalked on to the floor.
    The mist altered, becoming more substantial and moving in ripples. As Ailen played, a fat tendril oozed out from the wall, drawn to him. It nosed at the mouth of the dragon pipe like a cat sniffing an offered morsel. Ailen continued to weave a circle around the sigil while Thom stayed quiet nearby and Willy kept up his peculiar chant. Slowly, doing his level best not to alarm the spirit, Ailen moved the fingers of one hand on to the brass nodules along the neck of the pipe. Steam escaped the dragon pipe’s opening jaws.
    Ailen crushed his fingers around the neck of the pipe and the jaws slammed shut. The tendril lashed from side to side, its tip covered in suckers. Willy’s voice faltered, but he struggled on, his face crumpled in pain.
    Running over, Thom produced Popule’s smelling salts and waved them under the man’s nose. Willy showed the whites of his eyes, but managed to refocus.
    Ailen touched the tip of his pipe to the floor sigil, attaching the tendril to it. He began to trace out the design with his footsteps, and the poltergeist was forced to follow, tethered to the embroidery of lines.
    It was the cry of a wounded man from the other side of the cathedral which broke the spell. The misty poltergeist quivered and reared, tearing free from the sigil. A heatwave burst around the walls, prompting Willy to utter his own cry and collapse, knocking the smelling salts out of Thom’s hand. The bottle shattered on impact with the flagstones.
     
    Naw fell back into Nicholas’s arms, leaving a ghost warrior’s spear slick with blood. A tremendous crack resounded; Nicholas saw a slug of rock salt punch in the back of the ghost’s head. The apparition flickered and was snuffed out.
    More warriors solidified out of the walls. Their flesh was crisp and black, their weapons large and brutal. A few carried swords. Most wielded axes, spears and short blades.
    “What are these devils?” cried Nicholas. Lowering Naw to the floor, the canon brushed away blood from his own nicked eyebrow and tried to focus.
    “Devils is the right word for them! Get Naw over to the sigil, stand inside its circle and quote your Bible.” Popule flipped the grid over the muzzle of his revolver and fired. Plumes of salt exploded into the air; the warriors faded as it dusted down on them. Seconds later, they were whole again.
    Fresh blood trickled from Nicholas’s eyebrow. Fear threatened to liquefy his bones as he dragged Naw on to the sigil, leaving a glossy red trail behind. His conscience rebelled as he thought about the occult symbols chalked beneath his feet. But he remembered Popule’s words about having to open his mind. Seeing the ex-clergyman dodge a tremendous hammer blow from one warrior, he began to recite.
    “‘In you, O Lord, I have taken refuge; let me never be put to shame.’”
    Popule fired off more cartridges. A wave of warriors went up in flames, but still more kept materializing out of the walls.
    “‘Deliver me in your righteousness. Turn your ear to me.’”
    Spectres lunged in Nicholas’s direction but backed away when they struck the circumference of the sigil. Death’s stink was in the air.
    “Why haven’t the other three spirits moved?” he called between snippets of scripture, pointing at the colossal wraiths visible under the large stained glass window.
    It was Naw who answered, gulping in great lungfuls of air. “The three Christian kings, martyred in Lichfield in the time of the heathen Emperor Diocletian. Their burial ground is at Borrowcop.”
    “But that’s just a legend!”
    “Yet here they are,” panted Naw.
    “But why are their