The Old Rectory   

                                               

    It had rained ceaselessly from the time I had left my home in the early hours of the morning. There had been 'an incident' as the police like to call it, on the motorway, which required at least half a dozen of their cars, a number of  ambulances, and two hours of patient waiting as the queue inched slowly forward past a pile of stricken vehicles.

   ”Serves the buggers right.”I heard someone call. “Won't slow down to save their lives.” he had added laconically.

      Rather misplaced humour I felt as I surveyed the remains. From what I could see it looked very likely that someone may have learned that lesson the hard way, someone perhaps not guilty of any misdemeanour.

      It was still raining when I cleared the obstruction, and still when I reached my destination, hours late. I was hungry, and not in the best of temper. My temper was about to be further called into question when I found out that the room I had reserved in a town centre pub had been given to someone else.

   ”Sorry Mr. Gregson,” The landlord said, ”but I thought you weren't coming. You did say mid-day on the phone.”

   “Yes, but I didn't bargain for a motorway crash and this bloody weather.”

   ”Yes I can see that, but you have to realize that this is the busiest time of our year; everywhere is booked up and rooms are at a premium.”

    ”And what am I supposed to do now?”

    ”I'll ring round and see if I can find anything for you.” he offered.

     There seemed little else I could do and I settled down in the lounge with a pint of bitter. 'On the house', my erstwhile host had said. 'Least I can do'.

     It was my first visit to the little town in Western Scotland, and the start did not bode well for the rest of my visit. Little town or large village, I was not too sure, but curiously - some say incredibly -  it had acquired a reputation and an ever growing following for its Book and Celtic Arts Festival. So much so that it was essential to book early or find yourself sleeping on the street. As an up and coming writer and had gone to the event to ‘do a piece’ on the mysterious world of publishers and agents; with a view to a future project, and maybe even give my own name a bit of a push.  It was irksome therefore to find that though I had booked in good time, I still faced the prospect of sleeping 'al fresco'. With that thought I looked out of the window only to see that it was raining as heavy as ever. I waited for the landlord to return, fingers crossed tightly, with the good news that he had found me a place to rest my weary head.

      I remember when I was young discovering that there was no such thing as the tooth fairy, and that father Christmas was shall we say, something of a fraud. Now I discovered to my cost that crossing ones finger, no matter how tightly, and despite it being the weekend of Halloween, did not bring about good luck.

     The hands up gesture by the landlord as he approached, and the raising of his shoulders told me as much before he spoke. “Not a thing I'm afraid. The town's booked up solid.”

     ”Nothing at all?” I pleaded. ”Absolutely nothing?”

     There was a longish pause before he spoke again. Then a half smile appeared on his face.”There's only one place left that I can think of,” he said, ”but you may not....”

    “Anything.” I interrupted.

    “Well, it's a bit out of town; a bit remote. Some people think it's a bit creepy, but it might be worth a try.”

     “I'm so tired it'll take a bevy of ghosts to wake me up.”  I answered, somewhat flippantly.

      “It's along the coast road about two miles; look for a crossroad  - Gibbets Cross they call it. There you should see a signpost for the Old Rectory. Some people say it's haunted – well you know what people are like – but I have heard that they take in travellers.”

      I finished my pint and set off, anxious to find a place to settle for the night.

    “Good luck.h the landlord said, once more displaying that curious half smile.  ”I hope you'll be alright.”

     I found the crossroads easy enough, though why it was called ’Gibbet Cross’ it was not possible to tell. The fact that it was dark and squally did not help at all, and the wind causing the heavy rain to beat against the car only made visibility more difficult;. My concentration was on the road, looking for a sign, any sign, to get me to somewhere  out of the weather, and into somewhere warm and dry. Suddenly, almost weirdly it was there, a signpost pointing to the left down a narrow road, which stated simply, but in rather old fashioned lettering, ‘The Old Rectory’.

      I was pleased to find that the road to the Old Rectory, though narrow, was quite good, especially as the signpost had not indicated a distance. But my satisfaction soon changed when, without warning the road ended at a gate. A small notice, hardly readable through the streaky windscreen and the swishing rain invited me to continue on what looked like little more than a dirt track; and a muddy one at that.

     To  ’The Old Rectory - 1 mile.’ It read.

     One mile; I groaned. ’Will this night ever end?’ I called out angryly at the prospect of another soaking, and the real possibility of getting stuck in the mud miles from anywhere with little prospect of help. More than that, I was still unsure if accommodation was available when - if - I reached the rectory. The gate was heavy and stiff, and had to be physically lifted to clear the deep rut where it scraped into the ground. By the time I had opened it, driven my car through, and then closed it behind, I was, predictably, drenched. The rear lights of the car had been of little help casting hardly any light, and what light there was from the headlights was quickly diminished by the rain. They illuminated nothing save a ghostly halo, and certainly no glimpse of a building.

     It was hard to imagine a more desolate place, and my joyful anticipation of a warm and comfortable room for the night seemed to be as far away as ever. Pushing gingerly forward, fearful of finding a deep rut, my face as close to the windscreen as possible to gather in what vision there was, I managed to stay with the track. When the ’Old Rectory’ finally came into view it was with a mixture of relief and something approaching dismay, for the faintest outline seemed to suggest a ramshackle, almost deserted building, dingy and unlit. Unlit that is save for a single, rather dim light in the doorway porch. Wearily I left my car and entered the porch, high and arched over a large heavy looking door. In the gloomy light I looked for a notice that might indicate some kind of welcome to visitors, but found none. Neither was there anything to indicate that this was indeed the old rectory, even though it was hard to believe it to be anything other.
      Having found no door knocker, or bell, or chain, I gave the door a sharp thump with the side of my fisted hand, but despite the firmness of my action it seemed to make little sound, and produced no result. I tried once more; still without response. For long minutes no one came. I turned to go, desperate now, dreading the return journey along the muddy rutted track, resigned to spending the rest of the night in the car, when I sensed the door opening. It was the increase of light that made me stop and turn, for that huge door was opening without a sound. Only the brightness from within, increasing as the door opened, told me that my knocking had in fact been heard.
    “Can I help you?” It was a young voice, neither male or female; or both; emanating from a person standing in the doorway. The light behind, though not as bright as at first I thought, was strong enough to create a silhouette of someone tall, slim, and long haired; but as to its gender I could not tell.
   “Can I help you?” The same question in exactly the same manner.
   “Forgive me.” I managed to answer, ”I’m a little disoriented, what with the weather, and the time. I’ve been told that you have accommodation for travellers. I know it’s very late, I do hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
     “Please come in; do you have some luggage?”
     “Just one bag in the boot.”
      I turned to retrieve my bag, but before I reached my car this young person was ahead of me. A flick on the remote had the boot springing up; then a hand grabbed the bag and slammed the boot lid down almost in one continuous movement. Seemingly impervious to the weather and without appearing to get wet, he (or she) was soon back in the porch and into the building. In the high paneled entrance were a few armchairs and a desk. The light, which outside had not been bright enough to reveal my companion’s face, now seemed even dimmer. As I filled in the guest card I took the opportunity to look at his, or was it her, face. No attempt was made to avoid my gaze and when our eyes met it was me who looked away, awkward and a touch embarrassed, but still I could not tell. Smooth skin and well formed features suggested my young host to be a girl, as did the longish straight hair. But there was little evidence of that at the front. The lack of any swelling where it might have been expected, and the voice, well modulated but slightly low in tone veered towards the masculine.
     ”I’ll take you to your room now.” my new host said, as my bag was retrieved from where it had been dropped.
     “Thank you.” I smiled, ”Are there any other guests.”
     “Just the one. No doubt you will see him at breakfast.”
     “Yes, I’ll be ready for that; I'm famished.”
      The hint did not bring forth an offer of any late night refreshments, so I hoped I would find something in my room. I was soon to find out for the young person had stopped and was inserting a rather chunky key into a door. This accomplished I was ushered into a large room, furnished with very old but adequate furniture. With high ceilings and windows,  heavy curtains down to the floor, and thick carpets, it was old fashioned, but on the face of it, very comfortable.  A tray on a side table stocked with all that was needed for a hot drink told of it’s sometime, if not regular, use by visitors.

     My guide was now leaving and I turned to offer my thanks. ”What should I call you,”  I asked, sure in the knowledge that the little mystery of gender would soon be solved.  

    ”I’m Adam. Press the button by the bed if you need anything.”

    ”Adam.” I muttered, when the door closed. At least now I knew, but somehow felt that I was none the wiser.  Shortly after there was a knock on the door, and there stood the young man once more, bearing some towels.

   “Thank you Adam.” I smiled as he put them down.
    “Adam is my brother,” came the totally unexpected reply. “I’m Eve.”        There was no hint of a smile at what otherwise I might have taken to be a joke, or at least a lighthearted coincidence. She left, still without a smile.
      It had been a long day, and tiredness sent me quickly into a deep sleep. How long I slept I do not know, but I was awoken by the sound of my door banging shut, and the figure of an elderly man leaning hard against it, trying to hold it against someone out side, bent on gaining entrance. It was completely dark. The long heavy curtains on the inside and the blackness of the stormy, moonless night outside, combined to allow not the slightest hint of light, and yet I could clearly see the man. He was cowering now, unable to hold back the determined effort of whoever it was outside, for now, unable to resist the force from the other side any longer, the door became ajar and one more push sent the older man sprawling, whereupon he was immediately set upon. Not by one but two assailants, both young and very sparsely dressed. Ignoring his pleas and terrified cries, they struck the poor man repeatedly with short broad daggers. Once, twice, a dozen times they struck until their victim was still and lifeless.
       Throughout this frenzied attack I had been riveted to the spot. At the beginning I had raised myself, and had been able to witness the whole scene, and yet, to my shame, I had done nothing to help the frightened man. I had been paralysed, though not just with fear. Something had held me, a force that had robbed me of all ability to move, and fear had become terror. Now it was over and the dead man’s blood was drenching the lush carpet, but the two assailants made no attempt to run. Indeed they stood side by side staring at me. This was perhaps my greatest moment of fear, for now I could see them plainly. They were clearly twins, and it was abundantly apparent, not by their faces but by the transparency of their night attire, that one of them was a young man, and with equal clarity I could see that his murderous companion was a young woman. That they were in fact Adam and Eve was unquestionable, though in a guise as far removed as it is possible to imagine from that of the bible's teaching of mans earliest ancestors.  Neither did they resemble in this incarnation, except in their faces, those two young people of my recent meeting.
      I waited, immobile, rigid, waiting for my fate, convinced that shortly I too would feel the power of those knives. Inexplicably however the two attackers turned and silently walked out of the room.  How long did I lay, silently, hardly breathing, before I dared to move?  I do not know, but when I did my ordeal continued.  Even as I tried to rise, from the lifeless body on the floor there emerged a shape, transparent and ethereal, indistinct, and yet in that mysterious none-light, visible.  I screamed a silent scream, certain now that I faced a terrible end, for I had discerned in the changing undulating shape, appearing then dissolving, the brief but unmistakable outline of the horned devil.  I waited, fearing the worst but the apparition seemed unconcerned at my presence, and soon followed the twins to whatever hellish place they had gone, and the door, as though somehow touched by its force, closed eerily behind it.
        Eventually, cautiously, I eased myself from the bed and moved to where I could look at the dead man. Now I was shaken to the core, and  could not help the scream that came from me, no longer silent, but with a power which must have been heard in the town, for the face before me, whose eyes though lifeless were staring piercingly into mine, and with its mouth wide open, as though screaming its last scream, was my own.
        I ran. Nothing could hold me back. Shoes and coat apart, everything was abandoned, and my prayer that I would find my car keys in the coat were answered. In a short time I was racing along the muddy track, where earlier I had been so cautious. Mercifully the rain had stopped and there was even some moonlight to help me on my way. I did not stop at the gate, which, despite its weight and sturdiness offered little resistance when I crashed through it, and not until I reached the crossroads did I feel that I might be free from that place of terror.
       But I was wrong. A shaft of moonlight, far brighter than that all around clearly illuminated what I had failed to see before; the gibbet.  Hanging by their necks, were two slim young bodies with faces contorted in agony where the life had been choked out of them. I didn’t have to look twice for I knew at once that they were Adam and Eve.
      Many days passed before I dared to ask questions, but my research quickly revealed a story of savagery and abuse, and that two centuries earlier, the twins, aged just seventeen, had been convicted of the murder of a priest. He had, they claimed, taken them in as orphans, and named them, but only for his own sake.  For five years he had worked them like slaves, and when the mood was on him, had abused them both. Whatever the truth of that it was clear that two orphaned waifs stood little chance against the establishment, and they were hanged together on that very gibbet. The date? The day of Halloween, Eighteen Hundred and Seven.
      All that had happened a year before, and this account of that night is my first attempt at writing since then, in the hope that it may purge my mind, and erase those frightful memories. Whether it does or not, one thing is certain. I will never go to that place again, even to clear up the remaining mysteries; three in number.  Who were the twins? And why did the dead priest look like me?  And the other guest - had I seen him after all, for was he - I still tremble at the thought - was it the devil himself?