Ghouls of the Undercity. Edmund Glasby

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СКАЧАТЬ although none as severe as the blaze of 1826 when almost a third of the Old City was affected. Many of the buildings we can see around us bear traces of that terrible conflagration. However, it was in the Undercity itself where one of the most calamitous fires erupted, killing scores of unfortunates. It must’ve been a truly terrifying experience; trapped underground, the flames and the smoke, the screams as entire families were burnt to death, unable to escape.”

      Far away could be heard the faint sound of a police car siren—an incongruous sound considering their surroundings and a small, yet welcome reminder that they hadn’t completely stepped outside the modern world. It was difficult to perceive the fact that they were in a city within a city; a frightening, ghastly enclave that lurked within the boundaries of an otherwise relatively sane conurbation filled with schools, hospitals and libraries.

      Down a twisting street Richardson led them. On their right loomed a wall some thirty feet in height, its surface cracked and covered in obscene scrawls of graffiti suggesting that local street gangs had at one time frequented this area. Amidst the doodles and the gibberish, one slogan proclaimed ‘Charles Butterworth will rise again!’; the message painted onto the wall in thick, red, sloppy brushstrokes.

      “There are a few entrances to the Undercity,” announced Richardson, opening his case and removing his set of keys. It was only now that the others realised that there was a cunningly concealed door in front of him. “With several more being found each year. Most are but tunnels, little more than sewer entrances. This one, however, was perhaps the most commonly used by those who either chose or were forced to dwell therein.” He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

      The stench that assaulted their nostrils was foul; an age-old smell mixed with the hint of sewage, as though a long-closed manhole lid had just been raised. Beyond the door was a stretch of tunnel at the end of which, just visible in the torchlight, could be seen another door.

      Once everyone was inside, Richardson closed the door behind them. He then went to the front of the group and led them down the passageway. It was dank and low-ceilinged, the walls curved slightly as though it was a sewer tunnel. The door he was approaching was far older in appearance, with a square metal grille set at head height. With a different key, he unlocked it, the torchlight revealing a flight of stone steps descending into a murky darkness. Water could be heard dripping from somewhere, the steady sounds echoing off the walls.

      “Please be careful on the steps.” Deeper and deeper Richardson led them down the sloping passages, through tunnels that rang with the muffling echoes of their feet and oozed a thick, viscid moisture from the walls until none but he was sure of the way back. Eventually they left the sewer system and exited, via another downward sloping passage, into a rat-run of interconnected vaulted chambers. Some were sealed off with portcullis-type gates and all were ancient.

      There was an air of menace about these subterranean spaces; an aura of evil and cruelty that was almost tangible. In this place of darkness and death only the shadows seemed alive.

      “All sorts of ghostly things have been seen down here. Not surprising, I guess, when one considers the grisly history which has literally seeped into the very walls.” Richardson continued with his spiel: “In 1779 the crown ordered a violent, merciless assault on the inhabitants in an attempt to clamp down on the rampant lawlessness that, like a contagion, spread from here. Hundreds were butchered in their sleep or rounded up and dragged to the surface where they were either imprisoned or executed. Six years later it was the turn of the church. By order of the bishop the known entrances were sealed off, resulting in mass starvation.”

      “I didn’t think it would be so big,” commented Lester, eyes wide as he stared all around.

      “This is but one part of the Undercity. Exactly how far it stretches no one actually knows however there are points of access in Grey Chapel Cemetery, Kirkwall Street, St. Cuthbert’s Causeway and West Tower Road in addition to the one we entered by. It is said that there may also be entrances near the castle as well as one in the vaults of the cathedral where we started. At the height of its inhabitation it has been suggested that up to six thousand people may have lived down here. It must have been a very basic existence; food and fresh water being scarce and having to be scavenged from above. Sadly, it is a documented fact that cannibalism was rife and there are reports of folk being snatched from above and dragged down here for such a purpose.”

      “I did a history lesson about Sawney Bean, the Scottish cannibal who lived on the Ayrshire coast,” spoke up one of the young men. “He lived in a cave and ate people.”

      “Ayrshire is a little outside my beat but I can’t say that I’ve heard of him,” replied Richardson. “Anyway, if anyone has any questions I’ll be pleased to answer them.”

      Lester ran a hand down the wall, feeling the dampness on the rough surface. “You said earlier that these tunnels were several hundred years old. Well, I’ve been to Egypt and I’ve been inside some of the ancient tombs in the Valley of the Kings and I’ve got to say this place looks a damn sight older even though those tombs were thousands of years old.”

      “The main part of the Undercity is three hundred, maybe four hundred years old. It could be that there are older parts as yet undiscovered but I doubt it,” Richardson replied, casting a casual glance at his watch. It was a quarter past nine; time to be winding things up. “If you’re all ready we’ll start heading out. I’ll be leading you out a different—” He stopped as everything went several shades gloomier and then suddenly dark, the light from his powerful torch dying before going out.

      There were a few startled cries.

      “Please be calm,” Richardson called out. “The batteries on my torch must’ve died. Just a moment. I’ve got spares in my—”

      “What the hell was that?” Lester called out.

      “Something just moved past me,” cried one of the young men.

      “Oh my God! Oh my God!” screamed Stanley’s wife hysterically.

      What followed was pure pandemonium. It seemed that everyone was screaming now as panic broke out. In the utter darkness people were floundering and tripping, colliding with others and stumbling, blindly, into the walls as the darkness become peopled by nightmares.

      Richardson was fumbling desperately for his spare batteries. He slid one into place and then someone staggered into him, knocking the second battery from his trembling fingers. With a curse, he dropped to his knees and began feeling around hoping that it had not rolled far or down a crack in the floor. It would be pure hell trying to get these frightened people out in pitch darkness.

      “Jesus Christ! Something’s got a hold of my—” Lester’s words were cut short as there came a scratching, ripping sound followed by an obscene, terrible gargling.

      Yells and cries reverberated off the Undercity walls, chasing themselves in fading echoes down the age-old tunnels. In the terror-filled darkness it was clear that some had tried to flee from the ensuing madness for their screams now sounded further away. Someone nearby was whimpering, their pathetic mumbled words half-prayer, half-nonsense.

      Like a blind man feeling his way forward, Richardson’s fingers clamped around the missing battery. He slid it into place and…what he saw as the torchlight illuminated his surroundings once more caused his heart to leap and his stomach to lurch.

      Crouched over the bloody, savaged corpse of Lester was a small, naked, thoroughly grotesque being, its skin pale, almost bone-white. The emaciated thing’s face was wrinkled and sallow, its eyes huge and black, doll-like. Fresh blood dribbled out of its crooked, tooth-filled maw from where it had been feasting СКАЧАТЬ