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GHOULS OF THE UNDERCITY

Things other than flesh

crawled in the darkness…

David Richardson sat in front of the small mirror applying the final touches to his skull-faced makeup; the chalk-white powder and the dark eye shadow. He grinned, appraising his teeth, which he had already blackened, wondering whether or not to enhance his ghoulish appearance with a little fake blood. After a moment’s indecision he chose not to, after all he had gone out in his blood-sucking vampire costume the night before and it was just possible that there would be some who had attended that tour there tonight. It wouldn’t do to make his little business—providing ‘ghost tours’ around the city—look cheap for there were now other tour operators working out there and competition was relatively fierce. It really was a question of showmanship and originality and to that end he wouldn’t settle for second best; aspiring to give his customers the most insightful and frightful experience that he could.

In this endeavour Richardson had two main advantages over his competitors. First—he possessed a theatrical background, both in acting and in makeup and costume-design, having worked for over twenty years on some of the, admittedly low-scale, productions that several playhouses in the city had put on. Secondly—he knew much of the ghostly lore pertaining to the city, including the knowledge of the dark, eerie and atmospheric places to visit. When he had started the business, in 1980, he had spent hours trawling the records in the library for the gems that added lustre to the facts that the other guides re-hashed time and time again. On occasion he had, surreptitiously, joined some of the other, inferior—in his view at least—tours, making mental notes and learning one or two things; little tricks of the trade, so to speak. To his satisfaction, there wasn’t much that he didn’t already know, and plenty of mistakes. The only drawback he faced was the fact that he was a sole operator, a one-man show and, consequently, unlike some of the other tours he had been on he had no paid stooges ready to jump out of the shadows at opportune moments. However this was something he was rather pleased about, preferring a much classier approach.

Richardson had three different tours that he alternated throughout the week, each of approximately one and a half hours duration. By far his favourite and the one he would be leading this evening was a trip around the Old City, visiting several of the locations where over the years, apparitions had, allegedly, been seen. He would then lead his group into the tunnels and the catacombs beneath street level—into the so-called Undercity; a labyrinthine warren of vaulted, coarse-brick, underground chambers that dated back hundreds of years. In this dismal, unlit, subterranean environment unknown numbers of the poor had lived a squalid, cramped and disease-ridden existence, shut off from the world above. There were countless tales of bloodcurdling horror attached to this place; ones that he would relate and embellish with his own sense of macabre flair.

Consulting his wristwatch, Richardson realised he would soon have to set off for the rendezvous point just outside the cathedral—an interesting building in its own right and one into which he used to take tourists until the bishop had learnt about it and brought such activities to a halt. All of his tours began at eight o’clock, regardless of the weather and if the past few nights were anything to go by there would hopefully be a substantial number waiting. It had never ceased to amaze him how much people enjoyed hearing about such horrible facts and ghoulish happenings; eager to learn more about the darker side of the city’s history. For evil had happened here. This was undeniable—the evidence and the truth lay buried under the streets, in the cemeteries, in the dark cobbled alleyways and boarded-up houses.

Yet, in spite of all that he knew, Richardson himself was an ardent sceptic. Certainly, many terrible things had happened here; murder, grave-robbing, devil worship and the like but he didn’t believe in ghosts. After all, if anyone should have seen one then surely it would have been him after two years intentionally visiting the places they were rumoured to haunt. But the truth of the matter was he had seen and experienced nothing that couldn’t be explained in a logical manner.

That said, there had been numerous occasions when some on his tour—individuals claiming to be psychic or some such nonsense—had reported seeing things or having experienced something unsettling. Such ‘experiences’ included the sighting of an apparition of a young boy down in the Undercity crying in torment, the image of a shadowy Jack the Ripper figure close to where some of the most sadistic and gruesome murders had occurred and the sensation of icy, spectral hands closing around someone’s throat. His tours were advertised as being not for the faint of heart and, to date, there had been over a dozen instances when individuals had steadfastly refused to go any further, nine cases of the hysterics, three faintings and one heart attack victim who, thankfully, had been resuscitated by an off-duty doctor who had also been on the tour at the time in question.

Satisfied with his cadaverous visage, Richardson rose from his chair and moved to where a range of mannequin heads sporting various fright wigs rested on a shelf. Tonight he opted for a straggly, grey, shoulder-length hairpiece, which he believed would augment his ghastly facial cosmetics. He put it on and ran his hands through it, raking it with his fingers into even wilder tangles. To complete his look he went to his wardrobe and took out a black cloak with red lining which he fastened around his neck and then grabbed his top hat, his silver wolf-headed cane and his black valise. Inside the case he had a powerful torch, some spare batteries, a wad of information flyers that he would distribute after the tour, a thick bunch of keys enabling him to enter the Undercity, the cemetery and several of the abandoned houses that were of interest and a small, basic first-aid kit in case of minor accidents, mostly as a result of people tripping or banging their heads in the shadowy tunnels into which they would be going.

After checking that everything was in order, Richardson switched off the lights in his changing room and left his small office, exiting onto the street. It was dark and cold and there was a light drizzle in the air. Whistling jauntily, he made for the cathedral.

* * * *

“Dare you venture inside the dark and terror-filled Undercity, where hundreds lived in squalor and poverty? Join me on a journey into a shadow-filled world of horror and crime, where cannibalism was rife and Satan Himself is said to have been summoned. Discover, at first-hand, the dark alleyways where Charles Butterworth, ‘The Laughing Ghoul,’ stalked and murdered his victims in such a grisly and depraved fashion and learn just why the house at 333 East Street has such a sinister reputation, remaining closed all these years.” Richardson spoke eloquently, trying to tout for business among the passers-by for he had been sorely disappointed when, upon arriving at the cathedral, there had been only a middle-aged couple waiting, who had enthusiastically introduced themselves as Lester and Mary Cunningham, American tourists from Boston. A poor showing by any standard. Still, there remained a few more minutes to try and whip up some interest and, as this was a weekend night, there were a lot of people about. “I alone have the key which will enable us to enter.” He spotted a tall, elderly, bespectacled man regarding him with measured interest. “You sir, you have the look of someone who is unafraid of the darker side of life and who would be willing to venture into the hellish depths in order to come face-to-face with the living dead, to hear of the stories of mayhem and murder which have left their gruesome stain on this fair—or should I say foul—city.”

“Well, I think you may have just piqued my interest.” The man stepped closer. “Yes, why not. I’ll give it a go.” Noticing the advertising placard next to Richardson, he dug into his pocket and handed over the admission fee.

“Thank you.” Richardson put the money into his wallet. “I can guarantee your enjoyment. Now if you’ll just wait a few minutes over here—”

“Hurry up, Stanley. Oh, thank God we haven’t missed it.” A large, forceful woman pushed her way through the passing crowd, practically hauling a small, bald-headed, bearded man. “We heard about if from some guests staying at our hotel the other evening who told us how much they enjoyed it. This is our last night in the city and we didn’t want to miss out, now did we, Stanley?” She threw a disparaging look at her husband. “Well hurry it up, Stanley. Pay the man.”

With something of a pathetic, long-suffering look at Richardson, Stanley counted out the required money and paid up.

It was now only two minutes to eight o’clock and Richardson was preparing to start when a group of young men, four in total, turned up. At first, he was concerned, having dealt with brash and offensive types before, who either deliberately sought to ridicule his tours or else proved downright difficult with their disruptive antics. However this group of lads seemed to be relatively well-behaved. Besides, it was slim pickings this evening and he didn’t want to turn away four paying customers. News like that would soon get around and the last thing he needed was negative advertising.

“Well, if we’re all ready, let us begin. Please, follow me. I’m a fast walker and we’ve got much to see so do try to keep up.” With those words, Richardson set out, his group of nine close on his heels.

Striding purposefully to the side-street at the rear of the cathedral, Richardson led his party away from the main thoroughfares of the city which were now beginning to throng with crowds of weekend evening revellers. Their shouts and laughs faded altogether after a few minutes, the only sounds now audible that of the clatter of shoes on the pavement and the occasional snippet of hushed conversation. Even the group of young men were surprisingly quiet.

They were now entering an area devoid of street lighting and the crumbling houses that loomed high on either side were dark and foreboding, partially decaying structures that no doubt housed countless undesirables. The street before them narrowed further and now Richardson had to use his torch to light the way, informing everyone to stay close and to mind their step. About halfway along, he stopped, shone his torch down a downward sloping passageway that branched off from the street they were on. It was terribly dark along that cobbled lane and, even he had to admit, it was spooky.

“We now stand at the turning to Hobbs Alley—one of the oldest, and some would say, most haunted parts of the Old City. For those of you who don’t know, the city you see today has been occupied for well over a thousand years. Now obviously there are only a few small traces of occupation going back as far as that, however much of the present-day buildings are in fact built atop much older structures, some dating back two, three and even four hundred years. The oldest building in the city that still stands is probably the Three Goats Heads public house which dates back to the early Twelfth Century.”

“Can we go there and visit the spirits behind the bar?” quipped one of the young men, his comment winning a few laughs from his mates.

Richardson took it all in his stride. “Not on this tour, although that is one of the tours I run and there are some very interesting and unnerving tales to be told about that place. Its name, for instance, comes from a certain Black Magic rite, which utilised said goats’ heads, but I digress. Hobbs Alley is infamous for many things but perhaps its greatest notoriety derives from the fact that it was down there, on the twenty-seventh of February 1886 that the mutilated body of a young serving girl, Jayne Wheatley, was discovered. Three days later, a second victim, Rosie Travis, was also found. Then a third, Margaret Brent, again three days later, was found; brutally murdered, torn almost to pieces in an act of unspeakable violence.”

“Was that like Jack the Ripper?” asked Mary.

“Hell, Mary, that was in London. Remember we went on that tour last year,” replied Lester.

“Although there was some resemblance to the Ripper murders, this was the handiwork of a despicable being some would consider far worse, despite the fact that not so many have heard of him. I’m talking about Charles Butterworth—The Laughing Ghoul. I see by the looks on your faces that none of you are familiar with the name—a name that history has, to a large extent, chosen to forget, so wicked were his crimes.”

“Either that or you’ve just made him up,” remarked Stanley’s wife.

“Why, not at all.” Richardson enjoyed it when others challenged his knowledge of the details. “At the end of our little expedition I have certain pamphlets which I will distribute that provide all the information regarding this evening’s tour. You’ll be able to do some research of your own if you doubt any of what I say.”

“Why was Butterworth called The Laughing Ghoul?” asked the elderly gentleman.

Richardson turned. “A good question but the answer will have to wait until later when all will be made clear. Well, if we are ready, we’ll head down to where young Jayne Wheatley met her terrible, tragic end. Follow me and—”

“We’re not going down there, are we?” asked Mary nervously.

“But of course. I assure you I’ll keep the torch on at all times, however the ground is uneven so please take care.”

As a tightly-huddled group they went down, the alley narrowing the further they went. There was a cloying, unpleasant smell in the air and it was deathly quiet, claustrophobic, the atmosphere and the knowledge of what may have happened here playing on the nerves of all bar Richardson. After all for him this was familiar territory. He came down this alley with groups twice, sometimes three times a week.

Shadows shrank and crept back again as the guide swung his torch around the walls before directing the beam to the ground at his feet. “It was here, in this godforsaken place that the body of Jayne Wheatley was found—well what was left of her at any rate. You see, when they found her she had been partially consumed. The flesh from her legs, torso and arms had been—”

“Hey, steady on. That’s quite enough of that.” Lester shook his head with distaste. “I thought we’d come to hear about some good old-fashioned British ghosts not this kind of stuff.”

“Well I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but I normally only tone down my commentary if there are any children present. Although, that said, more often than not it is they who want to hear all of the gory details. Bloodthirsty little tykes that they are. However, I’ll take on board what you say.”

A couple of the young men moaned at this, believing it a needless acquiescence on their guide’s part. They weren’t squeamish and wanted to hear it—guts and all.

“As I was saying, it was here that Charles Butterworth claimed his first victim. The other two were found close by. Butterworth’s involvement was only discovered later and indeed only by pure chance, when human remains were found in his house—333 East Street. And it is there that we’re going next. Now before we go I normally just ask everyone to stand still and try to mentally picture the scene as it would have been almost a century ago on that dark, terrible night.” Richardson deliberately covered the torch with his hand, dimming the light and making the alley even more horrifying.

Shadows seemed to seep and press in towards them as though possessed of their own malign intent. A preternatural, unnerving silence fell, descending upon them like a funeral shroud. It was bordering on the unbearable for some—the two women and Stanley in particular. It was a horrible atmosphere, whether one believed in the bloody murders or not. Varying levels of fear crept into the hearts of all but Richardson as the imagination conjured up ghastly images.

Two agonising minutes passed before Richardson raised his torch. “Well…did anyone experience anything? On previous tours I’ve had people tell me that they’ve felt suddenly cold or even heard hideous laughter. On one or two occasions I’ve had people who claimed to have seen the ghost of Jayne Wheatley or even the phantom of Butterworth himself dressed very much in the same manner as I am.”

“I did feel a chill,” spoke up Stanley’s wife. “A creepy kind of shiver. It was most unpleasant.”

“It’s an eerie place, I’ll say that for it,” said the elderly man. “Do people still live in these houses?”

“I don’t know,” Richardson answered. “I’ve never seen any lights on behind any of the windows but I assume they do.”

“Can we be going now?” inquired Stanley’s wife. “I don’t like it here.”

“I think it’s giving her the willies,” commented Lester cheekily. His comment received a dark glower from the woman in question but got a few chuckles from the young men.

“Indeed. Follow me.” His torch illuminating the way, Richardson took them further into the warren of dingy backstreets.

They went down narrow, uneven flights of stairs and up sloping inclines. At one point they exited onto a relatively major road and the sight of cars and lampposts provided some with a well-needed respite in what was proving to be a most unsettling experience. But then the modern street was behind them and they were once more back in the twisting, cobbled streets and alleys of the Old City.

A malodorous, fetid stench struck at their nostrils.

“Say, what’s that God awful stink? Don’t you people have working drains?” Lester’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

“That, my friend, is the accumulated waste of several centuries,” answered Richardson. “You see there were no latrines or sewers back in the days these houses were built and sanitation was virtually non-existent. Much of the effluent was merely tipped from windows where it would fester for weeks. Liquid waste would run down the street, leeching into the very brickwork—hence the better property, if one could say that given the conditions, was always at the top of the hill. The council have not yet tackled this area of the city as it is virtually uninhabited. Indeed, if they finally get round to modernising it I fear we will be losing a piece of history.”

The buildings around them were even more dilapidated than those they had already seen with smashed windows and broken doorways. Some bore the scars of past fires and a sense of wickedness seemed to hang over them as though, over the years, they had borne silent witness to acts of great inhumanity. Over to their right, away from some boarded-up houses, which leaned like dying men against one another for support, was a burnt-out church-like building. Once a gathering point for the denizens of this area, now it lay desolate and heavily vandalised, its remaining walls and rafters broken and blackened. This area seemed almost detached from all that was sane and modern and it was doubtful that even daylight would improve the look of the place. At night, with a chill drizzle falling from the dark heavens and a gloomy, spectral mist now beginning to fall and with a character like Richardson, dressed as he was, it bordered on the nightmarish.

“And here we are, East Street. The house we have arrived at is number 333.” Richardson shone his torch at a dark, padlocked wooden door set in a stretch of very old wall, the stonework coarse and crumbling. “It is here, within this very house of horrors that Charles Butterworth, the evil perpetrator of those heinous murders, lived; murders that went beyond madness and evil. Behind this door is the house of a truly depraved individual. What terrible sights the police must have witnessed when they entered we can only imagine but if the records are anything to go by then we can but speculate on the gut-wrenching horrors within.” Removing his set of keys from his case, he quickly found the one he needed, inserted it into the lock, turned it and opened the door.

By the light from the torch the gathered group could see that the space beyond was a small, bare room.

“Please be careful once inside as there are numerous loose beams and, as you can see, it is rather low-ceilinged, so please mind your head.” With that warning, Richardson entered. He waited until everyone was inside before closing the door.

A faint charnel smell hung in the air.

“Charles Butterworth was more than a killer. When the police came here on a tip-off they found far more than they had bargained for. The ground floor was fairly normal—obviously there is no furniture remaining from that time—but it is what they discovered upstairs…” Once everyone was inside, he led them along a shadow-filled corridor, showing them around several fairly nondescript ground floor rooms. They gathered in what had once been the kitchen.

“It sure is a creepy place this,” commented Mary.

Lester put his arm around his wife. “I don’t know; some nice wallpaper, fitted lights and some pot plants…I reckon—”

There came a loud creak from upstairs as though someone had stepped on a loose board. It came again and was then followed by the sound of a door closing.

“What the hell was that?” cried out several voices at once.

All was quiet.

Richardson swiftly panned the torch around. It was possible that there was someone else in the house with them although that seemed highly unlikely considering the fact that he had had to unlock the property in order to gain access. A vagrant, possibly? On a few occasions he had encountered drunks and homeless individuals down in the Undercity—those unfortunates who had nowhere else to go.

As a group they remained silent for a further thirty seconds.

“Maybe it’s the ghost of Charles Butterworth,” said Richardson. “Shall we go and see?” There was a slight apprehension in his tone. Realising this, he forced calmness back into his voice. After all, this was but an old, dark house—admittedly it had been the house of a psychopathic, cannibalistic murderer—but a house, nonetheless. To the others, however, the place was genuinely creepy. In the torchlight the imagination was free to run rampant and unchecked and for some—those perhaps more susceptible to the multitude of fears that came crowding in, ringing them around, notably the two women and Stanley—the pressure was becoming unendurable. It was as though some powerful, malevolent presence now lurked here; an evil that was just waiting, readying itself for the best moment at which to reveal itself.

In single file, with the guide in the lead, they started up the stairs. There was a small landing halfway up and there was no banister, making it relatively hard going, more so in the cramped conditions and dim light. There was some disgruntled muttering in addition to a few curses from the young men as they tripped, their ascent almost in complete darkness for they were at the rear of the group. Even with the background kerfuffle, Richardson strained his senses; attempting to hear anything out of the ordinary. He thought he detected a further groan from the floorboards in the room at the end of the corridor indicative of someone—ur something—moving around in there but he wasn’t certain. They had all heard a sound when they had been downstairs in the kitchen but he knew from past experience of being in these old buildings how sounds could be deceptive. A gust of wind down an old chimney, the scampering of rats or even the very settling of the building itself due to hundreds of years of age and decay could create a myriad of noises. Noises that those who had been ‘conditioned,’ as it were, to believe in ghosts, would instantly attribute to the paranormal to the detriment of the mundane.

Gently, Richardson pushed open the door on his right. It was an unfurnished bedroom—rather that is what it had once been. Similarly with the room on his left. He shone the torch inside both permitting the others a brief look. For some reason and despite his rational thinking he was beginning to feel tiny trickles of cold sweat crawling down his back. He had felt like this on one or two previous occasions—more so when there had only been two or three in his group and that ‘safety in numbers’ feeling of security had seemed virtually non-existent. For perhaps only the second time on one of his ‘ghost tours’ he longed for a light switch he could just reach out for and click, instantly bathing his surroundings in bright, welcome illumination.

“Just what is it that’s beyond this other door?” asked Lester. “Are we going to see a ghost or what?”

Richardson turned, one hand on the door handle. “I make no promises that we’ll see any ghosts. Indeed, I, myself, don’t believe in them. However, if they do exist then surely it would be in a place such as this. Over the years there have been several investigations by specialists in the field—ghost-hunters or parapsychologists—experts, who, allegedly, have witnessed and experienced dreadful and inexplicable things in the room beyond this door.”

“What kind of things?” asked Stanley’s wife, her fleshy face shrouded in shadow.

“I believe they took several photographs,” answered Richardson. “In some there were—unexplained shapes—things that weren’t there at the time the photos were taken; blurred outlines of a man dressed similarly to the reported sightings of Butterworth. There were other things too. Things I’ll explain once we’re all inside. I should warn you that on previous tours I’ve had people feel suddenly sick and disorientated upon seeing what lies beyond.” When this precautionary statement got no immediate response, he pushed open the door and raised his torch beam.

A grotesque, corpse-like face grinned back at him!

It was almost as though the torchlight had struck a mirror, reflecting back his own hideous, made-up image. However this was a wall painting, daubed onto the coarse brick in garish reds and yellows. The painting was both surreal and unnerving and was clearly the product of an insane mind. The mouth hung wide and stretched; the eyes huge and staring. And as the group moved in they saw that there were many such murals—some mere caricature-like sketches others full-blown works of devilish artistry. All depicted that grinning, triumphant, ugly visage. No matter which stretch of wall one looked at there was a face, the eyes glaring out with a malevolent intensity. Within the confines of the room it gave the viewer the impression that they were caged; and that it was they who were the subject of diabolical scrutiny.

Thankfully, at least as far as Richardson was concerned, the room was empty. There was no vagrant lying huddled in newspapers and with a bottle of cheap rotgut close at hand. Such an encounter could have proven awkward and extremely embarrassing. Tourists eager to learn of the city’s dangerous and squalid past were seldom as keen to confront these elements of its squalid present.

“Good God!” exclaimed Lester. “Those faces! I take it that’s Butterworth?”

“None other. Hence ‘The Laughing Ghoul.’ It was in this room that he was said to have practised his unholy ceremonies. One rumour has it that it was within this very room that he summoned forth the Devil and that it was this experience which drove him completely insane, making him paint all of these warped self-portraits. Another rumour says that when he called forth Satan, the Devil forced him into painting one face for each person he had murdered. Ah, but I notice your confusion—Butterworth only killed three times, you say. Alas no, you see when the police conducted a search of the house they discovered more bodies—or rather parts thereof. Where? I hear you ask.” Richardson pointed the torch beam to the floor. “Why under the very floorboards upon which you now stand. Over twenty-five individuals, or so it is claimed, lay underneath.” He grinned upon noticing the shock and revulsion that flickered over some of the other’s faces. In a perverse way he loved this little revelation. It never ceased to get a reaction.

Some looked down as though half-expecting putrefying, clawed hands to burst through the floor or to see withered, rotten faces gazing up through gaps in the boards.

“You’re kidding, right?” asked Lester, his arm around his wife’s shoulder, providing comfort for it was clear that she was feeling uneasy.

Richardson shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It was here, in this diabolical shrine that many unspeakable atrocities were carried out. It is now well-accepted that Butterworth was a leading Satanist and I’m sure he was not working alone. A cabal of devil-worshippers operated from this house, preying on the poor and the vulnerable, obtaining many of their recruits and their sacrificial victims from the surrounding slums and the Undercity, where we shall be going next. There used to be—” he was interrupted by the unsavoury sound of the American woman vomiting.

“Are you okay, honey? I think it’s time we got out and got some fresh air,” said Lester.

“I agree.” With hasty strides, Richardson led them back along the corridor, down the stairs and outside. Here they all gathered, the two women looking pale and sickly in the poor light, their respective spouses trying to comfort them.

“Hey, Mister tour leader.”

Richardson turned to face one of the young men, an acne-faced youth in his late teens. “Yes?”

“Well I’ve just noticed that the old geezer, you know, the guy with the glasses…well, he’s missing.”

* * * *

A quarter of an hour later, after having re-entered Charles Butterworth’s house and conducted a thorough search within, Richardson found himself perplexed and at a loss for answers regarding the man’s disappearance. The appropriate thing to do was to call the tour off and inform the police but when he had raised that as a course of action, both Americans and Stanley’s wife had volubly stated that they wanted it to continue; a decision given some strength when one of the young men revealed that he had overheard the old man mentioning that he had seen enough. It could be, therefore, that he had just decided to make off without announcing his intent, in which case, assuming that he could find his way back in the dark safely there was no cause for alarm. Such things had happened on the other tours—indeed, now he came to think about it, it was rare that he finished a tour with the same number he had started out with.

“Well, are we going to see this Undercity or whatever it’s called?” ventured Lester. “Or are we going to get a full refund?”

“Yes, I, or rather we, came along specifically to see the Undercity, didn’t we Stanley?” Stanley’s wife pulled her expensive coat tight over her pendulous bulk. “We’ve heard it’s a must see. A once in a lifetime experience.”

Richardson was still mentally debating what he should do. It went without saying that the Undercity was the highlight of the tour and it would reflect badly on him if he were to cancel things now. He reached a decision, hoping that he was right about the old man having just opted to abandon the tour and make his own way back. “Very well,” he said. “On with the tour. We shall leave the maleficent Charles Butterworth behind and set out for the Undercity—a vast, sprawling underground labyrinth of tunnels and vaults wherein whole generations lived and died.” He felt somewhat better now that he had reached a firm decision, assured that he had at least gone back into the house, where the old man had last been seen, in an attempt to locate him. Case and cane in one hand, torch in the other, he marched off, confident in the knowledge that the others would follow.

They soon entered a further maze of narrow, deserted streets. The age-old houses crammed in around them oppressively and with each step that horrendous stench grew.

“In times past, this part of the Old City was often referred to as the ‘Necropolis,’ which if we have any Classical scholars amongst us will know means ‘city of the dead.’ Although this area was never used as an actual burial site, at least not to my knowledge, there’s little doubt that hundreds, maybe thousands, died in these dismal hovels. Many perished due to malnutrition and disease. Others fell victim to the likes of Butterworth and his cronies. There were also many fires in this area, 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 on its victim’s torn throat.

Mercifully, Richardson only saw it for a second or two for it recoiled instantly from the bright light, hissing its wrath and shielding its eyes before scampering rapidly away. It vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, its movements loping and almost spider-like as it clambered up one of the tunnel walls and disappeared into a crack in the ceiling. A blurred motion to his left made him spin round, catching at the corner of his eye a second white blur as another one of the things dashed out of view. He raised a hand to his mouth, grimacing and fighting to keep down his supper upon seeing the mutilated bodies of Stanley’s wife and one of the young men, their ravaged, bloody corpses showing signs of bite marks.

Insanity threatened to tear Richardson’s mind apart. The harrowing horror, the bloody carnage and the madness battered and yammered at his brain, sending it spiralling in a hundred different directions, each one darker and more chaotic than the last.

“Are they gone?” asked one of the young men, shambling back into the light. His face was ashen and he was trembling. Blood ran from a claw mark on his arm.

“What in Hell’s name were they?” questioned another. Unlike his friend he appeared uninjured but there was shock and confusion imprinted all over his face.

“I don’t know—but we have to get out of here,” answered Richardson. “It could be that the torchlight kept them away. We’ve got to get moving.”

“I’m going nowhere without my husband. You’ve got to help him,” pleaded Mary. She stood gazing down at her very dead husband, clearly not accepting the fact that he was beyond help, after all there was nothing in Richardson’s first-aid kit that could perform miracles. “We have to get the police and an ambulance.”

“Come on, let’s get going before those things come back.” One of the young men was practically pleading with Richardson to leave—to abandon the American woman if need be—after all he was the only one with a light source and this was now a survival situation. Tears would have to wait until they were out.

As Richardson hesitated, contemplating whether or not to drag the woman with him, there came the echoing clang of one of the portcullis-like gates closing. Several seconds later the sound came again, more muffled this time, further away and from a different direction.

“What was that?” asked Stanley. He had sat, huddled in a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, his eyes wide and staring throughout the madness. Only now did he haul himself to his feet.

“I think they’re trying to trap us; to block off our escape routes.” Richardson swung his torch around, shining it over the three shadowy exits from the chamber they were in. It had sounded as though the way they had come was sealed off as well as one of the forward tunnels. “Those who want to see daylight again had better follow me.” He waited, giving Mary the chance to join him if she so desired and was pleased to see her nod her head and shuffle forward, tears running down her face, smearing her make-up.

There were now only five of them, one of the young men still unaccounted for having fled into the darkness, presumably dead. They had set out as a group of ten—now they were half that number. All of them looked shell-shocked, weary, frightened and some were blood-spattered. There were glazed, disbelieving looks in their eyes, indicative of those who could not come to terms with what they had just experienced.

“Everyone stay close, keep moving and keep your eyes open.” There was a determination in Richardson’s stride as he set off down one of the passages—one which he hoped had not been blocked. His mind was a seething cauldron of writhing, chaotic thoughts but despite this he tried to mentally regain control, knowing that panic would not do him or any of the others any good. To succumb to the insanity would only compound the situation and would no doubt lead to them all getting killed. He forced himself to get a grip on his faculties; to think clearly and logically. He reckoned it would take them about ten minutes to reach an exit, providing it had not been blocked and that he could remain focused and remember the route.

They had been going for close on five minutes, the gnawing fear at what existed in the darkness and was no doubt in stealthy pursuit bordering on the unbearable.

Yet a little hope began to blossom in Richardson’s chest as he firmly believed that he was heading in the right direction. The way had not been barred and the exit lay just ahead. When he got out he would head straight to the nearest police station and inform them of all that had happened. There were witnesses who would testify that he was telling the truth—no matter how incredible it might sound—that there were flesh-eating monsters, devils born of nightmare, haunting the Undercity.

“Keep moving. We’re nearly out. Only another hundred yards or so.”

It was then, when safety and salvation seemed to be tantalisingly within their grasp, that disaster struck as Richardson’s torch went out again.

Scurrying forth from the impenetrable midnight blackness, the savage, child-sized mutant degenerates that had laired down in the deepest parts of the Undercity and the old sewage tunnels fell, ravenously, upon them. With teeth and claws they bore down on their screaming, vulnerable prey, tearing bloody gobbets of flesh from their still-living victims.

Richardson stumbled in the dark, one hand outstretched, reaching for a wall, supporting himself and managing to stay upright. There was nothing he could do for the others now. Only his own survival mattered. Swinging his silver-headed cane in fierce swipes, he edged away, each backward step bring him closer to the exit—or so he hoped.

The gurgling, chomping, slavering sounds that echoed all around were terrible. In his mind he envisaged those poor, hapless victims being torn apart and greedily devoured. He was thankful that he could not witness such gory proceedings.

Step-by-step, he kept retreating.

The sound of scrabbling and the patter of bare feet filled his ears and he was sure the horrors were approaching, no doubt readying themselves for an attack.

“Get back! Get back I warn you!”

“Sssh…sssh…feeeeed usss,” cried out an unholy chorus of sibilant, unearthly voices. “Weeee…huuunger. Sssh…more…brrriing more.”

Richardson’s mind darkened.

“More…” came a pitiful wail; an ululation of the dammed.

A terrifying phantasmagoria of hideously laughing, wide-mouthed faces swam at him from out of the darkness, faces he recognised and had seen many times before. The painted faces of Charles Butterworth. And then a hellish realisation hit him and he knew why these ghouls of the Undercity had not attacked him; had dared not attack him. For his soul belonged to Butterworth, had done so for over two years when he had first set foot in that accursed room in 333 East Street. It had been that Satanist who had formed a pact with these creatures over a century before. He had been their feeder, providing them with morsels from above, until his execution. They still hungered and Butterworth’s spectre had found a way to honour his pact, using Richardson to deliver unknowing victims to them, after all they preferred their meat fresh and as the majority of those he brought were visitors to the city, taking the tour on a whim, their disappearances had never led the police to Richardson. As a further measure, and to ensure no suspicion on the part of Richardson, Butterworth only took full possession after the creatures had claimed their victims, only entering the forefront of his host’s soul and mind when the devilish deed was done.

With Butterworth now in full possession, Richardson found he could see in the dark. He could see that the ghouls were after more but they would have to wait for another night or two and even then it was rare that it was deemed safe enough for them to take an entire group as they had done on this occasion. They must have been starving, poor things. Whistling jauntily, he straightened his hat and made for the exit. In many ways, he was the greatest ghoul of the Undercity.

Ghouls of the Undercity

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