It took a full three days before Marge regained consciousness. She was tucked tightly into bed in an annex at the back of Glenda’s sprawling farm – which doubled as the Kent and East Sussex Morris Dancing Society’s nerve centre.
Barry, Pete and Martin stood nervously in attendance. Barry staring at his shoes, and Pete scrolling through dubious Chat GPT advice on ‘how to wake someone from a coma’.
A weak groan rose from the eiderdown.”Ughhh… this better not be my wake? Why can’t I hear Bowie? Tell me there’s at least some sausage rolls…”
“Oh thank Christ!” Exclaimed Pete, reaching for her unbandaged hand, “We really thought you weren’t going to pull through, Marge”
“It’ll take more than a…” she paused, pulling herself up to a seated position “…jacked up Bambi to take me out, Pete.”
Margaret was pale and drawn, her eyes a little sunken. Putting the broken wrist to one side, she didn’t look much different than normal. “Sit Rep, anyone?”
“Well, you didn’t miss much.” said Barry “The big man took it down with ne’ bother. I like to think we weakened it of course.” Marge rolled her eyes as Barry continued “Clean-up crew said there wasn’t much to coverup.”
“And the child?” she asked.
“We took him to Alice at the morgue. She ran some tests but doesn’t look like anyone had called him in as missing. Poor wee bairn. She reckoned he was a day or two old at most.” Barry shook his head sadly.
The door burst open and a tall, wiry figure strode in, dressed in a baggy-tweed shooting jacket over some sensible slacks that had seen better days. She poked furiously at an iPad. “Ah! Back with the living are we?” she said, without looking up.
Marge coughed into her gown sleeve, “Just about, Glenda. No thanks to your intel.”
Glenda shot a glance over the rim of her glasses “Indeed. Well. Not every eventuality can be anticipated. Looks like a ley line confluence was masking that… thing’s pattern. You’ve had worse Margaret, much worse if I remember rightly.”
Margret glared, but didn’t have the energy to argue, “Be a love, Barry, and get me vape will you?”
Glenda raised a pencil thin eyebrow and detoured to open a window.
“Well, no rest for the wicked. We had another call last night.” said Glenda. “Not a world away from those woods. Maidstone to be exact. A ‘leisure park’ – I believe they’re called – to be even more exact. Well, a bingo hall in a leisure park, if we’re putting a finer point on it.”
“I’m looking at the data,” iPad poking intensified “but I think it’s on the same ley line as three nights ago.”
“What’s the call Glen’?” enquired Barry, putting the thick purple vape in Marge’s outstretched hand.
“Glenda, Barry… not ‘Glen’’… Never ‘Glen’’ Barry.”
“Sorry, sorry… Glenda.”
“Well, the call -as you put it – was hard to make out. It was mainly screaming, in fact. But I ran a recce this morning and there’s a lot of residual energy down there.”
“We’ve had nothing for months now, two in three days. What’s going on?” said Pete
“Unknown.” replied Glenda tersely. “But as soon as I know more, you’ll be the first to know. Well, the second to know. Because I’ll already know… of course. We won’t go in all hankies blazing this time however. I left some energy wells in the vicinity and I’d like to get at least another night of data first”
“Absolutely fine by me” said Barry, “Gardener’s World is on tonight and Vera will be livid if I miss it again.”
—
Two nights later the black Mercedes van shook its way along the unpaved back road leading from Glenda’s farm, and made for the A299 to Maidstone.
In the first row of passenger seats, Martin – fully kitted out in club gear – broke the silence.
“Well, isn’t this an outing? I haven’t been to Bingo since— “
“Thursday,” interjected Pete. “You went with Agnes if I remember rightly. She said you didn’t stop talking then either.”
“Just trying to make conversation.” sulked Martin, “I didn’t realise this was a no-talking outing.”
A low rattle from Margaret’s vape emanated from the depths of the van. From her position, wheelchair strapped to the floor panels, she could keep an eye on the glowing screens mounted on each side relaying insight from Glenda. A cloud of vapour filled the cabin. Despite being a pensioner in her 70s, Margaret had the lungs of a freediver.
“We all love a dabber, Peter,” she mumbled, her attention focused on a floorplan of the bingo hall. “Looks like a straightforward building this one. Big entrance, only one side door and one back exit. Let’s see what Glenda’s energy wells lapped up.” The knurled fingers on her good hand prodded at each touch screen in turn. “First one’s empty. But… that’s interesting… The second one’s got a trickle.”
“A trickle?” enquired Barry.
“Give me a sec, Barry… Yes, it’s not much. But looks like it read a 2.3 last night. So there’s something there. Maybe something very small.”
“Or very fast,” said Martin.
“Or that.” agreed Marge.
—
The van silently pulled up at the bingo drop off point. The leisure park was deserted. A Quavers packet skimmed across the concrete pursued by half a Twix wrapper. Marge shivered in her chair as it rolled silently down the Mercedes’ ramp.
Pete, Barry and Marge formed up at the back. Martin was taking his time, still sulking from Pete’s reprimand.
“Jog on, Martin!” hissed Marge. He made a show of haste without actually moving any quicker.
“You going to be okay, Marge?” whispered Pete.
“Should be fine, Pete. It’s a bit nippy, but one of the girls at the home knitted me this blanket. Should come in handy tonight,” replied Margaret, pulling a thick, black, crocheted blanket over her knees. “Look like a proper Nan now don’t I? Don’t answer that.”
“So, down to business. Glenda’s energy well definitely picked up something last night, but it doesn’t seem like much. Might just be a level 2 or 3 apparition that’s got stuck on the wrong side of reality, or some such. But we’re here now so let’s check it out. Kit up for an indoor field of play and… Pete?”
“Yes, Marge?” He replied.
“Bring something to breach a window. Quietly if at all possible.”
“No problem,” replied Pete, his evening was looking up with the prospect of a little controlled destruction.
“Alright, kit up to leave in three. Go.”
—
Two minutes and forty five seconds later, the Kent and East Sussex Morris Dancing Society was lined up, fully kitted out in white shirts and trousers, leather crossed braces and muted knee and foot bells.
“Should we black up, Marge?” Offered Martin.
“It wasn’t right in the 70s, and it’s not right now, Martin.” replied Marge “Besides, you’re dressed like a cricketer. A bit of black cam crème isn’t going to magic you invisible, is it?”
Martin’s shoulders slumped, in his hand he grasped a thick black camouflage paint stick. “Could I put a bit under my eyes? On my cheek bones like?”
Marge sighed and pulled strongly at the vape. “You can put it…” she breathed out a cloud of vapour “wherever you please Martin. If you must. Just don’t go full minstrel, or I’m going to put you on report”
Martin scampered over to the wing mirror and drew two thick black lines, one under each eye, before returning the stick to his pocket.
“Are we all done gentlemen?” said Marge “Everyone got their hair and makeup in order? Let’s move out”. She spun her wheelchair round without waiting for an answer and mainlined to the bingo hall’s entrance.
—
The door itself looked normal enough. Marge poked at the control panel of her chair, the crew fanned out behind, “nothing.” she whispered.
Martin strode forward, “Now?” He asked. A breeze whipped up across the carpark, bothering the litter into a trash conga. Margaret shivered and furrowed a thinly, pencilled eyebrow.
“No!” She hissed “Let’s keep our power under wraps.” She high-beamed him with her piercing, blue eyes, “I’ll have use for you soon Martin.”
Martin snapped upright, swiftly pocketing the lipstick-sized block he was threatening the lock with. “Right-o’, Marge.”, and ventured a discreet wink.
Margaret smiled, despite herself. Martin spun out, gesturing to the others, and mumbling into his neck mic. Pete and Barry in tow, they made for the north-east corner of the building.
“Well, this wasn’t the bingo night I was expecting…” muttered Marge. “Abandoned at the front door before the first dibber was even dibbed due to a ‘feeling’…” She looked round at the empty carpark.
Stars didn’t glisten in the sky, but a man-made orange haze blanketed the natural night. A perpetual sheen of commercial business district blocking out anything that might be seen as celestial. A memory of a disappointed Tyr sprung into her consciousness. She shook it away.
“Big wheeler? This is Marsh Harrier,” ripped through Margaret’s earpiece.
“Martin…” sighed Marge, “What is it?”
“The back door has one of those fire dept zip ties on it – which I’m guessing we don’t want to disturb – and there aren’t any other ways in. If I’d known, I’d have brought Kerry’s cherry picker and we could get up on the roof”
Margaret looked up. The building was large, but low. The majority single story with some upper floors perched on top.
“Regroup south-side, and we’ll use the van ramp as a boost.”
—
Three minutes later, on the first floor roof, Marge peered through a small window next to the fire escape into an office suite in disarray. Office chairs lay on the floor and paperwork was strewn all over the room. Marge held up her mobile phone to the window, lifted her glasses to her forehead, and stabbed purposefully at the screen.
“Barry, pop a circle in this would you? With that mess inside, we’re going to have to do a bit of breaking and entering.”
“My pleasure,” replied Barry, drawing a drumstick from his belt and approaching the window. He dropped to one knee, the crunch of an ancient knee cap rang out like a firecracker. “Sounds worse than it is,” he mumbled.
Placing his palm on the glass, he drew the drum stick in a near-perfect circle on the window pane. Reaching to his muted ankles, he peeled off a bell and tapped it against the glass. Nothing.
He reached down again, switching to another, larger bell, this time a little higher up his shin. Tapping it against the scored out circle on the window… Nothing.
He repositioned himself a little before switching to a third bell on his waistband. He tapped the brass bell’s edge against the glass circle, which immediately quivered, and fell outwards into his outstretched palm.
“Third time’s the charm” said Martin sarcastically.
Ignoring him, Barry reached in through the hole in the glass and pulled the exit bar on the fire door.
A siren immediately screamed from the fire escape warning system.
“Oh for fu’…” blurted Marge, fumbling her mobile phone back out again and swiping furiously.
Barry, Pete and Martin stood dumbstruck, sirens screaming and red lights flashing until, suddenly, the cacophony stopped. Leaving an empty quiet, twice as quiet as it was before.
The trio relaxed, turning in unison to the heavy breathing Margaret.
“I’ve blown the metaphorical doors off the local electricity grid,” she said, snapping her phone case closed. “Not subtle, not professional, but let’s get inside before any busy-body comes looking.”
Every building in the block surrounding the bingo hall was pitch dark. Almost silently, the team slipped into the first floor fire escape and Barry clicked the door shut behind them.
—
The first floor appeared to be admin. Small, templated offices featured standard IKEA desks with sensible filing cabinets lining the walls. Although the floor plan was boringly predictable, each room was in disarray.
Martin shone a torch through the corridor windows. The beam illuminating paperwork strewn across every floor. Cups upended and post-it notes akimbo.
“This would not bring Marie Kando joy,” he mumbled into his neck mic.
“Too right,” replied Barry. “Looks like it’s been shut up for a while.”
“Bingo’s been on its downers for decades,” chimed in Pete “My sister used to go every week, but her local closed in the pandemic and everything within 10 miles has been dropping like flies.”
“Not to pour water on this flaming chip pan of a conversation, but can we focus on the job at hand?” Margaret’s chair glided along the corridor, rounding the corner her gravelly voice continued in their earpieces. “We have readings that look a little… ‘sus’. As the grandkids say”.
—
With Margaret’s chair and Pete’s drum, it was a close fit for the whole team in the lift down to the ground floor. But it was better than trying to carry her chair down a flight of stairs. Margaret had agreed, with something about the next time they’ll carry her will be on the way to her grave.
All things considered, holding their collective breath in a lift might actually be the field manual’s recommended element of surprise. If it wasn’t for the alarm Barry had set off two minutes before…
With a high pitched ding, the lift dispelled any last remaining element of surprise. The doors crawled open, and the team fanned out. This floor, in contrast to the warren of offices above, resembled a vast cavern. A dark-emptiness waited.
“Blimey,” whispered Barry.
The silence built in their ears until the emptiness felt like an ocean of quiet. “Anything?” hissed Marge.
“Nowt,” retorted Barry. “Wait… you hear that?”
Everyone listened harder – if that was possible.
In the distance, Martin picked up a crunching, clattering sound. “I’ve got something,” he whispered into his neck mic, “Sounds like it’s coming from further down the hall.”
“Of course it is,” replied Marge. “Let’s not be caught napping this time lads. Creepy sounds are usually made by creeps. Ready up.”
Each team member silently removed their ankle mutes and readied their equipment. Deep down Marge was a little bit proud that, after 16 years, this squad could infiltrate and ready up with near competency. If you ignored that alarm Barry set off three minutes ago.
—
“Marge,” hissed Barry.
“Report.”
“I’m not… well I’m not…”
“You’re not, ‘what’, Barry. For Pete’s sake… you’re not..?”
But then Margaret felt it too. She punched at the screen on her scooter arm. With no grounding on the soil, and with no direct access to the moon or sun, there was barely a connection to the energies that powered their magic. Weakened, and with no pretence of surprise was not the way Margaret liked to approach a conflict.
A scream tore through the cavernous space. Ricochetting between the postered walls, it compounded like a hundred discordant cries. Barry and Pete dropped to their haunches.
“Contact,” growled Marge.
At the end of the bingo hall a blue grey light was filling the stage. Actual lights cracked and popped as the weir light overloaded their circuitry. Long shadows cast by the light fixings crawled across the ceiling, their shattered bulbs fracturing the blue light like a morbid disco. Suddenly, the light disappeared and the room was plunged back into darkness. “Ah fer christs. Marge, this is never good,” whimpered Barry.
As the team waited to regain their night vision, somewhere deep In the darkness a low howl could be heard.
“Sounds a bit like a goat or wee fawn,” thought Barry, as it rose in pitch and volume, the glowing light matching the sound’s intensity.
Then came a scream and blinding pure light. Marge, Pete and Barry clamped their hands over their ears reflexively. The sound was consuming. Beyond pounding, or deafening, the sound enveloped them. Smothering them in a duvet of suffocating noise. Cupping their ears from the outside merely buffeted a fraction of the assault.
From within the wier light, a wraith rose from the dias at the front of the bingo hall. Bathed in blue, its form resembled a gaping mouth — from which the scream poured forth — on a gigantic snakelike body. It’s wurm-back arched, maw open to the ceiling like the petals of a terrible flower. Surrounding the maw, pleading fingers beckoned. Behind, metal baskets unfurled around the wraiths head like an aura. Each basket filled with iron hot balls emblazoned with tumbling numbers. The mouth closed into a sickening broad grin before opening to draw breath again.
“Lads,” barked Margaret “Tactical retreat!”
Her scooter pivoted and mainlined back towards the exit. “Exfil, exfil, exfil,” she screamed as she forced her scooter into ‘turbo’, the electric motor screaming in protest.