The silent, mournful phantasm proceeded with its lifeless grace to the end of the churchyard, to all that remained of the chapel. There, beside that ruined wall; there—though I write it who can hardly credit his own eyes; there, as I stood watching, frozen and amazed, the jet absence of her seemed to sink at the same stately pace, sink lower and lower into the hard earth, until only the cowled head remained above the surface. And then that too—all, all of her—had vanished.

At almost the same instant, a mass of clouds, propelled before the wailing wind, surged towards us above the ruin. In seconds, it had swept over the moon. The torn curtain closed. Utter darkness pressed once more against the window.

Still, as second after second passed, I could not move, but gazed upon the viewless night as if the extraordinary scene were still before me. It was Quentin’s stifled cry that broke the trance. When I turned, I saw that he had fallen into a paroxysm of trembling. Dry, strangled sobs were forcing their way out between his clenched teeth. I feared the onset of an apoplexy. Willing myself to action, I clutched his arm roughly.

“It’s all right,” I said—shouted, more loudly than I had intended. “It’s all right, man, pull yourself together. It’s over. She’s gone.”

“Gone?” The voice that broke from him did nothing to ease my qualms. It sounded choked and high, hollowed by an undertone of barely suppressed hysterical laughter. “Not gone,” he said, eyeing me brightly. “You fool. She is not gone. There are tunnels, you see. Out there. Under the abbey. Drains, passages for supplies. Covered over now, yes. They’re all covered over. But there’s a whole network of drains and tunnels. And one of them … one of them leads …”

Before he could finish, there came a noise—a noise from within the house! Soft, but definite, insistent, it seemed to rise up from below us, to spread through the walls until it filled the darkened sitting room.

Tick-tick. Tick-tick. Tick-tick.

I have heard people say that their hairs stood on end, but I had never before experienced it myself The sound was like that of a clock’s pendulum and yet more resonant; softer, thinner than a knock at the door, and yet as chillingly deliberate. There was a pause as my gaze travelled slowly over the umbral forms and faces on the hanging tapestries. And then again:

Tick-tick. Tick-tick.

I returned my attention to Quentin. He smiled at me, but a smile of such wild misery that I despaired of his reclamation. He leaned forward, whispered almost gleefully:

“One of them leads to the priest’s hole.”

Tick-tick. Tick-tick. Tick-tick.