Trembling With Fear 10-27-24

The Wicked Stone, by DJ Tyrer

“It came down in about 1645,” he said, tapping the glass case in which the dull-grey rock sat. “It’s an iron meteorite, strongly magnetic.

“Not, of course,” he added, “that they knew what it was. That was during the chaos of the Civil War and the witch hunts; they thought it was a sign from the Devil.”

“What did they do with it?” I asked Professor Brightman. “Burn it at the stake?”

The professor chuckled. “They didn’t burn witches at the stake; you should know that. But, they did, as they put it, ‘interrogate’ it.”

“Interrogate it? What on earth does that mean?”

He shrugged. “I can’t say, exactly. Some sort of investigation to see if it was evil, I suppose. There’s a pamphlet in here,” he tapped the glass case again, “from the time. On loan from the British Library.”

I leaned in closer and read it as best I could, the idiosyncratic spelling and wildly-curling print taking more effort than I really wanted to invest.

It was as Brightman said: There had been a ‘crash of thunder’ one night and a field of wheat was found aflame and, at the field’s centre, in a pit, was the ‘wicked stone’ that had, seemingly, crawled its way up out of Hell. A subsequent and vaguely-defined ‘interrogation’ had confirmed it was evil and it was, then, entombed beneath the nave of the local church.

“Forgotten for nearly four centuries,” said Brightman, “until St. Henry’s was converted into flats and the surveyor discovered it and brought it to us.”

“Fascinating,” I said, then added, “Hang on, it says here that the ‘wicked stone’ was the size of an apple. This is much bigger.”

He laughed. “For once, no exaggeration at all – quite the opposite, in fact. I suspect that an apple was chosen instead of, say, a cannonball to hearken back to the apple eaten by Adam, or perhaps as a play on the Latin.”

“Malus?”

“Precisely. The evil apple.”

“I suppose it makes a certain sort of sense.” The more I looked at it, the more I could sympathise with the dislike it had inspired.

“As much as any superstition does,” the professor said.

“So, it’s going to be the new centrepiece of your display?”

“Indeed.” He nodded, happily. It was only a small regional museum and most of the displays were the usual sort of uninspiring things, bits of Victorian pottery, shrapnel from bombs dropped by the Luftwaffe, and such like; things with some fascination for locals, but unlikely to fire the imaginations of tourists and bring them rushing from distant corners of the country, let alone from overseas.

The ‘Wicked Stone of Earl Packham’ still wasn’t quite the Rosetta Stone, but it was better than some old piece of glass. The professor was probably hoping it would bring the museum some additional funding.

There was a rumour he planned on bringing in some more mineral exhibits. The field wasn’t of much interest to me, but I suppose it had its fans. If he could make it the museum’s speciality, it might well arrest the drop in visitor numbers.

“Well, I’m off now, but I’ll be back after closing to do some cataloguing in the west wing.”

He nodded. “I should still be around.”

I glanced at the meteorite as I walked away. I could imagine someone more credulous than I was thinking it was silently watching them. I shuddered and was glad to hurry away.

A bite to eat and I was back at work and busy listing the ancient spearheads we had in storage.

The museum was silent. The other staff – all two of them – would be at home. I hadn’t seen any sign of the professor and wondered if he was still around. If he was, he was being as quiet as our exhibits, which was unusual for him: Brightman had a tendency to be heavy footed and more than a little clumsy. You could usually tell he was around by the clomp of his footsteps or a clatter and a curse. But, tonight, nothing.

I wondered if he were gazing in rapt fascination at his acquisition. It wouldn’t have surprised me – he looked at it as if he were in love!

When I was finished, I headed over to the main gallery to check on him.

The lights in the section where the meteorite was were, I could see, on, but I still could hear nothing.

“Professor Brightman?”

There was no answer to my call.

Arriving at the case, I was shocked to see it was open. For one dreadful moment, I thought the museum had been robbed, but, no, the meteorite was still sitting upon its cushion within it.

“Professor Brightman?”

Still no reply.

I stumbled and looked down. A pair of scuffed loafers lay discarded upon the floor.

What on earth was Brightman up to? It wasn’t like him to kick off his shoes and relax when at work, let alone to leave a cabinet open like that.

I called his name, then bent down and set his shoes straight.

Still nothing.

As I stood up, it struck me that the meteorite had changed. I hadn’t noticed before, being preoccupied with my concern for my colleague and friend.

I looked at it, trying to work out what was wrong. Then, I realised: It was larger than it had been.

I had to take another look, not quite believing it, but it was true. Earlier, it had sat in the centre of the case with plenty of space about it. Now, it was only an inch or so from its edges.

It was impossible, but the truth.

The pamphlet was still beside it, well, mostly beneath it, and there was nothing else like it on display.

It was the same meteorite and yet…

My mind recalled how the pamphlet had described it: The size of an apple.

Could it…?

Impossible. Yet…

I felt my fingers reaching out for it and forced my arm down to my side. It was as if a voice were whispering softly to me, tempting me.

I took my jacket off and dropped it over the meteorite. Maybe I was going mad, but I didn’t dare touch it.

They were laying foundations for a new office block down the street. I’d passed the site on my break. Hopefully, the concrete was still wet. Let somebody uncover it again in another four centuries! Let them deal with it. Let the burden pass from me.

I knew Professor Brightman would never be seen again.

Perhaps the police would assume he stole the meteorite.

It didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that malignant extraterrestrial… thing couldn’t do to me, or anyone else, what it had done to him and who-knew-how-many before.

Let it wait a long time for its next meal.