The Dark Boatman: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos by John Glasby

the door. The nail was still there, rusty now, but there was no sign of the key. Trying the door, I found it to be securely locked. The key might have been lost, and I was relying on memories of twenty years earlier, but something about its absence disturbed me.
    Going into the front room, I asked Aunt Amelia about it, but she merely replied that it must have gone missing a long time before. Certainly she could not recall seeing it for several years.
    “There’s nothing down there anyway,” she added. “Why do you ask?”
    “Nothing really,” I replied. “I just thought I’d tidy it up for you and get rid of anything you no longer need.”
    “No need to bother your head about that. You’ll be better occupied getting the exterior of the house done before winter comes.”
    That evening, it began to rain, a steady downpour that continued for the next three days. My aunt fretted continually at not being able to go along to the church and continue with her hobby, flitting restlessly about the house, peering out of the windows to check on the weather.
    Then, on the fourth day, two things happened which were to bring the horror to a head. The weather cleared suddenly. The sun blazed from a cloudless blue sky, and Aunt Amelia announced her intention of making further rubbings of the brass plates set in the stone pavings inside the church.
    It was also the morning when, hunting among some old tins at the back of the garden shed, I discovered the large, rusty key for which I had been searching. Slipping it into my pocket, I went into the house.
    Aunt Amelia was already dressed for going out and, recalling our earlier discussion, I said I would accompany her, just to see for myself what happened when she made her rubbings of the plates over the tombs.
    I half expected her to make some protest but she merely said, “Come if you like, James. Then you can see for yourself.”
    Together, we walked through the churchyard to the church. It was cool and dim inside, the rows of pews standing empty on either side.
    “Now where are those plates?” I asked as we paused in the doorway.
    “Over here.” She led the way towards the altar, then stopped and pointed at her feet.
    There were, indeed, two plaques set in the stone floor. The lettering on both was barely legible. The passage of innumerable feet had worn them almost smooth. Going down on my hands and knees, I ran my fingers over the plates. Despite the way they had been effaced by time, I reckoned the lettering should have shown up more clearly on the rubbings that my aunt had made several days before.
    I felt a little strange, kneeling there, knowing that directly beneath me were the bones of Sir Roger and Lady Elwyn de Courtney, buried there in the middle of the sixteenth century. Scrambling to my feet, I sat down on one of the pews.
    “Are you all right, James?” Aunt Amelia asked concernedly. “You do look a little queer.”
    “I’m fine,” I replied. “It’s just the chill in here after the heat outside.”
    “Then you just sit there while I get on with my work.” She had brought a small cushion with her and placing it carefully on the stone, she sank down onto her knees, spreading the sheet of paper over the brass.
    A sudden, muttered exclamation from my aunt brought my attention to her. I saw the look of exasperated consternation on her face as she straightened abruptly from her work. The rubbing was half-finished.
    “What is it?” I asked, keeping my voice down.
    “It’s just the same as before,” she complained. “Just when I think I have it, everything starts moving.”
    If my aunt had been any other type of person; I would have thought she was imagining things. As it was, she threw down her carbon stick with an angry motion and gestured me down beside her.
    “There—feel it,” She commanded
    To please her, I placed my right hand on top of the paper where it covered the brass plate. I could feel nothing out of the ordinary and opened my mouth to say