The London Vault

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The London Vault

a short horror story by

Jan Bee Landman


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The London Vault

2010 Jan Bee Landman

All Rights Reserved

Published 2010

Published by Jan Bee Landman, Veenhof 9, 9461 TG

Gieten, The Netherlands 2010 Jan Bee Landman. All

rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,recording or otherwise, without the prior written

permission of Jan Bee Landman http://www.jlandman.nl


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From afar the carmine glow of her coat was easy to spot

among the dreary grays, blues and browns of her fellow

travelers. There she was. A little grin tightened his lips as

he sauntered forward through the waiting throng.

When she caught sight of him she instantly dropped her

suitcases and came running, as fast as her high heels and

tight skirt would allow, falling into his arms laughing and

breathless.

"Oh, darling," she crooned.

And in the middle of Heathrow's crowded arrival lounge

she kissed him fervently, lost to the jostling crowds

around them and oblivious of the surprised, amused and

sometimes envious glances.

But even without this behavior they would have made a

striking couple. He barely thirty, a handsome young man,

tall and slim, with short dark curls, smooth features, big

brown eyes, and a swift charmer's smile, dressed in a tight

coat of white leather.She was at least fifteen years older, a lady, chic and

sophisticated. The few ornaments she wore sparkled with

diamonds, her jetblack hair bulged in a carefully coiffured

dome about her head and her red coat betrayed an

exclusive design. Their embrace lasted several minutes before he gently


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detached himself and strutted back to where she had

dropped her baggage. A passing KLM flight attendant shot

him an inquisitive glance, which he held with his eyes

until he saw the beginning of a smile on her lips. Then he

turned brusquely and walked back to the woman who

stood waiting for him like a beaming bride.

"Oh, Martin, I can scarcely believe it. Ten days! No

secrecy, no masquerades, no hypocrisy, no hurry. It's

simply too wonderful. How shall we spend all that

freedom?"

"Any way you want," he said, smiling, as they walked

towards the exit. "You name it: all the corny things that

sightseers do, as if we've been married for years."

"Divine."

"Queuing up for hours in the rain in front of the Victoria

& Albert, shuffling like members of a chain gang along the

Crown Jewels, getting our pictures taken among those

shabby pigeons on Trafalgar Square.""Theatre?"

"Of course. Every night if you like. Opera. Concerts."

"Shopping?"

"What's Harrods for?"

"Dancing?""Till daybreak."


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She stopped in her tracks, beamed at him.

"Oh Martin. You've no idea how happy you are making

me."

He laughed and kissed her severely wrinkled forehead,

which she crumpled even further by knitting her brows.

"But... er... will there be any time left for... er... well, you

know."

"Not much, I fear, but then, that's not why we are here,

is it?"

She hugged him feverishly.

"You're the greatest darling in the world. You know that,

don't you?"

He smiled modestly and protested that not he but she

was the greatest darling in the world. And while they

quarreled about this problem, in the back of a London

cab, Martin Longstreet, junior partner of Vanderveen,

Torquay and Blunt (Attorneys at Law) and Mrs Sylvie

Vanderveen began their fall vacation.

Four days later, Saturday afternoon, Martin was alone in

their hotel room, lazing on the bed, cushions in his back, a

small cheroot in one hand and a big glass of sherry in the

other, while he watched a herd of racehorses gallopingacross the TV screen. When they passed the finishing post


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he swore, fifty pounds poorer.

Although he had made a bundle in a previous race (on

an outsider with the impossible name of "Alpenstock") he

was in a foul mood.

Sylvie had gone shopping somewhere in the

neighborhood. That evening they would be going to an

opera. The prospect alone was enough to make him sick.

He sighed. Sometimes this kind of life bordered on

martyrdom. How infinitely better would it not be to spend

the evening in the company of one of those young and

juicy hookers he saw wandering so discreetly through the

hotel corridors. Yep, no matter what others might think:

sacrifice and self-denial were the lot of the destitute lover

with expensive tastes.

While he waited for the next race to start he walked to

the window and looked out. A hoary fog hid the buildings

across the street and limited his view to the tarmac square

in front of Charing Cross Station, which lay below underhim, with taxis and pedestrians mingling like black-

backed beetles and ants.

Gazing down in a dark muse, he noticed a familiar red-

coated figure getting out of a cab. Sylvie. Strange. Why the

cab? She had said she was only going to shop in thenearby streets. He shrugged his shoulders. What the hell


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did he care anyway? In a week she'd be off his back again,

tucked safely away in Washington, while his expense

account would have been comfortably padded.

On TV a nasal voice with a sleepy Oxfordian accent was

announcing the runners for the next race. Martin turned

away from the window, poured himself another bumper of

sherry and lay down again.

Ten minutes later, the race over and won by a favorite

he had backed, Sylvie fluttered into the room. She threw

her black wig into a corner, and joined him on the bed,

cuddling up affectionately, a languishing look in her gray,

hooded eyes.

"Winning?" she asked, in between kisses that tasted of

crme de menthe.

"Yeah."

"Clever little you,"

His toes curled but he smiled, even if it took such an

effort that it almost ached."By the way," she said. "What about tomorrow? Any

plans?"

"No, nothing in particular. Sunday, that's always a

rotten day here. Desolation and gangs of tourists."

"Oh, but then I've got an idea. Look at this."She took her handbag and drew out a small black card,


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bearing a death's head in golden print and reading "The

London Vault" in shivery blood-red lettering.

"Good grief, that's some kind of waxworks. I never knew

you liked that sort of thing."

"I don't, but this really seems to be good. The models

move, see. They're robots. It says here that people with

weak nerves are urgently advised not to visit the Vault."

"What tommyrot. That's just a sales pitch."

"No, I don't think so. It also says here that children

under sixteen and people over 70 are not admitted. That

doesn't seem such a clever pitch to me. Oh, let's go,

Martin."

"Well, I don't know."

"Please? Pretty please?"

"Oh, all right then. Have it your way."

"Good!"

The next day brought raw October weather, a sky crammed with clouds piling white and lumpy to dazzling

heights but broadbased and gloomy underneath, letting

through only occasional splashes of milky sunlight. There

was a rasping breeze that chilled to the bone, especially on

draughty corners. Still, after a long lie-in, they set out forthe London Vault by mid-afternoon. Sylvie had insisted,


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quite her unusual easy-going self, because she expected so

much of it.

"You're such a child, sometimes," said Martin

sarcastically, as they turned into the street of the Vault

and Sylvie hurried ahead impatiently.

"Who cares?" she said, blushing with the cold and

excitement.

The street was on the south bank of the Thames, some

hundred meters from London Bridge and offered a

desolate aspect, sloping down rather steeply, bordered on

one side by condemned buildings, alternating with derelict

plots of land, while the other side was skirted by a low,

seemingly endless facade of brickwork, like a prison wall.

It had once possessed windows, apparently, but these had

been bricked up, long ago, judging from the soot that was

ingrained in the stones.

"This must be it," Sylvie said.

"Doesn't look very inviting.""No, not really."

They came to a large door, painted glossy black, without

any handle. Exit 5, it read. They walked on and reached

another similar door. Exit 4 this time.

"What a lot of exits," said Sylvie. "Isn't that weird?"When they were nearly abreast Exit 3 the door was


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flung open. Sylvie gave a start and drew back just in time

to avoid a young girl in denim who dashed past her, bent

over at the curb and vomited noisily on the yellow line on

the road.

Shock-eyed, Sylvie looked at Martin, who just shrugged

his shoulders. The door opened again and a young man,

also in denim, came hurrying out. His face had a sallow

hue, like that of a sick child. A bit awkwardly he went to

stand beside the girl, who was still retching, and now

sobbing as well.

Sylvie went up to the young man.

"Is it that bad?" she asked.

The boy nodded.

"She only just beat me to it, I think," he said, shakily,

with a sonorous Scottish accent. "I wouldna go in, if I were

you."

Sylvie cast Martin a questioning look. He realized that this

was his chance of getting out of this silly venture. But nowthat he had seen its violent effect, he was curious. He

wanted to find out whether a few moving dolls could scare

him too.

They walked on, looking back a few times at the young

couple that moved off, quarrelling.Overhead the clouds were bunching up, growing darker


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and making the surroundings even more dismal and

unattractive than they already were. Suddenly the heavy

roar of an engine filled the air. Martin looked back. At the

top of the street a green double-deck bus had appeared

and came roaring down, empty, splattered with grayish

mud, monstrously large and threatening like a tank. When

it had thundered past, Martin could not recall having seen

a driver. He shivered. Without the sun it was chilling.

As they walked on, ever more slowly, the last door also

opened. An elderly couple emerged, less obviously shaken

than the youngsters but very pale and with rigid stares in

their eyes.

"I'm not so sure I want to go in anymore, Martin," Sylvie

said.

Martin chuckled.

"I bet you don't but you asked for this and now you're

going to get it."

They reached the entrance: a recessed doorway plastered with gaudy posters screaming warnings and

threats. At its inner end a massive black door loomed in

the twilight. There was no bell, but an old-fashioned

knocker in the shape of a brass lion's claw.

Martin lifted the thing and dropped it: the thud seemedto resound through a vast emptiness within.


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"It surely sounds creepy," Martin said, grinning.

Sylvie moved closer to him.

It took a while for someone to answer the door. Just as

Martin reached for the knocker again, a small hatch in the

door was opened. A shadowy face appeared.

"What do you want?" it asked.

"In."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"All right then."

The hatch was closed and keys could be heard rattling.

"They don't miss a trick, do they?" Martin said.

"I think it's scary, Martin, I really do."

Heavy bolts were drawn aside and the door swung open,

strangely without a sound. Martin meant to step smartly

inside but something about the doorman held him back.

Not that there was anything special about the fellow. On

the contrary, he was quite common: short and skinny,dressed in an outsized duster: one of those typical, dried-

out Englishmen who could only be pictured under the

thumb of a big woman in flowery dresses reeking of

lavender. Entirely in keeping with this image, a cold

cigarette dangled from his lower lip.His own hesitation surprised Martin. Premonitions were


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not things he believed in. Slightly annoyed he bought two

tickets and suffered himself and Sylvie to be led to an oak-

paneled door.

"Through here, down the stairs, through another door

and then straight ahead. If you want out, there's always

an exit on the right."

Without another word the man withdrew, limping

slightly.

Martin took Sylvie's arm and opened the door. Behind it

lay a dark staircase that led down to a similar door. A

smoking flambeau was the only source of light. Martin felt

tense and therefore ridiculous. But he could not help

himself. His breathing was labored, probably on account of

the smoke emitted by the flambeau, pungent and reeking

of sulphur, like a match freshly struck.

When they reached the lower door, Martin heard

lugubrious sounds behind it: moans, chains rattling,

strange rumbles, and even an occasional frantic scream.He smiled. This was the first mistake. These sounds were

also heard on fair grounds in the silly plywood shacks that

were presented as haunted houses. With a disdainful grin

he cast open the door, but his grin slowly ebbed away as

he looked into the space before him. Under a lowbrickwork vault lay a sinister, barely illuminated chamber


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that gave way to utter darkness a few meters ahead. On

both sides it was flanked by barred doorways, leading to

side-chambers, also steeped in blackness.

The air was cold and damp. Moisture oozed from the

filthy walls whispering wetly and dropping to the floor with

faint plops. The atmosphere was tainted by the sickly

smells of mold, rottenness and long-standing water. There

were no other visitors in sight, but moans of pain and

suffering could be heard on all sides.

Slowly they moved ahead. Behind them the door swung

back, creaking, into its lock.

They stopped in the center of the vault, shoulder to

shoulder. Long seconds passed before they had gathered

enough courage to approach the first side chamber. When

they were quite close, suddenly and horribly, a screaming

figure leapt from the deep dark against the bars. Bony

hands clawed at them.

They recoiled in fright."Lord almighty," said Martin.

"Isn't it super?" Sylvie cried.

The figure, a deformed hag, remained pressed against

the bars, still screaming and groping.

They turned to the opposite chamber, where a faint glowhad come on, revealing a scaffold with a young man, who


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whimpered softly while a hooded executioner prepared a

noose before his eyes.

With his body tensing to the point of pain Martin looked

on. Sylvie kept very close to him.

As the rope was placed around the victim's neck, the

wretch began to tremble and whine. Martin could hardly

believe he was watching dolls; life seemed to be radiating

from them. The executioner stepped back, started to wind

a pulley and the man was drawn up. Never had Martin

seen such a ghastly sight. Kicking and retching the man

was lifted from the ground. His eyes bulged from their

sockets, his tongue ballooned between his teeth and, in

violent spasms, he hung dying for a very long time.

Martin had wanted to move on but Sylvie had held him

back. She stood watching like one entranced.

When the body finally went limp, Martin felt a great

sense of relief, no matter how he kept reminding himself

that he was only watching the death of a doll. The light in the side chamber went out.

"Now everything returns automatically to its original

position and starts all over again," said Sylvie.

"How do you know that?"

"Er... I read it," she said quickly, after a slighthesitation.


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They went on to another door and entered a second

vault. The hanging had left Martin with a cold hard lump

in his stomach.

In the next side-chamber a number of plague victims

were wallowing about in a filthy medieval hovel. In straw

that crawled with vermin the wasted frame of a man was

squirming in agony, with swellings big and blue as plums

all over his body, some cracked open and leaking bloody

pus. Even the stench of the wounds was there, sharp and

rancid.

In an opposite chamber a young girl was being whipped.

Another triumph of realism. The hiss of the whip, the

sharp whack as the cords cut into the mangled flesh and

tore strips of skin away, the shivered yelps of pain,

everything was so lifelike that it made Martin weak in the

knees.

He did not understand how Sylvie managed to keep so

cool. Normally she was ready to faint at the meresuggestion of blood. Yet now she stood looking at the

worst kinds of torture with apparent relish.

They came to a beheading. Martin watched Sylvie from

the corners of his eyes. In the reflection of the pale light

that fell upon the tableau before her she looked almostmalignant. Her lips bore a strange smile that he did not


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recognize. What had gotten into her? Could it be that the

ungodly sights brought out some evil inside her? Dregs of

cruelty stirred up by the horrors?

He draw slightly away from her. She cast him a fleeting

glance, without altering her horrid little smile, as if she

had not seen him. Cold spots of light shone in her eyes.

She went ahead to the next vault. Martin followed in

growing wonder. He felt sick enough to get out but he

would rather die than suggest it. Her triumph would be

impossible to live down.

Reluctantly he followed her along the chambers,

ignoring the scenes as much as possible and feigning

interest in the cellar walls that were furred with molds,

mosses, crystalline deposits and sometimes draped with

cobweb.

One of the last exhibits was The Wheel.

"This is really something special, Martin," said Sylvie

with a husky voice.He looked at her in amazement but could not make out

her expression in the dark. What in heaven's name

possessed her? He turned to the chamber. A half-naked

man was tied to a large, upright cartwheel, spread-eagled,

bound by the wrists and ankles but loosely, so that hisbody inclined forwards, with the legs in unnaturally


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crooked positions, as if they had extra joints. The wheel

revolved very slowly. For a short moment Martin did not

understand, but when an executioner emerged from the

shadows with a heavy cudgel, he understood all too well.

The cudgel was raised and came down on the man's ribs

with raw, bone-splintering force. In a wild convulsion the

victim threw back his head, cracking it against the wheel

rim, and screamed, as blood slithered form the corners of

his mouth like scarlet worms. The place where his chest

had been dented, was rapidly turning purple, while the

executioner withdrew into the shadows.

"The best is yet to come," Sylvie whispered in a lustful

tone. "Now the wheel is going to turn all the way."

Although he was beginning to feel sick Martin looked

on. The wheel did indeed pick up some speed and the

broken body began to slump aside, with the cracking of

the splintered bones only just audible above the bestial

howls of the victim. At several points sharp fragments of bone cut through the skin, dripping with blood.

Martin closed his eyes and inhaled deeply a few times.

Anger shot up inside him. This was no amusement

anymore. This was sickening. The maker of this place

ought to be put away.For a moment he was so absorbed in his thoughts that


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he forgot all about Sylvie. When he looked up she had

gone. His shock was immense. How on earth ...? Looking

around through the low shadowy spaces he felt his

loathing turn into fear. Anything could lurk in those

shadows. Behind him he heard another dull thud of the

cudgel with the resultant scream but he refused to look.

Where the hell had Sylvie gotten to? Undecidedly he paced

a few steps to and fro. Perhaps the horror had gotten the

better of her after all and forced her to run outside. Or it

might be a joke of hers. If so, he was not going to play

along. He had had it. He was leaving. He did not care a

damn whether it was childish or not. He hurried to a big

door on his right and reached Exit 5 by a similar staircase

as the one at the entrance. With a sigh of relief he stepped

into the light of day, somber though it might be.

The street lay deserted. No Sylvie. The clouds had

blended into a slab of cement-like gray. A fitful wind

brushed the pavement. Martin started to pace up anddown in front of the exits, softly cursing Sylvie for her

stupid pranks, even more so when it began to rain, with

cold hard drops that stung his face.

Time went by. Still no Sylvie. After a quarter of an hour

he went to inquire at the entrance. The doorman had notseen her but was just about to close up so he was bound


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to come across her if she were still inside.

Cold and exasperated Martin waited in the doorway,

peeking out occasionally for any sign of Sylvie. But she did

not appear, while dusk slowly set in and deepened.

After more than twenty minutes the doorman returned.

He had not seen anyone. So there was not much for

Martin to do but leave. In a state of bewilderment he took

a cab back to the hotel in a vague hope that she would be

there. Anything seemed possible now. But she was not at

the hotel. Now he was really getting worried. He

contemplated going to the police, but shrank from the idea

because Sylvie was in London incognito , as one Mrs Cortez,

on a false passport that he had arranged for her. If he

went to the police, her husband was likely to find out and

then he, Martin, would be in very serious trouble indeed,

because old Vanderveen was not a man to be trifled with.

At his wits' end he decided to take another look at the

Vault. What possible good that could do, he did not knowbut at any rate it was better than hanging about the hotel

waiting for his nerves to break down.

About half an hour later he was back in the street with

the somber brickwork building. Darkness had fallen and

Martin felt very uncomfortable. During the day thisneighborhood had possessed little charm but now it


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looked uncommonly sinister, with hardly a street light

burning and not one lighted window in sight. Everything

dark, windswept and wet.

He was still wondering what the hell he intended to do

anyway when he saw, to his gleeful surprise, that the door

of Exit 5 was ajar. Without a moment's thought he stepped

inside. There, in total darkness, he hesitated briefly, but

decided to push on. After all, such an opportunity was not

likely to occur twice.

He felt his way down the stairs. He had taken a pocket

torch along but he was not sure about its batteries and

wanted to save them as much as possible. When he

bumped into the lower door he stopped to listen. He heard

something. Holding his breath he placed his ear against

the woodwork: the same sounds as this afternoon. He

opened the door, which gave a little squeak and disclosed

the familiar gloom of the vault, only illuminated by the

faint glows coming from the side-chambers.In one of them a crucifixion was just being enacted with

lots of noise. Everything seemed to be working. Wasn't

that peculiar? But more important: where might Sylvie be?

As he moved to the center of the vault, he heard the door

swinging back behind him, perhaps into its lock. So hedashed back to stop it and had just succeeded in doing so,


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when he felt a needlelike jab in his neck. For a moment he

dared not move, paralyzed by the fear that something

ghastly stood behind him. But when he finally turned,

trembling badly, he was quite alone. He rubbed his neck.

What could that have been? An insect? His heart still

thumped with fear, his breath came in gasps. Perhaps he

had better go to the police after all. Vanderveen's anger

could not be worse than this. He took a few hesitant steps.

Then a lukewarm sensation began to spread through his

abdomen and his field of vision shrank until it was a mere

speck of light that glowed and vanished. Unconsciously he

sagged to the floor.

When he slowly came round, with misted eyes, he

seemed to be hanging by his arms. His mouth was dry as

chalk, his blood pulsed sluggishly through his temples.

Where was he? What had happened? His heavy head

slumped forwards. He raised it again and tried to

distinguish something through the veils before his eyes.Bars. Darkness beyond. A small biting light on the ceiling.

From afar the sound of groaning and whimpering,

somewhere nearby faint fumbling noises.

"Anyone there?" he mumbled.

The fumbling stopped. Someone approached him onhigh heels. A hazy woman appeared before him. Sylvie! He


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smiled. Then stopped smiling. She looked tired but her

eyes glowed with a furious and hostile intensity. Was he

dreaming this?

"Sylvie?"

She said nothing, only showed him a wicked smile that

chilled his blood.

"Sylvie? What's going on? Where am I? What are you

doing?"

Giddiness overcame him. Things went black before his

eyes again. He was about to fall but was held up by his

wrists. From the void her voice reached him.

"What I'm doing Martin, dear? I'm trying to get this

darned contraption going again. But it isn't easy. It's not

supposed to stop, you see."

On ticking heels she moved away again.

"I don't understand," Martin muttered to himself, as he

slowly regained full consciousness and the veils dropped

from his eyes. He looked around and up at his arms. Hewas bound, hanging from his wrists, on a large cartwheel.

He felt the skin tighten all over his body. Oh god.

"SYLVIE!!"

The high heels came ticking back.

She sported a devilish grin. He did not believe what hewas seeing.


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"Sylvie? What kind of madness is this? Untie me, for

chrissakes, have you gone mad?"

"No, not exactly," she said, still grinning. "On the

contrary, I've never felt so sane in my whole life. But take

comfort, darling, what you are about to feel is nothing

compared with the pain you caused me, with that so-

called love of yours."

She walked off. And no matter how he screamed and

wept and begged she did not return again.

Eventually he fell silent, exhausted, his throat raw, his

mind crowded with the haunting recollections of the

afternoon's sights: the cudgel coming down, the bones

breaking, the revolution of the wheel that caused the

shattered body to tumble about like a brittle wood in a

sack. He almost retched with fear as he listened to Sylvie's

fumbling. She took her time, swearing softly now and

then. Perhaps she could not get it going again. That might

be a thought. Then the buzzing started.

"Aha!" he heard Sylvie cry out.

She came to him hastily, stroked his forehead and

scratched his cheek with a long, red fingernail.

"Sorry I can't stay and watch the fun, sweetheart, butI've gotta run. Seora Cortez has a plane to catch. Besides


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it would take too long anyway. I've slowed the thing down.

You're bound to linger for several hours. So there'll be

plenty of time for you to reflect on your sins."

Martin made an effort to speak, but his teeth chattered

so violently that he could not utter a word.

"Adios amigo. I really must go"

Up to the very last he clung to the hope that it was only

a horribly cruel lesson, to cure him of his unfaithfulness

for good. But when the doors had slammed and the wheel

started to move and the executioner stepped from the

shadows, he knew better.


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About the author :

Jan Bee Landman was born in Middelburg, the

Netherlands, on January 13, 1948,

from a French/Scottish mother

and a Dutch father. He studied

English, became a teacher andtranslator, wrote many short

stories and retired from the big city

to the countryside in 1997 to

devote himself mainly to his three horses and to

research and write a historical novel. In 2009 he

resumed writing imaginative fiction.

The London Vault

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