Necropolis
A Scottish Gothic Tale
By James McGowan
16 March 1997

	The fog hung on the benighted Necropolis hillside like the tatters of a 
decaying death shroud.  The man, clinging to the side of the mausoleum, was 
quite unremarkable apart from his predicament.  His gloved hands pawed the 
discoloured plaster, sending wisps of powder down the front of his black overcoat 
and trousers.  John Mason let his feet kick mercilessly for purchase against the 
once-delicate cornucopia which adorned the crypt’s public face.

	Below, the lights and sounds of the High Street taunted him with their 
very familiarity.  Within a few hundred yards, there were people and cars and 
buses, each with a reason for being and a destination to reach.  John let his eyes 
turn blind to the heartless bustle below, it might as well have been on another 
world from him.  The cathedral leaned dark and merciless towards him, its neatly 
laid gothic walls betrayed black knowledge of the deed which had been asked on 
him.  It knew the task he was bound to perform in the name of his poor wife 
Isobel, who lay white like dusted marble in plush velvet, under the sod of another 
city graveyard, miles from there.

	Again and again, it seemed to his tired imagination, he lunged for the 
stonework, his gloves like demented wraiths, grasping at the bird splattered 
decorations which topped the narrow mausoleum wall with their false immodesty.  
He had to scale this dreadful monement to the dead, clamber upon its fragile roof, 
for what sane reason?  For the babbling of a graveside father?  Why had he 
listened to the old man, obviously insane with grief over the loss of his daughter?  
For years he had watched the old man at graveside after graveside, putting the 
remants of his accursed family into the ground - until it came to Isobel.  Isobel, 
beloved wife of John, she fell asleep.  That epitaph stuck in his throat. 

	Isobel, my love.  You must understand why I am doing this, Lord knows 
I can’t see what possible good this can do, but I must do it, for your sake, for your 
father, and for my own soul caught up in this.  God give me strength to carry it 
out to its end.  Isobel, please forgive me the terrible thing I have done, and may 
well do before this dreadful night is through.  Give me strength—

	He lunged at the ridge of plaster, his foot finding momentary hold in the 
thick crossbar of a letter T engraved on the wall of the monument.  His fingers 
hooked at last around the dirty stonework, and he pulled himself up and over the 
edge of the sloping roof, where he lay gasping for an age under the scudding 
clouds.  His back lay against the slab which closed off this dreadful resting place 
from the stars, directly under where he rested, lay the earthly remains of the Beast 
who had precipitated the events of this evening, though dead to this world a 
hundred years.  At the thought of Him, his evil curse, John’s strength returned at 
once, and he dragged himself to his feet on the slope of ther mausoleum roof.

	The old man had said there was a plaque, a small marble inscription on 
the roof of this building, and that inscription would guide him to what had to be 
done.