Kingdom (from H is for Hell)

Sarah Jane Huntington

Thirty-year-old Holly stared around her, gazing dumbly at the cluster of bodies lying broken. Each one bloodied with twisted limbs and all scattered around her bare feet.

She squeezed her eyes shut and recalled her leader’s words, “false visions are common during the attempted ascent to other realms. Reality shifts, the veil shifts, remember this.” Holly dared to open one single eye, the scene around her dissolved and returned to its usual state. Seven different people lay still, settled in deep concentration. Holly watched their chests rise and fall with every slow breath they took.

Have they left without me? Which worlds are they exploring? Will they wait for me?

Try harder, she ordered herself, I have to try harder.

Holly gripped her straight-edged knife and slid the brutally sharpened blade deeply across her already crisscrossed scarred skin. The release felt immediate, as a flash of pain bloomed into white-hot agony, causing her to gasp aloud. An almost euphoric feeling began inside her, it seeped through her belly and spread its curious warmth along her veins and limbs as she sweated profusely.

Holly tilted her head back and waited for her consciousness to rise and escape her earthly body. She focused every thought on the transcendence of boundaries, of lifting up, and of finally being rid of her worldly and heavy shackles.

The anchor she always felt, the one which weighed her to her mortal life, loosened slightly. The anchor’s chain lengthened and stretched as Holly took a careful single steady breath.

A groan from nearby jolted her and Holly’s eyes flew open.

No! I almost had it! I’m sure I almost had it.

Holly glanced down to see blood pouring from her freshest wound, she traced the line of red all the way to her toes as her tears fell. Overwhelmed with disappointment, she shivered and raised herself off the small single bed. She tiptoed carefully around the others in the room and left.

***

Holly had been a member of the secretive Kingdom of Pain for three years. Her first year had been spent deep in esoteric books, reading, and studying the works of their leader and charismatic group founder Leo. She’d devoured detailed books of occult workings, concentrated energy points of opening doorways, the collective power of the mind, astrology, ancient spells, ritual and techniques, chakras, auras. An exhaustive list of every way possible that might help her set her mind off wandering other universes. On paper, she had become an expert with her tireless study and knowledge.

Her second year had been spent in deep meditation and fasting, all to ready her body for astral traveling. She’d learned to focus, to breathe correctly, to develop her senses and reflexes to better experience the worlds unseen by most.

Her third year had so far been a failure – she was unable to do the one thing all but the newest initiates could do, invoke an out of body experience via self-inflicted pain and suffering.

The suffering aspect she had no problem with. Holly felt deep unmovable pain and guilt which bore down relentlessly each conscious moment.

Holly tried to walk straight to her shared dormitory room so she could think in peace, she kept her head down and ignored the eyes of the others who watched her, each waiting for their own turn in the transcendence room.

“Holly,” Miriam, Leo’s second in command, stepped briskly forward, “he wants to see you.”

Holly felt her stomach turn cold. “I need to clean my new cuts,” she replied, although she knew it was useless to argue.

Miriam shook her head and gripped her arm. She half pushed and half guided her to the closed office door and knocked.

“In,” Leo announced as Miriam pushed her forward.

“Leo, I…” Holly said.

“Sit,” he snapped as the door swung heavily shut behind her.

Holly crossed the book-lined room, walking with a confidence she didn’t feel across the plush red carpet and sat in a sturdy oak chair.

***

Holly had once described herself as utterly lost until she’d met Leo. She’d been homeless, with no real place to go. She’d walked into a free talk on metaphysics in the center of an old town she’d wandered into. At the time, she’d only wanted to escape the relentless cold outside and had been drawn in by the ‘Free coffee’ sign. After hearing the talk, she’d been hooked on Leo’s ideas and had dared to approach him. Leo had sensed she was lost… lost, and afraid. He’d found her suffering to be beautiful and something she could use to help propel her to elsewhere. He hadn’t sensed her permanent guilt, the guilt that chased her no matter how far or how quickly she ran.

Holly had only longed for somewhere to feel at home and to find someone who might consider her special. She’d wanted to stop running. Two weeks later, she’d moved into the Kingdom-owned house, an old rambling manor at the end of an even older street of pretty cottages in a tiny rural village.

“You left the room again. Why?” Leo asked, taking a seat across from her. In the last two years, Leo’s hair had turned a vibrant shade of white and his minor wrinkles had deepened to visible ridges. She stared back into the depths of his clever brown eyes and wondered if she should lie. Instead, she pushed the thought aside and felt sure he’d know if she spoke less than truthfully.

“I almost did it, I almost left my body,” she eventually told him. “I’m certain this time. But a noise from…”

“We work as a group here Holly, one unit. You know this,” he interrupted.

“I know, but if I could just try alone, in silence. Just for the first time.”

Leo frowned and closed his eyes. He considered this while Holly held her breath tightly. Her whole body felt far too tense, she knew what she was asking was against every rule she’d been taught so far. Only Leo knew how to traverse the other realms on his own, navigating them, he’d said, all by himself.

“You know my history, Holly. On my first travel, my very first, I was almost trapped in the void, in the endless. An eternal hell, a pit. My own soul, my Ka, everything that makes me who I am was almost lost in the perpetual fire. I was alone in Tibet and luckily, I found my way back.”

Holly nodded along, she’d heard the story a hundred times, “But Miriam, with her being a fetcher, a finder, I wouldn’t be lost for long.”

“Miriam’s skills are limited. She can only find those who haven’t wandered far and it’s at great risk to herself, I should add. Is it a chance you really want to take? We go as a group and look out for one another, so none are lost. Selfish behavior will not be tolerated.”

“But if I can’t achieve it, will I have to leave the house then?” she asked.

“My group is for those of exceptional talent only,” he said. “I’ve spent and dedicated my life to my perfect technique and now I choose to teach others. No use comes from those unable to body separate.”

They’ll kick me out, where will I go? I don’t have anyone on the outside, not anymore, Holly thought and lowered her eyes. She felt shame and tears well up, neither of which were allowed in the Kingdom. Any emotion that didn’t contribute to the transcendence of the body was strictly forbidden.

“Please can I have one more try? Just one,” she pleaded.

“The next travel is in two days. Prepare Holly, prepare, or pack your belongings. There are places of great wonder for those who have the talent and ability to see new worlds without eyes.”

“I want to see them, I do. So much Leo. I long for it. I hate this world,” she spat.

“That’s the wrong attitude to have. We use physical pain to shock and free our souls, emotional pain will prevent any travel. It’s a blockage in fact. Get a better handle on that temper of yours.”

“Okay,” she breathed, “I understand, thank you.”

The pain in Holly’s thigh worked to numb her feelings as she left. She headed upstairs quietly and straight into the showers. She turned the spray onto blue for cold and stood frozen, shivering under the water. When she felt sure no one was around, she crouched down and sobbed loudly, biting into her hands to stifle her forbidden sound of despair.

***

Holly dreamed a simple dream, the same one she’d had most nights for years. In the dream, her family was still alive, happy, and thriving. Holly and her two small sisters sat at the kitchen table, kicking each other underneath and laughing. Her parents stood cooking and smiling, while her mother hummed a gentle, soft, and familiar lullaby. Her dream was a half-remembered memory of the morning of the accident. The day of her sixteenth birthday, when their family car swerved from an old bridge into treacherous deep water, killing everyone in the car but Holly.

Holly had been the only one without a seatbelt to hold her. She’d escaped, swam to the surface, and was rescued by passers-by. Holly had been shuttled to relative after relative since no one had wanted her to stay with them. She’d been difficult and full of anger and fury. She hadn’t once felt at home in her life or comfortable in her own skin until she met Leo.

She woke and stretched, surprised to find it was still dark in the dorm room she shared. Several other women and two new initiates slept peacefully and silently while waves of dread swept over Holly. She felt a stab of envy at the others, the ones who could invoke astral travel with one deep cut of their skin.

She felt afraid, scared of being a failure, and terrified of being asked or even ordered to leave. I can’t face the real world, I just can’t. So that leaves one option, I can do it, I want to astral travel. I need to do it. Anything beats being here in my body. I know I can do it.

Holly had begun months before to also rely on the pain of cutting herself to escape the hurt she felt permanently etched across her heart. I have to do it, she told herself, and suddenly she knew exactly what to do. Holly had always followed the rules and steps perfectly, the directions written out by Leo, and his instructions that safety must always come first on out of body separation.

As quietly as possible, she crept from her small bed and out of the room.

If anyone sees me, I’ll say I need the bathroom or a drink of water.

Holly tiptoed downstairs, holding her breath the entire time. Ritual knives to use for invoking traveling were kept in the main transcendence room. So Holly sneaked into the kitchen and felt around in the dark for Miriam’s cooking salt and her sharpest chopping knife. Her hand landed on the familiar shapes with relief. She looked around, feeling certain someone was about to appear and catch her, but the house stayed entirely silent. She crept back upstairs with her secrets hidden in the folds of her nightgown. She sneaked along a hallway and entered the far bathroom, the small cold one hardly anyone used.

Harder than ever before, more painful than ever before, and you’ll be free. Holly’s thoughts sent a wave of pleasure through her. She longed to be free and craved it with a bitter passion.

She sat in the corner and took ten calming deep breaths, then ten more as she willed herself to relax. I can do this, I can do this, she chanted, pure belief is the very first step.

She held her knife in her familiar grip and sliced her arm savagely, each cut caused her to gasp out loud as the pain overwhelmed her. More Holly, more. Do it!

She’d been taught the best places to cut without serious harm but as a fire burned in her, she disregarded her lessons. She turned to her thigh and cut deeply. The blood flowed and pooled quickly onto the floor. With a final deep breath, she tipped the salt canister and poured the lot directly into her wound.

The pain flashed and sparked as she stifled a scream. Agony tore through her as she tried to think and remain clear. Her vision swam as she held on, willing her soul to escape if only for a moment. Holly felt a juddering, a spark of something other. Her vision switched to blackness as her heart thudded in her ears. A sensation and feeling of numbness spread as her whole body tingled. Holly felt on the precipice of something greater than herself, greater than anything she had ever imagined. The feeling faded in an instant and she opened her eyes.

Did I lose it again? I was so close!

Moonlight poured in through the small window and illuminated the bathroom to an almost black and white scene.

I’ve failed again, Holly thought, I need to clear this mess up now or I’ll be caught.

As soon as the image of standing popped into her head, she felt herself rise up. Up through the cracked ceiling, up through the highest bedroom where Leo lay asleep in his kingly luxury chamber. Up further and out through the roof, she flew free and light. The world had become several shades of grey with tiny pinpricks of light in a vast and endless sky.

I did it! I did it! I really did it!

Holly felt a wave of ecstasy, the most euphoric feeling she could have ever imagined. She twisted and somersaulted, unseen by human eyes, and amazed at her own ability and dexterity. She yearned to scream in delight and joy but found no sound came from her mouth. In the street below her, a tabby cat hunched itself up and hissed as it sensed her. Holly laughed with silent happiness and gracefully pushed herself along.

A thin, almost silver, translucent cord stretched from her belly and tethered her to her body. To Holly, it seemed as if it could stretch around the entire world twice with room to spare. For the first time in her life, she felt true complete bliss.

Numbers and quotes stood out, all written on the surface of the Kingdom’s roof. A brief memory of Leo’s words flashed across her mind, “for those who achieve out of body, commit the words and numbers on the roof to memory as proof.”

Holly giggled, she found she didn’t care what proof she had. She’d done it and nobody could take that away from her. She wasn’t a failure after all. Holly sped upwards, she felt as if she could touch the stars if she wished. She spiraled and twisted happily. Below her, thick trees stood solemn, lined up like tiny soldiers. A chimney blew a line of smoke up to meet her and Holly glided through the distinctive patterns the trail made. She pressed on and glided towards a small pond at the edge of the village, one she sometimes visited to feed a cluster of ducks. Holly hung still in the air. Across the pond spread a bright flame of blue and white, movement rippling slowly across, unburdened by the flames.

What is that? It’s moving? Is this my world still?

She dived deliberately lower and slammed her feet down as if she’d pressed invisible brakes. White flames flickered on the edge while a fierce blue burned in the center. A large, hunched shape moved back and forth across. With no warning, the shape reared up to stand at least eight feet tall. Weeds hung off it as it roared with its gargoyle-like face and revealed sharp brutal teeth. Shiny white orbs for eyes watched her steadily. Thick muscular arms, each with terrifying long claws moved to snatch her. Holly jolted in fear and sped away, up as far as she could go. Her breath burst out in ragged gasps, What was that? Where am I exactly?

Beside her, grey mist swarmed and swirled.Holly ran her arms through the haze in wonder.

Do I still look like me? I can still think and see, but I have no brain or eyes. I’m still me! I’m cold, how can I be cold with no body to feel with?

Questions tumbled over each other as Holly dashed further up, the cold became unrelenting and almost painful. Instinct made her stop sharply and stare around.

Four shadowy jet black gowned and hooded figures watched her progress, their gowns swayed as if in a gentle breeze only they could feel.

I know what they are! They’re shades, souls of the lost. Leo said they can’t hurt us, they vibrate differently, they can’t see me, she thought. Holly didn’t feel afraid, even as they began to circle her and one began to hum a half-familiar song.

What is that tune? A lullaby? What are they doing? Holly raised her arms in defense as each one took turns to grab at her.

“Stop! You can’t see me!” she tried to shout soundlessly as fear reared up inside of her.

Holly spun around wildly, she felt a sharp pull on the cord which held her as she started to panic blindly. One being held her cord, it pulled itself towards her as she felt the tugs in her stomach. Thick mottled blue hands scraped and clawed as it edged closer.

She willed herself back into her body uselessly as the other three shadows hissed and growled with rage. They began to spin and dance around her.

She pulled on her own cord repeatedly and shook it to loosen the being. It flew off with a snarl to join the others. Holly tried to will herself back to her body. The four shadows froze and began a high-pitched shriek and wail.

She clamped her hands over her ears desperately, her grip lost on her cord as she spiraled and tumbled out of control. She hit the nearest shadow and felt the solid impact, “Murderer,” it screeched before she bounced away.

What? Why is it saying that? How do I get back? I need to get back. I have to get away. I shouldn’t have come. Can I die? Can I die here? I don’t want to die.

“Killer,” a second shadow breathed. Holly felt her hair being brutally pulled, she kicked out and thrashed her arms.

She felt a burst of survival instinct and adrenaline, the powerful will to live. She aimed herself downward and dropped. She plummeted through the atmosphere at speed. The four beings gave chase, they were faster than her and raced down with practiced ease. They veered as one and blocked her path as a solid line. Holly dived to the side and saw blue and red lights shining like a beacon from the grey fog. With a jolt of happiness, she raced towards them.

“Murderer,” the biggest shade hit her full force in the chest. Holly groaned in pain and watched in despair as her cord snapped and twisted away. It fell to the ground in a shower of tiny sparks.

NO, NO, NO! Holly screamed silently. For all her studies, she didn’t know what it could mean. She tried to find the lights she’d seen and spun in circles. To Holly, everything looked like the same heavy grey mist, she couldn’t tell which way was up or down anymore.

There! her mind yelled. Almost swimming through the air, Holly followed the path to a barely-there blinking red light. She hit the roof of the Kingdom without a sound and watched the scene below her play out in horror. The house she’d lived in for three years stood illuminated by the lights of an ambulance and a solitary police car. She watched from up high as her own body was solemnly brought out on a stretcher, her form lay covered in a plain white sheet while Leo and Miriam stood watching from the doorway.

“Suicide,” she heard his muffled voice speak as if she were underwater, “she was a self-harmer, unfortunately.”

“NO! No, it wasn’t, I swear, it was an accident. Help me. Miriam can find me!” she shouted. Miriam shook her head and turned to move back inside, she stopped, took a step back, and assessed the night sky around her.

“I’m here!” Holly screamed, “I’m here!”

Pulled by Leo, Miriam stepped away. The heavy door closed with a resounding thud behind them.

Cold tears began to fall as her own translucent body shook rapidly.

What have I done? Oh my God, what have I done? Will she find me? I’ll wait. Is this hell? Am I in hell?

Four shadow figures set down without a sound behind her.

Holly dropped her head as she sensed them, she turned as the tallest one removed its hood. She didn’t need to see, she already knew who it was, her own father.

Her family stood in front of her, staring down with nothing but fury on their rotting and bloated putrid faces. The smallest one, her dead sister, spat a single stream of water in her direction.

“I’m sorry,” Holly mouthed and held up her hands, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Holly had been running for a long time, running from her own memories of the day her family was killed, of the day she yet again lost her temper in the car and yanked the steering wheel into the lake, fully intent on ending all of their lives.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” they hissed as one. Holly screamed a silent wail of terror as she became engulfed by a swarm of vengeful shadows.

***

The thing that used to be Holly wanders alone in the grey realm. It has a vague memory of what it was before, of what life was, and how it had chosen to live as a human being.

All it knows is pain and suffering. An endless bitter regret and despair. It travels a single realm, deeply in search of something it can never find, a way out. It knows that this is its eternity. Every shadow that crosses its path frightens it, it spends every moment afraid and terrorized. It does not know why, only that it is.

Repeatedly and without warning, a monstrous claw reaches from a burning abyss of fire and grabs it. It snatches it and holds it down in the water, while it writhes and thrashes, desperate for an escape.

The thing that used to be Holly can sense its existence is a punishment, it can sense its shame and damnation. It can sense it will remain in the grey forever.

H is for Hell is available for Kindle and in paperback here.

Find more from Sarah on her Amazon page.

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Done (from G is for Genies)

David Green

“Put some goddamn life into it. Feels like I’m fucking a corpse!”

Evan buried his head beneath his pillow and pulled the covers high. No matter how much he cowered and tried to block out the grunts and slaps, the wafer-thin bedroom walls meant he couldn’t hide from the sounds of his mother having sex with her boyfriend, Dale.

Evan used to hate him. Now it went beyond that. Dale treated them all like shit; he ate their food and watched TV all day in between hurling abuse at Evan’s mom and drinking beer. Then he fucks her, Evan thought, punching his mattress. He wanted nothing more than to sink his fist into Dale’s pig-like nose but knew that would be his last act. Evan stood up to Dale once before, and a trip to the emergency room with two broken ribs and a fractured jaw followed.

Evan’s mom watched Dale beat on him. Tears streaming down her face, hands covering her mouth as she did nothing to stop him.

I’m as much a fucking coward as she is, Evan thought, letting out a sob as the wall behind vibrated as his mom’s bed ploughed into it. And Dale knows it.

***

“Heard you moaning last night, you little fucking pervert,” Dale said. His mouth twisted into a grin as he stared over the rim of his steaming mug of coffee. “Listening to how a real man fucks? Your old man couldn’t screw Shelly like I can.”

Evan glanced at his mom. She worked in a local steel factory and had already dressed for work. She met his eyes, cheeks red, and shook her head. Evan didn’t know how to feel about her anymore. Pregnant at sixteen, she’d worked non-stop since Evan’s dad died just after he’d turned nine. For the last ten years, she’d done everything she could to put food on the table and give him things he needed. Evan tried to repay the favour; he decided against the cost of college and got a job collecting glasses at the Truck Pit, Renville’s local bar. Evan’s mom would pick him up after the night shifts, and that’s where she met Dale.

It’d been three years of hell.

Evan looked at the tired bags under his mom’s eyes and felt pity for her. She looked older than she should. He knew what she’d done for him, but everything changed after Dale arrived, and he hated her for keeping him around, as much as he loathed himself for getting trampled over every day.

“A real man?” Evan said, dropping into the seat opposite Dale at the kitchen table, his anger spurring him on. “Do corpses enjoy getting fucked by real men? Maybe if you were a ‘real man’, Mom would like it.”

A mug shattered on the floor, coffee flooding between the broken pieces. Evan looked at his mom, who stared back, eyes wide.

“What the fuck did you say, you dumb shit?” Dale growled. He sat still. Alarm bells rang in Evan’s head, but he ignored them.

“You heard,” he replied, tilting his head back in defiance.

Evan screamed as scalding liquid splashed over his face. He clawed it from his eyes as he heard a chair clatter to the floor. Squinting, he saw Dale standing above him, his fat fist rushing to meet Evan’s face.

His vision turned white. Evan clattered to the floor, his head bouncing off the kitchen tiles. He tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth before pain exploded in his stomach. Evan curled into a ball as Dale kicked him again.

“I’ll learn ya. You’ll speak to me with respect,” Dale spat. “Shelly shoulda fucked you outta here years ago, you fucking idiot dropout.”

Evan absorbed another blow as he sobbed on the floor.

“Mom, please,” he whimpered. Evan watched her flee through his tear-filled eyes as Dale set about his lesson.

***

Evan staggered into his bedroom. His stomach and ribs ached, blood gushed from his nose. He collapsed on his bed, body shaking as he wept. Evan wanted to beat at his mattress but couldn’t muster the strength.

“Why me?” he bit out between sobs. Evan rolled onto his back, tilting his head back to keep the blood in. Checking his ribs, he took in a deep, ragged breath. It hurt a little, but he didn’t think he’d broken anything. Evan tested the bridge of his nose with care, wincing as he did. Just bruises, he thought as he got his crying under control. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he caught his reflection in the fractured mirror on his wall. Evan gazed into it, recalling the time it broke. Dale had smashed Evan’s face into it when he wouldn’t give him twenty dollars for smokes and beers. Dale left the boy bleeding on the floor before taking the money.

Money, Evan thought, looking at his bloody face. His plain white T-shirt had turned red. He stripped it off and held it against the flow of crimson from his nose. If I had money, I could leave. Take mom away from that fucking asshole. Might as well wish to live forever while I’m at it.

Evan reached under his mattress with his free hand. The wage he made at the Truck Pit went to his mother to pay for bills and Dale’s needs. He kept the tips for himself.

“Two hundred dollars,” he muttered, counting the notes. “Not enough for anything except a bus ticket.”

Sighing, he stuffed the money back where it came from. He heard a bedroom door slam and winced.

“Come on, Shelly. A quick ride before work. My blood’s runnin’ somethin’ fierce, girl,” Dale shouted with a laugh.

Evan shot to his feet, throwing on another T-shirt and heading for the door. He didn’t know where he’d go but he didn’t want to hear Dale groaning and grunting over his mom ever again.

***

The heavy morning air did nothing to help Evan’s mood. He stalked the quiet suburban streets with nowhere to go; a loner’s life meant he had no friends to call on, and his shift at work didn’t start for hours. Evan pulled his cell from his pocket, checking to see if his mom had sent him a text or called after his beating. He resisted the urge to call her.

“Hey freak!” A voice echoed from across the sidewalk. Evan stopped in his tracks. He didn’t have friends, but he had enemies left over from High School. Marty Peters and his cronies leered at him. “Where’s that whore of a mother of yours?”

Evan turned and ran, figuring one beating to be plenty for any day. He didn’t care where he headed, he just wanted to put as much distance between him, Marty, Dale and every other person in Renville as he could. Sweat beaded on his neck, but he kept going. His lungs burnt but still he ran, head down, oblivious of his surroundings. At first, he’d heard cat-whistles and yells from Marty Peters, but they soon faded and Evan lost himself in the rhythm of his feet slapping against concrete.

He stumbled as a branch smacked him in the face. Breathing hard, Evan stopped and looked around. His town bordered on a forest, vast and wild, one that he visited at times, but only exploring places he knew as he feared losing himself there. Not that anyone would give two shits if I went native, he thought, hands on knees as he glanced around. He didn’t recognise a leaf.

“Fuck,” he muttered, looking behind him. Evan had no idea where he’d entered the woods, or for how long he’d ran. “Jesus H Christ. I’m a fucking idiot.”

He pulled out his cell, grimacing when he noticed the lack of reception bars. A prevalent silence dominated the trees, and Evan’s head felt fuzzy; his memories and thoughts came slow, as if he walked in a dream. He scanned the floor for tracks, for some sign to tell him which direction he entered the forest, but he saw none. The sun hid behind the canopy, and Evan shivered as his sweat cooled.

“Better get moving,” he said, just so he could make sure his hearing still worked. He took a step forward.

“Fuck!” he yelled, as the ground crumbled beneath him.

Evan slipped down a rockslide, his cries of pain as he scraped his elbows and knees on the loose shale echoing in the darkness. He slammed against something hard, and the breath left his lungs in a whoosh. Laying in the gloom, battered and bruised, Evan laughed. He peered up from where he fell, at the pinprick of light above him, as his body shook with bitter mirth. Beaten, lost and at the bottom of a shaft, he thought, tears stinging his eyes. Might as well stay here ‘till I die.

Evan felt something cold and metallic against his leg. He hadn’t noticed it at first as his body screamed in pain at him, but as his nerves settled, the stones he lay on made their presence known. Still on his back, he fumbled in his pocket and grabbed his cell. Evan pushed the unlock screen button and sighed in relief as it lit up; no reception, but by some miracle his mobile remained intact. Swiping the function screen, he thumbed the flashlight icon.

“A cave?” he said, gazing around. The stone walls appeared smooth and man-made. He peered up the way he fell and smiled; the drop wasn’t sheer and Evan reckoned he could scramble up it. The object he plummeted into stood to his left. An altar, about waist high. Evan aimed the light at his legs and gasped. “Maybe I’m fucking dead already… This ain’t real.”

A lamp pressed against his shin, one ripped straight from the storybooks. Small and made from copper, the lamp had a thin funnel and a rounded handle. Evan placed his cell on the ground, light pointing upwards, and took the lamp, holding it in front of his face as he sat up.

“It can’t be,” he muttered. “Though someone left it on the altar.”

Glancing around, in case someone, anyone, watched, Evan took a deep breath and rubbed the lamp.

“Evan,” he said, as nothing happened, “you’re a dumb sonofabitch.”

The lamp vibrated in his hands, and Evan dropped it. He scrambled backward and pressed his back against the cave wall. Purple smoke oozed from the funnel with a hiss, bright lights like lightning danced inside the fumes.

“This isn’t happening,” Evan said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m dead. Or I smashed my head on a rock and I’m having a seizure.”

The hissing stopped, and Evan counted to ten.

“You gonna make a wish or not?” someone rasped.

Evan’s eyes snapped open as his heart attempted to escape from his chest. A creature crouched in front of him, Evan’s cell lighting it from beneath. Hunched with claws for hands and feet, copper bracelets circled its wrists and ankles. The demon’s skin appeared cut from obsidian rock. Crimson eyes glowed above a wide mouth of yellow, razor-sharp teeth.

“Are you a… genie?” Evan croaked, his voice thin and weak. “In the movies you look like blue versions of us.”

“Why in the seven Hells would I want to appear human?” it growled. A forked tongue slid over its fangs. “And I prefer Djinn. Real life ain’t like your movies, human.”

Evan blinked as he gazed into the Djinn’s unwavering stare.

“You said wish. I get three? Is that the deal?”

“Yeah, and make it snappy,” the Djinn snarled. “I don’t exist to serve. Got my own life, and you’ve pulled me away from it. I have to live in that fucking lamp until I’ve ‘satisfied my master’s will,’ so do me a fucking favour and point me in the girl’s direction you wanna fuck, the big mansion you wanna live in and your mortal enemy and I’ll get to work. And you can’t wish for more wishes. Rules, we’re bound by them. You get three, and that’s it. No second goes, either. Once we’re done, we’re done, and I’d appreciate you dropping that fucking lamp into the middle of your deepest ocean so I don’t get hassled by another fucking human again.”

“Wait,” Evan said, holding up his hands. His head spun from the deluge of information, and he wondered if he smacked it too hard on the way down. “You have your own life? You don’t live in the lamp?”

“Kid, you’re a fucking idiot. Anyone tell you that?” the Djinn snarled, his red eyes glowing in the gloom. “Why the fuck would I live in a shitty lamp? Like I said, rules bind us. My magic came with a cost. I’m all powerful in this realm. When someone calls me, I’m bound here. After that, I go home. So make your fucking wishes.”

“Why’s everyone I meet such an asshole?” Evan muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Ever think you’re the problem, and you burden everyone else?” Evan scowled, and the Djinn laughed; a hacking, cruel sound that held only resentment. “Reckon that’s close to the truth. I ain’t got all day. You want me to kill someone?”

“You can do that?” Evan asked, eyes narrowing as his thoughts circled to Dale as he imagined all the ways the Djinn could murder him. I couldn’t? he thought. Could I?

“Sure,” the creature replied with a shrug of its hunched shoulders. Drool dripped from its fangs. “Only things I can’t do is bring someone back from the dead or grant you more wishes. So don’t fucking think about it. Bear in mind, there’s a cost to your wishes—a balance. If I make some broad fall in love with you, another chick will leave some poor saps ass. Don’t sweat it.”

“Where the hell did you learn how to speak? Do all Djinns swear like you?” Evan asked, buying time. The idea of ordering the Djinn to eviscerate Dale had parked itself in the forecourt of his brain, and he struggled to come up with something else.

“We watch you,” the Djinn replied with what Evan reckoned passed as a smile for the creature’s kind. Its lips peeled back and revealed a double set of bottom and top teeth at the back of its mouth. Evan suppressed a shiver. “You humans are fucking hilarious. All your wars, fixations on celebrities and obsession with cash. Great TV and movies, though.”

Money. A gong rang in Evan’s head. That’s it! I’ll ask for enough riches to last me forever. I’ll take Mom away from Dale. Fuck killing the sonofabitch.

“Djinn, I wish to be the wealthiest person in the world, always.”

The demon’s jaws snapped closed, and it narrowed its eyes.

“That’s a lot of fucking work, kid,” it growled. “Can’t I just give you a square amount? I gotta make sure you’ll always stay ahead of all the other rich assholes in this realm.”

Evan shook his head. He didn’t want to take any chances.

“The richest. Forever. That’s my wish, Djinn.”

The cave trembled. Dirt shook from the ceiling onto Evan’s head as he stared into the Djinn’s eyes.

“Done,” the creature whispered. “What else?”

“How do I know it’s worked?” Evan asked. The Djinn clicked its fingers, and a yellow lotto ticket appeared between its claws.

“Check these numbers when you climb out of this hole. Gotta start somewhere. I’ll invest the winnings, make some bets, that sort of thing.” Evan snatched the ticket and stuck it in his pocket. “Next wish.”

Evan shook his head.

“Gonna make sure this has worked, first. Do I command you to climb back in the lamp?”

Evan didn’t see the Djinn move. The creature’s snout pressed up against his nose as Evan pressed himself up against the cave wall. He stared into the Djinn’s unblinking red stare, felt its hot, stale breath on his face.

“Don’t fuck with me, human,” the Djinn bit out.

Evan glanced at the bindings on the creature’s limbs and recalled its words. It said rules bind it. His magic comes with a cost, he thought, swallowing hard. It’s a slave.

“No more wishes now, Djinn,” Evan croaked, wishing his voice sounded more commanding in his own ears. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

A guttural snarl escaped the Djinn’s maw as his form turned into purple smoke. Its red eyes were last, watching Evan with hatred as it returned to the lamp.

Letting out a blast of breath, Evan wiped the sweat from his forehead. He snatched his cell and lamp from the ground and ascended the pit.

***

Night had fallen. Evan shook his head as he gazed around. Didn’t think I spent so much time down there, he thought, tapping his fingernail against the lamp as if reminding himself it existed. The fuzzy, dream-like haze no longer seeped into his brain, and he noticed a footpath with tread marks leading to the hole behind him.

The earth groaned, and Evan let out a shrill cry as he jumped as the tunnel collapsed on itself. Evan nudged the dirt with the toe of his sneakers and stomped on it when it felt firm. He shoved his hands in his pocket, pulling out his cell and the lotto ticket.

“Still no reception,” he muttered, looking into the woods. The sky appeared lighter in the direction he faced, back toward town. “Let’s check these numbers.”

Evan jogged and soon found his bearings. He changed direction, heading towards where the forest would bring him to Renville’s downtown. Evan knew the electronics stores would have TVs displaying the news in their windows, and they’d announce the lotto numbers at 8pm; he glanced at his cell. Five minutes, he thought, noticing he had a text message. Should make it in time. Evan ignored the text and picked up the pace, the cuts, strains and bruises spread about his body and joints protesting as he did.

The lotto numbers appeared on the screens as Evan came to a stop in front of them. Breathing hard, he pulled out the ticket and held it up against the window.

“Three, nine, thirteen, nineteen, twenty-six, fifty-two,” Evan’s hand shook. The ticker at the bottom of the screen informed the winner would claim a triple-rollover. “No way. No fucking way. I’m rich! Fuck you Dale, you piece of shit.”

His cell phone interrupted Evan’s cries of victory. He pulled it to his ear without looking at the screen.

“Honey, where are you? I just picked Dale up from the Truck Pit and they told me you didn’t show.”

Shit, Evan grimaced. He could hear a drunken Dale calling him a cocksucker in the background.

“I’m fine, Mom. Something came up. Where are you?”

“Driving home, almost the—shit!”

Evan’s stomach dropped as he heard a metallic crunch before the line died. He felt a vibration by his leg. Heat pulsed from the lamp against his thigh. Evan ignored it and tore off towards home.

It didn’t take long to find his mom’s car; Evan heard the horn’s incessant honk as he approached. A tree split its hood through the center, and steam rose from the wreckage. He ran to the driver side. Vomit erupted from his stomach and exploded from his mouth onto the asphalt.

“Mom,” he whispered, wiping a hand across his mouth. Tears stung his eyes. “Please, no.”

He grabbed his cell, dialed nine-one-one, even though Evan knew he stared at a corpse. His mom’s head split as it struck the steering wheel. She lay there, lifeless eyes staring at him, a mask of blood dripping from the deep gash across her forehead.

“My mom,” Evan choked as someone picked up his call. “She’s in a crash. It’s bad. Corner of 3rd and 5th. Please come quick.”

He hung up and noticed the message icon flashing. Without thinking, he pressed it, not surprised to see his mom had sent it four hours earlier.

“Baby, I’m sorry. I’m gonna kick that asshole out. We don’t need him. I love you x.”

“I love you too, Mom,” Evan whispered, as his tears wet the screen. Metal scraped from the passenger side.

Sirens split the night as Evan circled the car. Dale lay on the ground; untouched, dazed and alive.

***

Evan sat on his bed, staring at the lamp. Two days had passed since his mom’s death, and Dale had left him alone. Evan had cried into his pillows until he felt weak, then sobbed some more. He wanted his tears dried out before her cremation the following day. Evan ran the police report through his head again.

“A cat ran across the road. Your mom saw it too late, distracted on her phone, and swerved. She lost control.”

Evan had no-one to blame but himself.

“You said you couldn’t bring back the dead,” he whispered at the lamp, “but I don’t believe you.”

Evan summoned the Djinn and watched it materialise from the purple smoke.

“You haven’t claimed the lotto numbers yet, ya dumb fuck,” the Djinn grated, hunched and hulking as it stared with its crimson orbs. “You know how difficult you’re making this? Fuck, what happened to you?”

“My mom died,” Evan said in a flat tone. “Not long after I made my wish.”

The Djinn shrugged. “I warned you: balance. Give and take.”

“You sonofabitch,” Evan growled. “My mom is dead! Don’t give me that shit. You said you can’t bring back the dead.”

“Correct,” the demon replied, unperturbed by Evan’s rage.

“Liar.”

“Believe what you want, kid,” the Djinn yawned, revealing the full extent of its hideous maw. “Death is final. There’s no afterlife. Can’t rewind time either, so don’t bother asking. You’re rich, enjoy it.” The Djinn clicked its claws. The lamp vibrated in Evan’s hands and grew warm. “If you won’t claim the lotto numbers, I’ll start the dirty work.”

“There’s no afterlife?” Evan asked. Since his mom died, he’d consoled himself that she’d departed to a better place.

“Nah,” the Djinn said. “Nada. There’re alternative realms, dimensions, like where I’m from. No big happy ever after in the sky though. Like I said, you humans are weird.”

“Then what? Where do we go?” In the background, Evan heard the house phone sound. It rang for a few seconds, then Dale answered it.

The Djinn cackled. It made Evan’s skin crawl and hairs stand on end. “The Great Void. It ain’t a pretty place. Many call it Hell, we’ve that in common. That exists, and you’ll wish it didn’t.”

“I wish I never die, then,” Evan muttered, before he realised what he said.

“That I can do. Done,” the Djinn said, his red eyes glowing. The demon clicked his fingers, before losing his form as he disappeared into the lamp, Evan’s mind springing into action. Am I gonna live forever? Evan thought.

“No,” he shouted, “I don’t want that!”

Evan jumped as his door swung open.

“Who are you talking to?” Dale asked, glancing around the room.

“Myself,” Evan replied, hiding the lamp under his covers. “My Mom died, and I’m sad.”

Dale took a step through the door, his face wearing a strange expression.

“You know, your mom didn’t have much. But she left me as your legal guardian in her Will.”

“I know,” Evan said, looking away. He hadn’t spoken to his mom for days after she told him. She told him as soon as he hit twenty-one it didn’t matter, but the law’s the law and Evan had no other family.

“So where is it?”

“What?” Evan snapped. Under his hand, the lamp’s heat surged.

“Your fucking lotto ticket,” Dale took another step forward and crouched in front of Evan. “Tried to keep it a fucking secret, huh? They just rang about the wire-transfer. Only problem is, you’re not twenty-one yet. That money is mine until you are.”

***

Evan glared at Dale, his mom’s coffin between them. Dale appeared upset as he watched the flames beckon the casket closer, and it only caused Evan to seethe further. His anger stopped him from summoning the genie after Dale’s news; he’d only one wish left and wanted a clear head before he used it. He hadn’t thought through the first one and let dollar signs sway his mind. Evan used the second through careless words, though living forever didn’t strike him as an awful fate.

As his mom’s coffin disappeared from sight, Evan spun on his heel and stalked from the crematorium, bowing his head to make it appear he couldn’t watch. I’ve cried my tears, he thought, pulling his black tie loose. I need fresh air and time to think.

Evan knew he’d get his money, one day. The Djinn promised to make sure no-one stood wealthier than he, but it looked like he’d have to wait two years until he inherited the fortune. The idea of Dale spending his money in the meantime boiled his blood.

“Maybe I could wish for a shit-hot lawyer to get me what’s mine and remove Dale from the picture?” Evan mused, following the trail set by his wandering feet, lost in thought. Light rain fell from the sky, but he ignored it. “Could he make me older?”

“Hey freak!” Evan paused and balled his fists. Turning, he saw Marty Peters and his crew watching him. “Sad you ain’t got your mom to fuck, anymore?”

Evan’s vision turned red. His jaw hurt as he ground his teeth. Before he knew it, he stood nose to nose with Marty.

“What the fuck did you say?” Evan said, his voice quivering. His body trembled. He felt on the verge of exploding.

Marty laughed and glanced at his friends. He shoved Evan with both hands, who staggered. “I said, are you sad you can’t fuck your mom? Or won’t you let her being a mangled corpse stop you?”

Evan stepped forward and thrust his forehead into Marty’s nose. It crunched, and he felt the wet warmth of blood splatter on his forehead.

“You’ll fucking pay for that,” Marty snarled in between cries. He held his hands against his ruined nose, blood oozing through his fingers. He turned to his cronies. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

The pack surged forward, and Evan fell under a hail of kicks, stomps and punches. He did his best to shelter his face as Marty’s crew pummeled him, but his body throbbed with each strike. Evan felt his teeth loosen and bones snap. Before he passed out, he wished he would die.

***

Evan limped into his room. He’d woken up alone in the rain, blood pooling beneath him, clothes torn and sodden. His body protested each step and deepened his hatred. He examined himself in the dirty mirror; swollen eyes above a flattened nose stared back. He peeled back his split and bloodied lips to find gaps that teeth used to fill. His jaw sloped to one side, and it hurt to swallow. Evan pulled his ripped jacket and now red shirt off; black bruises and angry welts lit up his chest and ribs.

“I can’t die,” he mumbled, his face aching as he did, “but I can fucking hurt.”

He tossed his clothes to the floor and flopped on the bed, pulling the lamp from under his pillow. Evan resisted the urge to throw it at his mirror and rubbed it instead.

“You look like fucking shit,” the Djinn grinned after it materialised.

“Got beat up,” Evan muttered. “I thought my life sucked before, but I’d give anything to go back a few days.”

“Careful what you wish for, huh?” The Djinn curled his lip as Evan spat blood on the floor. “We’re almost at an end here, hope the next person to summon me isn’t as much of a dipshit as you. You gonna wish for healing so we can put this sorry affair behind us?”

“No,” Evan mumbled. “I don’t know what I want.”

The Djinn growled. “I ain’t your fucking agony aunt. I’m here to grant your commands. How about you wish for a pair of fucking balls so you stop being everyone’s doormat, you soft shit?”

Evan surged to his feet, ignoring the pain coursing through his body. “Fuck you,” he snarled. His head swam as his temper blew his gaskets. “And you know what? Fuck Dale. Fuck Marty Peters and fuck every other fucker on Earth. I hate them all, and I wish they were fucking dead!”

“Done,” the Djinn purred, rolling his neck. “Gotta say, didn’t think you had it in ya. Proud of ya, kid.”

“Wait—”

The Djinn clicked his claws, and the ground trembled. “There ain’t gonna be anyone around to remind you, so don’t forget. You’re a dumb shit, Evan. Enjoy the rest of your endless life.”

An explosion rocked the house, and Evan heard screams from outside. He staggered into the living room as Dale entered the house.

“What’s happening out there?” Evan asked, pointing through the window.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Dale asked. Evan looked at him and blinked, remembering that he stood half-naked and pummeled within an inch of his immortal life.

“I got beat—”

Dale popped. One second he stood there, looking Evan up and down. The next, he exploded into a shower of gore, like someone had stuck a grenade in his stomach. Dale’s organs and bits of flesh splattered Evan, covering him from head to toe. A revolver dropped to the floor where Dale had stood.

Evan’s stomach heaved, and he vomited anything that lurked in his bowels. Doubled-over, Evan grabbed the gun as he staggered through the front door and out into the street. He heard cars crunch in the distance as people walking up and down the sidewalk erupted. Evan looked to the sky as roaring reached his ears. He dropped to his knees as a plane fell from the sky and swayed as the explosion rocked the ground.

“Fuck,” Evan whispered. He raised Dale’s revolver to his head and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked but refused to act. Evan fired again and a third time before dropping the gun to the floor. Evan’s body shook as he laughed in silence as his fate dawned on him.

***

“So you’ll never go to that awful place again, Daddy?”

The Djinn looked at his son, a miniature replica of himself and winked. “No, kiddo. See, Daddy’s clever, and fulfilled his side of the bargain so I won’t get in trouble from those who make the rules. The human will live forever, and he’ll be the wealthiest, as he’s alone. Daddy doesn’t need to lift a single claw. Which, believe you me, is a relief. Making someone the richest person in the world is a lot of work.”

The young djinn laughed and nuzzled into his father. “Wish I’d seen it.”

The Djinn patted his son’s head. “You don’t want to see that, son. Just remember, words are important. Always take care with what you say.”

G is for Genies is available for Kindle, and in paperback here. Coming very soon to Audible.

Check out David’s website for news and updates.

The Sound of Darkness (from F is for Fear)

C.M. Rosens

Murat Yildiz stood in the doorway to the living room, his living room in his own damn flat, the flat he had been renting for two years now, and could not go in. The bulb had blown the night before, and he’d forgotten to change it.

There was nothing in there except his own furniture, his own things. A deeper rectangle of flatter, reflective black on the back wall was nothing sinister, no mirrored black hole leading to abyssal realms, just his mounted plasma TV screen that would cast its own light if only he could turn it on from the narrow hall. It reflected his own squared shoulders back at him, a vaguely outlined shadow-man grown into his adolescent fat and heavier-set frame, a stocky veteran of random scrawny aggressors on match days and Saturday nights. Here he was, stuck on the edge of his own living room laminate like a child.

The bulk of the second-hand sofa was nothing more than that, hiding nothing behind it but cushions and a rug. He could make out the chairs and the glossy rags of old magazines Cheryl left scattered about the place.

Murat clicked the switch out of habit, but it didn’t do any good. Of course not. He strained his ears. There was nothing there, nothing to hear. He should close the door, forget about it, go into the bedroom instead, but he didn’t like to think about the living room being a box of darkness so near to where he slept. Cheryl complained about sleeping with the lamp on, even though he turned the dimmer all the way down when she stayed over, but even with her beside him he couldn’t bring himself to turn it off. Murat still kept up his childhood habit and drifted off to sleep as he had always done, with his eyes glued to the straight line of light under the bedroom door until his eyelids grew too heavy.

He swallowed, forcing himself to look away from the gloom and focus on the door handle. He should close up the darkness and walk away, leave it to the morning sun to lance through the blinds and beat the dark back into sulky corners. 

Murat made to shut the door, safe in the corridor of sixty-watt illumination, but something stopped him. His faltering hand fell back to his side. He realised what it was. The room was not only dark: it was silent. Not the silence of a brightly lit room, or even the silence of a mood-lit one, but a different kind of silence altogether.

It was a sound, or rather an absence, that he had never truly heard before.

From the recesses of his memory came the half-forgotten face of thirteen-year-old Tommy Danage, wide-eyed and pale.

Have you ever listened to it?

A shiver ran up Murat’s spine, exactly the same as back then, and for a moment he was nearly returned to that night.

Listened to what? thirteen-year-old Murat had asked.

And Tommy Danage, never rattled by anything, had looked as if he was about to wet himself. He’d leaned in, looking at the sunset as if the sky might betray them, and whispered,

The dark.

Now in his thirties, Murat could still say, hand on heart, that he never had. The hum of electric formed the background note of Murat’s early life. Its buzz permeated his first memories. Light flooded those memories, too: banks of soft nightlight-glow holding back the shadows, the harder orange wedge beneath the partly open door. Light chased him down corridors, humming along wires, yellow, neon, halogen, glaring loudly. All his life, it haunted him. There was something concrete about light, its shafts and slithers, sharp-edged and neat, always in hard, straight lines except when thwarted by shadow. Light flooded the paths, the car parks, the stairwells. Light chased his shadow, his proud companion in the playground, and paled it, reduced it, drove it back to cling around his feet. Murat was drawn to shadow the way some were drawn to venomous snakes. In the Estate, shadows were forbidden fruit. Not the juicy kind. The kind that killed you.

It was in the darkness.

It was the darkness.

It made shadows thicker, quieter. It watched from beyond the edges of light, where the bristling forest of cameras couldn’t see, and it was patient. They talked about it like that, like it was real, like it was alive. At first, young Murat thought they were talking about the dark itself: some of the adults probably were. But not all. Some talked about it in ways that made no sense, as if there was something else, something in the dark as well as of it.

Sometimes, after his dad died because his heart hurt so much it stopped, and Murat had to wear dark clothes for the first time, Murat crept out of bed and through the pool of nightlight-green illuminating the carpet to peep out into the night. His mum said dying was like going to sleep for a really, really long time, but you also got to go and live in the stars and look down on the people you left behind. Murat’s heart still hurt for his dad, but he was afraid that if it hurt too much it would stop, too, so after the funeral he took the black jacket and matching trousers out of his cupboard and stuffed them deep into the kitchen bin in case dark colours attracted the darkness to come and take you away to the stars.

The night sky was hardly ever clear enough to see the moon, let alone the constellations. Tangerine-bellied clouds blocked them out, obscuring the twinkling eyes of the dead. Light pollution, said Aunty Connie, who wore tiny polar bear earrings and smelled like flowers. It’s not natural.

Little Murat tip-toed to his window one night when he couldn’t sleep and wondered who else was looking down on him, how many bright eyes were up there peppering the sky. He was glad they couldn’t see him. A dusky blanket of burnt marmalade reflected the streetlight fug back down into the concrete and glass. The square below Peregrine House was fully lit, ringed around with CCTV. Teenagers on bikes with rainbow lights in the spokes did tricks and gathered in the centre, in full view of the buildings, reflective gear shining. They joked and laughed, music playing, but they stayed in the well-lit spaces. Murat wanted to join them, but he was too small. They seemed small, too, as small as him, smaller, matchstick figures, toys of whirring colours. The hum of energy buzzed in the air.

When Murat was seven-and-a-half, Casey Richards went into the dark and never came out again. Adult Murat couldn’t remember Casey Richards. Whenever he pictured Casey, he could only imagine a mirror of himself at that age, the face obscured as if by a sunbeam glancing off a window.

He recalled the arrival of new lights, red and blue, blinking in the frosty morning, and no one saying exactly what had happened but everyone muttering and passing things along, over his head. The flats becoming an echo-chamber for the glum murmur of rumour. Casey’s name became a fable, a playground mystery, only half-remembered. Someone said Casey had chased after a ball and no one could find him. When the sun came up, there he was, the light peeling back the darkness like a duvet to reveal him on the ground. They said it looked like he was sleeping. They never found his ball.

When Murat was eleven-and-three-quarters, the old man from downstairs died in his sleep. Murat’s mother said she’d come in to clean as usual and found him in the chair with his TV off, the lightbulb blown, fuses tripped by a power surge. The flats were old, and so was the wiring.

Murat heard his mother on the phone to her sister, relaying the moment she found him and the shock, the terrible shock, repeated over and over, but it was the little phrase, “He died in the dark, Connie… he died in the dark, all on his own,” that stuck in Murat’s mind. He hovered in the hall between his bedroom and the kitchen as his mum poured out her story, thinking about Casey and the missing ball, the dark corners of the Estate, the teenagers who never strayed into the shadows.

But it wasn’t either of these two incidents that prevented a grown-up Murat from setting foot in the darkness of his own living room in Luton, in a perfectly ordinary building where no one bothered about the shadows, miles away from the Queen Mary Estate in Pagham-on-Sea. Not on their own, at any rate.

Murat figured the blame lay with Tommy Danage and that summer’s night in 1998.

***

1998. The year of Saving Private Ryan, My Heart Will Go On, and I Did Not Have Sexual Relations With That Woman. By the end of July, France had won the World Cup and David Beckham was not yet forgiven for being red-carded in England’s match against Argentina, leaving Murat devastated and temporarily idol-less. No one could fill that gap like Beckham. As if this wasn’t bad enough, he was grappling with his changing body, his dad’s fading memory, and trying to get on with Mick.

Mick, his mum’s whirlwind romance of two years ago who had moved in out of nowhere, hated everything he termed ‘superstitious crap’. Mick seemed to lump everything into this category, from Kumail’s brother’s kufi to Murat’s mum’s habit of leaving the lights on. He was the genial type for whom everything was some kind of joke, except when he turned that casual eye-twinkling banter on you, you were the only one not laughing. Murat liked Mick mostly, or tried to for his mum, but he had learned fast. He’d stopped asking about the dark corners and put a brave face on walking along the well-lit streets after dark.

Mick only called him Mat, or Matty, or Matty-boy. He’d been to Istanbul once, and all he said when Murat asked him what it was like there, where he still had a few uncles, was that all the taxi drivers were thieves. His mum never mentioned his dad anymore and Mick wanted him to change his surname if he and Murat’s mum got married. It was like his dad had never existed. Worse: Murat was getting used to not thinking about him.

He went by ‘Mat’ in school now, something the others had started calling him. It sat uncomfortably with the gap in his life where his dad’s family ought to have been, his disconnect from them leaving nothing but his name behind.

It was also the year he could finally boast of being best friends with Tommy Danage, who overshadowed everything and everyone around him by sheer force of personality.

Tommy was the first to get tramlines shaved into his head as soon as school finished for the summer, and he always wore branded everything. Knock-offs from the market, but they looked the part.

Tommy lived in a world where all possibilities were true at once; aliens, conspiracies, secret societies, every religion known to man and a few Murat was sure Tommy had just made up, yetis, the sasquatch and the Loch Ness Monster. At thirteen, Tommy had oceans of belief, in the world, in people, in the future, in himself. Later life would suck all that out of him, and Murat had since lost touch with both the memories of the boy Tommy Danage had been and the sour, embittered man he turned into.

Murat wondered what Tommy saw in him; he hung around Tommy hoping that something would rub off, some spark of originality, a sliver of that magnetism, but didn’t know if it was working.

Somehow, in all that time, the question of the darkness had never come up.

They hung out in the daylight or in each other’s homes where the lights were always on.

Then, one evening in the summer holidays, the darkness came for them.

“Come over,” Tommy said, as he and Murat walked home from town late that evening. “Gemma’s boyfriend rented the sickest film and left it at our house, it doesn’t go back until Tuesday. It’s an eighteen.”

Murat nodded. He wasn’t allowed to watch anything rated above a twelve. “Cool.”

“We’ll be back before dark,” Tommy said, eyeing the sunset.

Murat shrugged, kicking a can into the road. “Don’t matter,” he said, sticking his chest out. He didn’t want Tommy to think he was scared.

Murat hadn’t said much about the dark to Tommy, but he assumed Tommy was too cool to be afraid. He pushed his gelled lick of hair out of his eye in an attempt at nonchalance.

“There’s nothing to be scared of. All that crap’s for kids.”

Tommy gave him a look that Murat would remember for years afterwards. His broad forehead creased up, big russet-brown eyes wide, small thin lips pursed. He stared at Murat as if their friendship was all a big mistake.

“Not!” Murat yelled, faking a joke of his own, chest cinching with panic. “Kidding!”

But Tommy was serious and unsmiling, staring at him with deep mistrust. “It’s not funny,” he said.

Murat shook his head, surprise kicking him into silence. Could it be? Tommy Danage, afraid of the dark? The kick in the chest was like Beckham’s red card all over again.

Tommy turned and carried on, picking up the pace. Murat blinked, watching him go, then hurried after him not knowing what else to do. That was how it was: when in doubt, follow Tommy Danage.

Queen Mary Estate, adjoining the newer, equally grim Jubilee Estate, was on the edge of town, kept separate by the trainline and Pagham-on-Sea Parkway, connected by an underpass. Between the underpass and the Estate was the towering purple-signed chain hotel, squat and square in its own car park with its back to the Estate’s high surrounding wall.

As for the Estate itself, they’d built it like a prison, CCTV bristling all around, floodlights lining the road on the approach. There were no gates, the wall breaking either side of the main road forking through, which Murat had always thought odd. It wasn’t until later that he realised the bank of bright light flooding the road was a kind of gate, a barrier between the shadows within those high redbrick walls, and the other kinds of shadows on the other side. Shadows seemed less deep in town, the dark sunless corners shallower somehow, almost peaceful. They drew him in, but he was never quite brave enough to stand in them.

It wasn’t like that in the Estate. The brightness of the lights lining the paths and flooding the concrete squares between the blocks of flats held back a darkness that felt solid, as if touching it would be like touching fabric. Casey had run into the dark corner between Glassman House and Jubilee Tower, and the kids with him said they’d heard a thud, a smack, then silence. He’d fallen, the adults said. But the kids knew better. Casey had run into something, and it had killed him and taken his ball.

Murat tried not to think about this as they traipsed back into the Estate, turning off the road. Tommy was moody, silent. His pace quickened.

“Are we going to yours?” Murat asked, hoping he hadn’t lost his best friend.

Tommy didn’t answer straight away. He hunched his shoulders, hands in the pockets of his tracksuit. He shrugged. “Sure.”

Murat wondered what was happening, whether he’d broken something. His throat itched to take the words back. “I was just joking,” he said, knowing he ought to leave it but unable to, poking it like a half-healed scab.

Tommy turned to Murat, his usual cheeky grin wiped clean off and his face drawn into a tight, pale mask. “Have you ever listened to it?” he asked, hoarse, as if someone – or something – might overhear.

Murat froze, his chubby wide stare reflected back at him in Tommy’s russet-brown eyes.

“Listened to what?”

Tommy swallowed, glancing up at the sunset colours washing across the summer sky.

“The dark.”

A shiver crawled up Murat’s spine. “What… what d’you mean?” He didn’t want to admit he still slept with the touch lamp by his bed on low, his lava lamp glowing on his windowsill, and the door cracked ajar so the light from the corridor could stop anything – he hesitated, tripping over the idea – anything… getting in that way. But he didn’t seriously believe there was anything there, he told himself. It was like Mick said. Superstitious crap.

He shook his head. “Have… have you?”

Tommy darted a look over his shoulder into the Estate, and hoicked Murat away from the wall by his elbow. He bent to Murat’s ear, nearly pushing him off the kerb into the road. “Went into my sister’s room once,” he whispered, breath stale with the illicit cigarette they’d shared on the walk home. “She was out. No lights on. Window was open.” He tugged Murat back as a car raced past and bundled him further down the pavement. “You ever do that? Just listen to the dark outside?”

Murat shook his head.

Tommy’s eyes were watering now, unblinking and wide. “It makes this sound. Like, a – really quiet sound. Like. There’s something there, something in the room with you. Like… a kind of breathing.” He channelled an almost-silent breath of air against Murat’s ear, and the hairs prickled up all over Murat’s arms and the nape of his neck. “I swear. On my mum’s life.”

Murat nodded, believing. In the moment, it was almost impossible not to believe Tommy Danage, no matter what he said. Later, he thought it was the breeze forcing itself through the window crack, the blood ringing in Tommy’s ears – and yet, no matter what he told himself Tommy heard or thought he heard, Murat never switched off the light to listen for himself.

They entered the Estate together, Murat’s pulse quickened by the thrill of Tommy’s tale and their re-forged camaraderie, heading for Peregrine House. The streetlights were already on although the sun wasn’t fully set, and Murat couldn’t recall anything being amiss as they passed the row of shops, bookended by the Chinese takeaway and the Blockbuster.

The Estate was a mish-mash of post-war flats, rows of garages, and parallel streets of council houses. Jubilee Estate adjoined it, more blocks of flats, council houses and amenities, and as bristling with lights and CCTV as its older neighbour. Both were contained by the high wall, which was the subject of frequent residential complaints by newcomers. After a few weeks, they stopped complaining. Not even Mick complained anymore. That bothered Murat.

Peregrine House was a pale, weather-streaked five-storied building from the 1960s, one of the first blocks of flats to be built on Queen Mary Estate, surrounded by several other blocks like it in a square, spindly trees planted at intervals along the street leading up to it. Murat didn’t like the trees. They were always sick and half dead, and now the leaves were an unhealthy, bitter yellow on the edges.

They came to the front entrance, brightly lit inside and out, cameras blinking at them as they jostled through the main door. The lift was dodgy and usually reeked of ammonia and Mr Carmichael, so they opted for the stairs.

Halfway up to the second floor they bumped into Kumail, Addy and Emmanuel, trading Pokémon cards. Emmanuel was sitting on the top step with his back to the stairwell, long black legs outstretched, knees grazed, in his knock-off Arsenal shirt and football shorts. Kumail was below, thick glasses slipping down his broad nose, his card album on his knees. Addy, gelled dirty-blond curtains quivering in symmetrical speech marks either side of his forehead, was dribbling his football in the stairwell behind them and bouncing it from foot to foot, arguing with Kumail about what his Venomoth was worth.

Murat wished he was as good at football as Addy and Emmanuel. He couldn’t kick a ball even halfway straight and was last to be picked for everything. At thirteen he’d never even heard of dyspraxia, and neither had anyone else: even if they had, Murat reasoned bitterly later on, it would just have been another synonym in their Games teacher’s vocabulary for ‘bloody useless’. He didn’t know much about Pokémon either, not as much as they all did, so he hung back out of habit as Tommy went first.

They greeted Tommy with the usual enthusiasm, but Murat hovered on the bottom step, hands in his pockets, until Emmanuel waved him up.

“Oi, Mat. Beat my high score.”

He handed Murat his phone, small black squares blinking on the tiny screen. Murat plonked himself awkwardly on the step below, conscious of taking up far more space on the stairs than his athletic classmate. He knew he couldn’t beat Emmanuel at anything. Inevitably, his snake ate itself and the game ended thirty points off Emmanuel’s top score. He handed it back and Emmanuel grinned. “I’ll beat it this time, you ready?”

Murat nodded, settling on the steps as the debates and card swapping continued around them.

This distracted them for some time, until the sun died and the shadows crept over the concrete, crawling up the stairs. Addy was the first to notice.

“Guys?”

Murat frowned as Addy punched his arm. “What?”

“Look.”

They hadn’t noticed the sun going down and the lights coming on, as they usually did. Except that, this evening, one of the lights was out.

The shadows thickened on the stairs below them, gathering, creeping. To Murat, focused on the phone game, they seemed to stretch out like the pixel-snake, progressing at right-angles over the hard lines of the stairs to gobble up the next target.

Emmanuel leapt up, Kumail scrambling backwards.

Murat pushed Emmanuel’s phone at him and tugged Tommy’s sleeve.

The light above them flickered.

This got Emmanuel’s attention. He knocked Kumail’s arm with the back of his hand.

Kumail’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

Emmanuel pointed at the light. Kumail followed his finger and swallowed.

“That isn’t good,” Emmanuel said, voice tight.

Murat shifted, catching the collective unease.

“We got to go, yeah.” Kumail tucked his cards away and backed off into the brighter pool of light, album under one arm, as Tommy’s arguments faded. Addy bounced his football into his hands and stood frozen, clutching it into his chest.

Emmanuel’s Adam’s apple bobbed hard.

Murat backed up.

The light went out.

Tommy grabbed Murat’s t-shirt and yanked him, Emmanuel bounded past and raced Addy for the next set of stairs, and they scattered in the stairwell. Addy and Emmanuel tore off to their neighbouring flats, Kumail ploughing through the nearest fire door to his flat on that level. Tommy and Murat got to the lift, and Tommy jabbed the button with his elbow. Murat made to run up the next flight after Emmanuel and Addy, but Tommy held him back.

“Wait!”

The lights went out in the next stairwell. They could hear the pounding of their friends’ feet echoing back to them, but now they were trapped between one pool of darkness and another. Murat could see the dull glow of the dirty light fittings on either side, still lighting the stairs themselves as they spiralled upwards: the shadow patches between should not have been that deep. The shadows gathered, playing tricks on his eyes.

He and Tommy were back to back now.

“There’s nothing in the dark,” Murat whispered, but these were Mick’s words.

Tommy was shaking beside him. The remaining light above their heads began to strobe.

Murat wanted to believe Mick more than anything, but doubt spiked his belly with fear, pooling cold inside him. “There’s nothing in the dark. There’s nothing in the dark…”

“Shh!” Tommy elbowed him, shaking his head. “Listen…”

With a thrill of horror prickling up his spine, Murat strained to hear the sound the shadows made. His own pulse drowned it out.

The lift pinged behind them and the doors juddered open.

Murat and Tommy bundled in, safe under the bright glare, mirrors reflecting their pale, scared faces.

The light strobed twice in the stairwell they’d just left and blinked out. The shadows surged to connect, washing over the floor in front of them like a pool of dark water. Murat backed all the way up against the mirrors as the lift doors stayed stubbornly open. Tommy jabbed at the fifth-floor button over and over. They wouldn’t close. It would be shit in a zombie apocalypse. Murat wished like hell he hadn’t thought of that, trying not to imagine lumbering corpses drooling up the stairs in the dark, seeking brains, nothing to stop them as he and Tommy were trapped against the sticky mirrors with no weapons and nowhere to run…

The doors finally juddered shut.

The darkness fought the narrowing wedge of light, pressing greedily in.

Murat thought he saw something between the closing crack, something forming in the shadows, a shape looming out of the darkness and leering at him. Not a face. Not exactly. Not a human face.

The lift doors pinged at last, closed and solid, and they both sagged at the same time, safe in their small cage of light.

“Did you see that?” Murat whispered to Tommy, whose pink-tinged eyes were moist with terror.

“Shut up!” Tommy pressed his finger to his lips.

They listened.

The lift didn’t move.

Was that – something outside? A movement, a whisper, something pushing against the doors?

Murat itched to press the button again.

They held their breath, but the lift shuddered into life, familiar clanks of aging machinery reassuring them that they were safe.

“Mum says this lift’s a piece of shit,” Tommy said, attempting to recover. His voice trembled but there was a ring of defiance as he tossed out the s-word.

Hundreds of mirror-Murats and mirror-Tommys glanced uneasily around their enclosed cage, reflecting each other forever. Murat ran a sticky hand over the top of his short hair.

 The lift groaned, making it to the second floor.

Murat swallowed, stomach roiling. Had he seen something in the darkness? If Tommy hadn’t, he couldn’t have seen anything. It was like Mick said, people’s eyes were trained to see patterns, that was all. Patterns in the dark were just… dots in front of his eyes, just tricks, just tricks, just tricks. He didn’t realise he was whispering that under his breath until Tommy elbowed him.

“Shut it.”

Murat pursed his lips around his mantra, but it kept beating around his brain.

The lift eased up from the second floor, climbing to the third. It was taking forever.

“Why’s it so slow?” Tommy complained, shifting from one foot to the other, skinny frame vibrating with impatience.

Murat thought about what was below their feet: a lift shaft full of darkness, darkness sticking to the underside of the lift’s floor, being dragged up behind them… He swallowed hard and looked up instead, at the reassuring lightbulb glaring at them from above. The darkness was above them, too. Bearing down. Heavy.

The lift shuddered.

Murat flinched into Tommy and they both pressed against the streaked mirror at their backs. Third floor. Tommy looked at Murat and nodded. Nearly there.

The lift’s light blinked once.

The hairs on Murat’s neck stood up. He froze.

The light blinked twice.

The lift shivered.

“No,” Tommy managed, his voice a tiny croak. “No, no, no…”

Murat couldn’t move. He pressed against the mirror for reassurance, but it didn’t help.

There was nowhere to go.

The light blinked out.

Murat had never known darkness like it – it swarmed them, plunging them into total jet black, his eyes not accustomed. Tommy yelped like a wounded dog, grabbing his arms.

Murat hoped it was Tommy grabbing his arms.

He hoped those were Tommy’s hands.

The light came back on.

Something in the mirror flickered away, disintegrating in his peripheral vision. Murat snapped around to look, confronted with hundreds of reflections of his face, of Tommy’s crumpled anguish, slashes of his own red t-shirt and Tommy’s white tracksuit, and nothing more.

The light flickered.

Something shifted in the reflection. The twisting pattern of a shadow? Murat was prepared to swear on his dad’s grave that neither he nor Tommy had moved.

They hadn’t reached the fourth floor yet. The lift crawled, creaking an inch at a time, and Murat imagined the strain of the mechanism as it battled the darkness. Was this how the old man from downstairs had died, when the power surged and his TV went off? Was this how he had felt, trapped in his chair, the darkness surging in to claim him?

It was stupid, stupid, stupid. There was nothing there, nothing, nothing.

His chest tightened. Dots burst in front of his eyes.

The light blinked out.

They were plunged into darkness.

Something slid past Murat’s ringing ears.

A breath? No: a sigh.

Was it Tommy, his ragged pants in Murat’s face? Murat’s own breath, mingling with Tommy’s?

“What’s that?!” Tommy whimpered, and the light flickered back on.

“I didn’t see anything,” Murat hissed, half strangled. “I didn’t see…”

Tommy was crying, staring into the top corner of the lift. “Who’s there?”

Murat couldn’t look. He squinted at the mirrors, trying not to see what was reflected there, focusing on the brand logo on Tommy’s back, the empty space around them.

Fourth floor.

“It’s just us,” he promised, praying he was right. “It’s just us…”

Tommy shook his head. “There’s some¾”

The light went out.

The floor shook.

Tommy let go of Murat’s arms.

Murat stumbled into the mirror, his hand finding the sticky dribbles on its surface. He drew away and bumped into something else, a solid form, but Tommy was the other side of the lift, wasn’t he? The shape was there, then it wasn’t. What the hell was that?

It must be Tommy, please let it be Tommy…

Oh shit, Murat thought, childish stories shooting up to comfort him, we’re going to be in the stars with Dad.

The light came back on.

Tommy was on the floor.

Murat’s chest hurt. He took a gulp of air, forcing his legs to cooperate, and shakily lowered himself into a squat. “T…Tommy?”

The light flickered.

“Tommy?”

Stars burst in his vision. He forced himself to take a deeper breath, his own hammering pulse ringing in his ears. Tears blurred the white, limp form, and Murat was too scared to touch him in case he was cold, in case he was sleeping, in case he was in the stars.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to touch his best friend.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. Tommy’s shoulder was solid, bony, under the light jacket. Murat thought you could tell if a person was dead by the way they felt, but Tommy felt the same. Was that right? That didn’t seem right. You were supposed to lose something, weren’t you, when you died? He had imagined the body being hollow, almost, after death, lighter, not weighted with resistance. He tried to pull Tommy onto his back, not thinking about things like First Aid or if he swallowed his tongue. He would cringe later, looking back, but Tommy’s eyes were open and he was still crying, and not dead at all.

Tommy whimpered.

He looked up at Murat with wide eyes, moist with fear. His small, thin lips struggled to form his question, and when he spoke a shiver lanced through Murat turning his bladder to water.

“Did you hear it?”

Murat shook his head, fear clenching his stomach in a leaden fist, shaking all over, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Hear what?”

Tommy whined but didn’t reply.

The doors opened.

Murat grabbed his friend and hoisted him as hard as he could, Tommy finding his feet and whimpering, urine stain soaking through the front of his trousers and dripping miserably down his leg. The lights lined the corridor, leading to Tommy’s flat.

They stumbled out of the lift as the doors juddered shut behind them.

The corridor lights were misbehaving, dimming with an angry hum. That was all Murat could hear: the hum of electric as it fought against the dark.

“Did you hear it?” Tommy whispered, whole body shaking.

“Shut it,” Murat returned, nerves taut as a guitar string. Now in the corridor, there was nothing to hear but the comforting sound of the lights.

They made it halfway along, Tommy’s flat the one on the far end, before the lift pinged open again behind them. He heard the doors slide open.

Tommy couldn’t look, but Murat had to.

He pushed Tommy ahead of him and turned around.

The lift was a box of darkness, so dark that Murat couldn’t see their reflections in the mirrors. He remembered it like a solid block of shadow, thick and rippling. It spilled out of the doors into the corridor in a wave as the nearest light blinked out.

Murat pulled Tommy with him and ran, the shadows at their heels, and pounded on the door of Tommy’s flat until his mum opened the door.

Murat remembered Liz Danage as a skinny, scarecrow-woman, straw-coloured hair lying lank around her hard, angry features, always in baggy cardigans that hung loosely off her shoulders and baggy grey pyjama bottoms she had to tie tightly around her waist. She didn’t say a word. Not about their frantic garbled explanations, their terror, or about Tommy wetting himself, although Murat was sure she’d noticed. She let them into a flat smoky with candles, their dim flames casting odd shapes over the walls.

“Generator’s gone funny or the fuses or sumfink,” she said, and pointed Murat to the phone. “Call your mum. She’ll be going mad.”

Tommy ran into the bathroom with a large wind-up torch but didn’t lock the door.

Murat sat in candlelight and Liz Danage gave him a plate of beans on toast, and the shadows twisted around them in the strange warmth of the flames, and the darkness stalked through Peregrine House until he wasn’t sure what was real and what he had imagined. But he didn’t joke about the dark again, and he never entered a room with the lights off.

Alone in chilly, drizzling Luton, lightyears away from those terrified boys in the lift, Murat dragged himself out of his memories. He was a grown man. This was his flat. There was nothing in here to frighten him.

His hand shook as he lowered it from the switch, staring into the depths of his darkened living room. There was nothing to be afraid of. There was nothing there, he reasoned, nothing at all – and yet it was as if the room was full for the first time, full of something he couldn’t see. There were shapes within, rounded, bulky, shifting as he squinted, only to settle in the form of his own, well-worn furniture. But around them the shadows gathered, dim and nebulous and pregnant with something denied him. All darkness was the same, surely? And yet… and yet…

It was not like the darkness of the Estate he’d left behind, not like the swallowing corners and stealthy flight of what lurked there, if anything ever had. He was too old for all that, he told himself, too old for that now. Yet this was different somehow, safer, emptier, in a way he couldn’t name. He’d turned and faced the darkness that night, he reminded himself. Maybe this was the night he would step towards it.

For the first time in his life, legs quivering, Murat took a step into a room without the light on. He nearly bottled it, darting back as something swam by his peripheral vision, but there was nothing there, nothing to get him. A small moth, disturbed by the light in the hall, fluttered out and flung itself upwards at the light. Murat watched it battering itself against the hot bulb, scorching its own wings, in thrall to the light’s blazing tyranny. He closed his eyes and stilled his rapid breaths to quieten his racing heart. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick, his face prickled hot and cold, his stomach roiled with tension. Then he stepped back into the dark.

He balled up his fists in case something grabbed his arms or bumped into his back.

Seconds passed.

Nothing happened.

Little by little, Murat forced his bunched muscles to relax. He forced himself to breathe in a gentle rhythm and let the pressing shadows envelop him. They were only shadows after all, intangible, insubstantial, but engorged with some quality of their own, and a sound he had never heard before.

Murat closed his eyes, and, for the first time in his life, listened to the sound of darkness.

F is for Fear is available for Kindle, in paperback, and on Audible here.

Find out more about the author here.

Check out C.M. Rosens’ podcast here.

A Grave Mistake (from E is for Exorcism)

S.P. Oldham

Donald scuffed his way back to the hotel, hands in pockets, head down, watching each plodding step he took as if his feet belonged to someone else. The beer and the whisky chasers he had been drinking for most of the day had done their job. His cheeks felt flushed and hot, his eyelids heavy. Up ahead, his friends and fellow drinkers were loud; obnoxious even, slurring bawdy songs to barely remembered tunes. They were laughing and joking, jostling and ribbing, oblivious to the disapproving looks they were earning from people all around them.

Donald had been part of it all a couple of hours ago. Now he felt subdued and heavy, all the laughter gone from him. His head ached, not from the booze – he knew a drink-induced headache well enough to know the difference – but from some kind of, of…

His beer-addled brain struggled to find a word to describe the weight that now sat in his head. A darkness.

He had not felt right since the group had ducked into a quiet churchyard; the next best thing to public toilets for bladders swollen with booze. They had the sense to go to the back of the church, under the cover of some trees and out of immediate sight of the street. A couple of them had watered a large and ancient Yew, giggling like schoolboys.

Donald, his need great, stopped and unzipped his fly the minute he was out of sight. He focused on the arc of his urine as it splashed in a hot, steaming stream of ominously dark-golden rivulets, spattering to the soil at his feet, muddying his boots. The relief was near-blissful. When he was done he zipped up his fly, wiping his hands down his jeans. That was when he saw it.

His toilet of choice turned out to be the door of an old crypt. A skull and crossbones had been sculpted into it, tainted with years of dirt and soot, except for whiter streaks now, where Donald had just washed some of it cleaner. Part of the skull and one end of the crossbones was almost completely black. This was what first caught his eye. What was above it earned his complete attention.

A skeleton, partially hidden by the same black dirt that obscured the skull, was positioned at an almost jaunty angle. The legs were bowed, the ribs wide, no arms to be seen. The skull-face was, as all skulls are, missing features, devoid of all life; yet Donald swore it was looking right at him.

He took a step back, off balance. Behind him, his friends were re-grouping, making their way out of the churchyard. He was unable to follow them, suddenly rooted to the spot.

Words appeared below the skeleton; at least, that was how it seemed to Donald. He could have sworn they were not there before. Against his own will, he found his eyes tracing over the lettering, taking in their meaning.

‘What lies beneath is best left buried,

God help the one who would disturb.

Bring dishonour or disrespect,

And you will take what you deserve.’

Impossibly, alongside the sculpted ribs there rose a bony hand, as if the arm of the skeleton had been buried in the brick itself and was now rising up from it. Donald stood paralysed as a single bony finger uncurled to point at him. The skull face turned into a frown, shaking to and fro as if in admonition.

Donald’s mouth went dry, his palms too. His heart was racing as he sought to put right what he had done wrong.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered fervently, “I’m drunk, for God’s sake! It was an accident!”

A large hand clamped on his shoulder. Donald jumped, startled. When he turned to face Graham, he knew his expression was tight with fear.

“Jesus!” Graham laughed, “What are you muttering about? Come on, the others are halfway down the road. I came back to get you, you little lost soul!”

It was meant as a joke, but the words settled upon Donald’s heart like ice. Little lost soul.

He tried to smile, but felt it was more a grimace. He looked back at the wall of the crypt. The accusing arm and wagging finger were gone, as were the words. He felt a coldness settle in his stomach.

He thought about telling Graham what he had seen. Graham would laugh. He would blame the drink, then tell the others. They would never let him live it down.

Perhaps it was the drink. Donald took a step toward his friend, swayed and nearly fell. Graham reached out a hand to catch him.

“Aye aye!” he laughed again, “Can’t handle your drink anymore eh? Come on, a brisk walk and a bite to eat will soon sort you out!”

Donald turned, looking fearfully back at the morbid sculpture on the crypt door. The eyeless sockets in the dead face of the skull seemed to watch him go.

Everything was a blank after that. Donald had no recollection of leaving the churchyard. He didn’t know if he had eaten or had a last drink with the boys. It was as if he was so inebriated he was semi-comatose; yet he was aware he was unaware.

The contradiction was both ridiculous and confusing. His friends had finally stopped geeing him up, losing patience with his slowness, so he plodded wearily back to the hotel, lagging behind them.

He became dimly aware of stepping onto gravel, the texture of the ground beneath his feet changing from hard, flat concrete to the crunch of small stones. Against all the odds, he had reached the place in one piece. He looked up, his head spinning. The large white lettering of the hotel name bore into his brain. The Resting Place. It had seemed a welcoming, relaxing name when they had found and booked it online. Now it had a horrible feel of foreboding. There is more than one kind of resting place after all, his mind whispered to him seductively. He wished he could shut it up.

It must have been Graham who helped him in through the door and up to his room. The next minute he was on his bed, fully clothed.

Then, nothing. He had fallen into drunken stupors many times before. It was like falling into the warm and welcoming arms of an old, forgiving friend. Enveloping, healing oblivion.

Not this time. This time it was as if his very being had been switched off. He had gone from dim awareness to absolute nothingness. Not even darkness. Simply, nothing.

A terrifying, vast and unnavigable nothingness. When he woke his eyes snapped open, wide and shining. As if he had been switched back on again.

But he couldn’t see.

***

Graham sagged gratefully into his own bed, opposite Donald’s. The rest of the group were variously sharing rooms. They had all quietened down by the time they got to the hotel, the long day and the copious amounts of alcohol finally getting to them.

Donald troubled Graham. Even through the fog of booze he knew something was amiss with his friend. He hoped that a good night’s sleep might be enough to clear away the dark mood that had settled on him.

He turned out the lamp, ignoring his nagging intuition; the tiny, persistent voice that was telling him something was very wrong.

***

Donald wanted to scream that he was blind, that he couldn’t see a damn thing, but his mouth didn’t seem to be working; at least, not at his say-so. He was trapped deep inside himself, watching internally as his features arranged themselves into a smile. He didn’t want to smile. He wanted to cry; he wanted to beg for help.

He could see Graham, sitting up in the bed opposite. He knew with every fibre of his being that the man was in grave danger. There was nothing he could do to warn him. He was a prisoner inside his own mind, his own body.

Whatever it was that had taken over him, it was a powerful, horribly dark force. Greater, stronger than him. Even as the would-be Donald turned to speak to Graham, the real Donald inside wished his friend would just leave. Just get up and go, get the hell out of that room.

“How you doing this morning?” Graham said. “You had a skin-full yesterday mate, never seen you so bad. Hangover?”

“No,” Donald’s own voice replied. The word was slurred, sloppy. A tendril of drool oozed from the corner of his mouth. Graham’s expression changed slightly, enough to show a trace of uncertainty.

“You sure you’re all right mate? You’re still slurring.”

“Food,” the would-be Donald said. “I’m hungry.”

Inside himself, Donald’s skin went cold. Simple words. Harmless. I’m hungry. So why was his heart pounding?

He saw Graham get up, throw him a worried look, disappear into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Donald sagged with relief, “Thank God for that!” he told himself.

His body convulsed, locked in a spasm that threw his head so far back his neck would have broken, had he not been somehow possessed.

“Blasphemy!” a harsh, hoarse voice screamed into his ears, “Blasphemy! There are no Gods! There are no Gods!”

Donald felt himself physically shrinking, though he could not escape the sound. It reverberated in his eardrums, pricked at his skin, found its way to his heart. He froze, waiting for some kind of blow.

Nothing happened. His physical body relaxed, the spasm over. The would-be Donald got up, crossing to the locked bathroom door.

He looked through it.

He actually looked through the door; the wood and paint no hindrance at all. He could see Graham at the sink, brushing his teeth, his back to him. His friend looked horribly vulnerable, standing there in his boxer shorts and not much else.

His mouth hissed; a low, drawn out sound that somehow conveyed relish. It was a soft, quiet sound, yet Graham stopped his brushing, turning to look at the door, puzzled. After a few moments, he shrugged, turned back to the sink and rinsed off his toothbrush. He filled the sink with hot water, steam rising from the bowl.

Donald felt his physical arm rise, felt his hand bunch into a fist. He recoiled in shock as it smashed through the door with sickening ease, unable to look away as it lengthened absurdly, crossed the gap between the door and the sink. He saw Graham turn in alarm, saw his face contort into fear and disbelief.

Saw as the hand at the end of the ridiculous arm grabbed Graham by the throat, to pull him off his feet and slam him hard into the bathroom door.

He heard Graham’s cry of pain and terror cut off as the arm repeated the move again, again and again. By the time it was over, Graham was hanging limp and lifeless from the huge hand, with all the animation of a rag doll.

Donald, utterly shocked, watched as the arm pulled the lifeless Graham through the bathroom door, the wood splintering, offering no resistance at all. He realised his body had somehow grown taller, and that he was now bearing down on his friend from height.

He wished he could have closed his eyes for the next part. He felt his own mouth open, so wide that the jaw dislocated on both sides. He felt his teeth sink into the soft flesh of Graham’s shoulder, heard the tearing sound as the flesh came apart to expose the muscle and tendons beneath. Inside himself, all Donald could do was whimper a small ‘no.’

“Hungry!” the would-be Donald said, taking another bite.

***

Father Mulllin sat in his customary corner of the dining room in The Resting Place. Sunday Morning breakfast, after discharging his duties, was one of the few of life’s little pleasures left to him.

Into his cup he poured steaming tea from a plain white pot, added two lumps of sugar and a dash of milk from the little white jug, then stirred noisily. Drifts of conversation were coming to him from the table behind him, reminding him of his old life, before he took his vows. He set his spoon down, took a welcome mouthful of tea, and honed in on their muted conversation.

Their voices were soft not only in deference to other diners, but because of pounding headaches, he had no doubt. He heard them commiserate with one another on their hangovers, unable to prevent himself from smiling smugly.

He mentally chastised himself at once, recognising the arrogance in himself. He was about to take a second sip of tea, when a howl of desperation reached him from somewhere above.

Father Mullin put down his cup, his hand trembling. He looked around, checking if anyone else had heard it. It seemed not; they were all carrying on just as they were, nothing troubling their breakfast.

He heard it again, only this time not a scream, but something akin to a chant. A whispered, urgent chant; ‘Dear God help me, please help me! Please, I’m begging you. Help me!”

This time, Father Mullin turned in his seat, scanning the room for the lost soul that was begging assistance in the middle of a busy dining room. To his confusion, the room remained undisturbed.

Puzzled, he began to wonder if he had imagined it. He hadn’t slept well, these past few nights. Perhaps that was enough to…

“For the love of God, no! Someone help him! Someone help him! Graham! Oh my God! Graham!”

There was no doubting it this time. He was not imagining it. The voice was real. He had to find who it belonged to; find a way to help them. Before he could move, fresh pleas for help reached his ears.

Someone was sobbing. Heavy and desolate at first, easing at last to nothing more than a few stuttering gasps. Then more whispering; ‘What have I done? What have I done? The boys will never believe me, they’ll never forgive me! What have I done??” More wracking sobs.

The ordinary everyday sounds of the dining room came slowly back to Father Mullin as if from far away. The mysterious voice had gone, yes, but it had left him shaken to the core. Someone here needed him.

He thought again about what the sobbing man had said. He had screamed the name ‘Graham,’ mentioned ‘the boys.’

There was only one group in the dining room that could fit that description. His mouth dry, his face creased with worry, Father Mullin rose from his seat, crossing to their table on trembling legs.

“Please excuse me gentlemen. I realise this may sound strange to you, but I think one of your number might be in need of help. In fact, I think he might be in some danger.”

The men looked up at the priest in undisguised surprise. They exchanged glances, unsure how to take his interruption. At last, one of them spoke.

“No disrespect Father, but if you’re after saving anyone’s souls, we’re all way beyond help.”

A ripple of appreciative laughter ran through the group, the men returning to their food, dismissing the priest.

“No, I don’t think you understand me. I am not interested in converting any of you; I really do think one of your friends needs help. I think his name might be Graham?”

He spoke the name as a question, but he saw he had their attention at once. Eager not to lose them, he pressed on, “I don’t know what kind of trouble exactly, I don’t even know where he is, in fact,”

That earned him a few scornful looks. Nonetheless, it prompted discussion.

“I don’t know what he’s on about,” a fork waved in Father Mullin’s direction, “but you’ve got to admit it’s unusual for Donald to miss a cooked breakfast. Graham too, come to that.”

The speaker looked at Father Mullin, “Our friend’s name is Graham, yes. How do you know that?”

The priest was at a loss for words. How could he make these men believe him when he hardly believed it himself? Words, sobbing, that no one else could hear? They would laugh him out of the hotel.

To his relief, he had no need to answer. One of the men checked his watch, pushed back his chair and stood, stretching.

“Whatever, I think I should give them a shout anyway. It’s getting late and I’m pretty sure they’ll want to eat before we head for home.”

“Donald’s probably still too hammered to face breakfast,” one of them said, shovelling sausage and egg into his mouth.

“We’ll soon find out,” the man said, giving Father Mullin one last, curious look before navigating his way round the tables and up the stairs.

Father Mullin felt suddenly foolish. The men had lost interest him. He wove his way back to his chair, sitting down, absent-mindedly reaching for his cup. Had he imagined it?

Bare minutes later, he knew he had done no such thing. A yell of horror reached the dining room, though this time he saw at once that everyone had heard it. His heart pounding, Father Mullin flew from the dining room, racing up the stairs. He muttered a silent, urgent prayer as he went.

Heavy footsteps followed behind him. Someone called for him to wait. He did not stop.

No need to ask which room it was. The man who had gone in search of his friends was standing just outside the open door of one of the bedrooms. His hands were raised, gripping his hair, giving him a look of helplessness. His skin was pale, deathly looking, his breath coming in huge, great gasps that seemed to steal oxygen from him, rather than give it.

Father Mullin stopped less than six feet away. He felt the others approach behind him and he held up a hand to stop them, not bothering to turn around. They halted without argument.

Father Mullin took a step closer, intending to offer comfort to the stricken man standing in the doorway. Before he reached him, a voice rasped into life, stopping him in his tracks, making his flesh crawl.

“Fuck off! Dirty, filthy priest! Bastard whoremonger! Blasphemer! Liar! Get back!”

Father Mullin felt all at once weak. There was something about the voice, not the words, that gave him the impression the speaker was capable of sucking the very life out of him.

He looked around, taking in the astonished and frightened expressions of the men watching. He saw another figure too. There was a woman some way behind the men, her eyes wide with fear.

“I’m the manageress,” she tried to sound commanding and failed, “What the hell is going on here?”

Father Mullin shrugged his shoulders in answer. He raised a finger to his lips, urging her to silence, then turned back to the scene before him.

The man was still rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes from whatever lay within that room. Father Mullin addressed the group in whispers.

“What’s his name?”

“Andy,” one of them responded, “his name’s Andy.”

Father Mullin took another step towards him.

“I’m coming to you Andy,” he said, not sure where or how to begin, “It’s all right.”

“It’s not!” Andy sobbed, unmoving. “You can’t see what I can!”

A cold, clammy sweat crept along the priest’s skin. He reached for the crucifix he kept tucked close to his heart, the hard metal pressing into his chest a comfort to him. He lifted it up to his lips, kissing it before he looped the chain over his neck to clench the crucifix tight in his hand. The action gave him courage. Resolved, he took the final steps to close the gap between himself and Andy.

“There now,” he said, as if to a child, “you can rest your arms. Let them down.” He reached up, gently lowering Andy’s hands, pressing them against his sides. The man’s body was fraught with tension. He turned to face Father Mullin, tears shining in his eyes

“Look,” was all he said.

Father Mullin was a priest. A man of God. If anyone should have the strength to face whatever waited in that room, it was him.

His instincts screaming that he should turn and run, get as far away from this place as he could, it took every scrap of his belief to step into that doorway; to look upon the sight that had already left one man paralysed with fear.

He nearly cried out. Almost fell to the floor, weak with horror. He could not for one second have envisaged seeing this.

A man, his bones cracked and bent at all angles, his clothes torn and blackened, stood facing the door. He looked like a badly made puppet somehow come to life. He should not have been able to stand on those snapped limbs, to point with those twisted fingers. To speak through that ruined mouth. Not because of how horribly distorted it was, but because of what was in it.

The limp form of what had once been a man, hung from that mouth. His clothing had been ripped from him in shreds and tatters, the walls and carpet covered in spatter and gore. Much of his skin had gone, allowing pink flesh and dark muscle to sag and droop. His head was flung back, mercifully lifeless. There were no feet, nor hands, to brush the floor, just ruined and bloody stumps.

The men, unable to stand not knowing what was in that room any longer, pushed and jostled behind him, needing to see just what was so awful. They fell away, repelled and disgusted.

Father Mullin’s mind raced. At first, it was all he could do to keep from vomiting his breakfast there and then. He fought to calm down. These people needed him. He should tell someone to call an ambulance, to fetch the police; yet something told him that this was one incident that would prove beyond their remit. This was not a case for handcuffs and bandages. There wasn’t a paramedic in the world that could bring that man back to life. He ushered the men away from the door, laying his hands on their shoulders, murmuring prayers and blessings, doing what he could to keep them safe.

Clutching the crucifix so tight it left an imprint in his hand, Father Mullin spoke to the abomination again.

“Why are you here, demon?”

A laugh, deep, hollow, old as time, flooded the corridor. Everyone there shivered, seemed to somehow shrink at its blast. Consciously, Father Mullin stood as tall as he could, determined to face this evil down.

“You think you can best me, priest?” the voice sneered, “You and your poxy trinket!”

Father Mullin considered. He was as out of his depth as he had ever been, yet he was the one who wore his faith like a badge, wasn’t he? What if this was a test, from God? What if the time had come to prove himself?

He thought hard. It was obvious, he supposed, that a demon would see a priest as a threat. That meant only one thing, if you thought about it carefully.

He really was a threat to the demon.

As if it had read his thoughts, the demon laughed again. Up and down the long hotel corridor, doors rattled violently on their hinges.

“What do you propose to do, priest?” it spat the word out. “I will snap you in two, like a twig caught in a winter wind.”

Father Mullin considered, ignoring the threat though he trembled from head to foot, “Why are you here?”

“Hah! I am always here! I walk among you all the while. I reside in the hearts of men!” His words reached a crescendo, so that he screamed the last of them. Father Mullin forced a weak smile to his face.

“That is not true, demon,” he said. “God resides in the hearts of men, even of those who do not know it. You are unnatural. An abomination in the eyes of God, so I will ask you again, why are you here?”

The demon did not use words to reply this time. Instead, he allowed the ragged corpse to fall from his lips, drool slobbering, uttering a wet snarl. Father Mullin screwed up his courage to look the creature in the eye. There was a man there, still, he saw, buried deep within this monstrosity. A man who was as much a victim of the beast as the bloodied corpse now on the floor. He felt a rush of sympathy, swiftly followed by a hot anger that surprised even him.

“How dare you, Beast? How dare you enter this innocent man’s soul and …”

He was cut off, alarmed as the demon took a step towards him.

“There is no innocence in this mortal, priest. He is marked for the Devil. His black heart welcomes him. He invited me in!”

“What do you mean, his heart is marked? How could he have invited you in? “

“I am the punishment for his transgression! Beelzebub gives me leave to show my form. Let your paltry God deal in forgiveness. Your puny, feeble God! This ignorant mortal made a grave mistake. Ha! A grave mistake!”

It took another step, trampling the corpse beneath its feet. It belched, a hellish stench billowing out through the door to hit the priest in the face. He blanched, swallowing hard, trying for a second time not to vomit where he stood. Along the corridor, he heard retching and heaving.

“I’m getting help!” the manageress shrieked, terror in her voice. “I’m calling the police. I’m getting help!” She turned and ran, heading for the door to the stairs as fast her legs would allow. The men turned to watch her go.

“No!” the demon softly intoned.

The manageress’s feet lifted from the floor. Air raced down her throat, cold as ice, preventing her screams as she was hurtled at speed down the corridor. She flew like a dart thrown, hard and accurate, to smash headfirst into the safety glass in the stairs door.

That glass should have stopped her dead. Instead, she passed through it, shattering it to myriad pieces, cutting her clothes and skin to shreds. She did not stop until she hit the wall beyond, her head disappearing into it impossibly deeply, when she became suddenly limp; dangling from her broken neck like on old coat hanging on a bent hook.

“Oh my God!” someone said, “Did you see that? What the hell?” Yet nobody moved to help her, all of them afraid to move.

Sickened, Father Mullin addressed the demon.

         “You did not need to do that,” he said

“Need? No. Desired? Yes.” It snickered softly, drawing thin lips back over wickedly sharp teeth.

Before the incident with the manageress, Father Mullin had felt he had been close to learning something important. Unable to do anything to help the woman, he steadied his nerves and spoke again.

“What was the grave mistake he made?” Father Mullin asked.

The demon’s grin disappeared. He stood tall, stretching the broken limbs of the man he possessed. Growing so tall his head reached the ceiling, forcing him to bend forward to accommodate his new height.

“That is of no concern to you, false and feeble man. He is mine, now.”

As daunted as he was by the huge apparition, the demon’s words stirred something in the priest’s mind. He recalled how all this began. He had heard a voice in his head; a voice begging for help.

‘For the love of God, no! Someone help! Someone help him!

A demon would never beg for help, nor for God’s love. The voice must have belonged to the man who was now possessed. He was right, then. He did still exist somewhere inside this demonic figure. It was not he who had killed his friend or the unfortunate manageress.

There might be some hope, yet.

Praying he was right; that the man was still in there somewhere, buried deep, pushed further and further down as this demon grew in strength, Father Mullin considered. If he could find a way to speak to him, not the demon. If he could just work out what his transgression against the Devil had been, he might yet be able to find a way to stop all this.

He turned suddenly to the group of men.

“What happened last night?” he demanded.

They looked at him stupidly, seemingly confused at the question.

“Last night!” he snapped, “What happened? What did you do?”

In the room, the demon began a weird, sinister rocking, making a sound like purring.

“We went out,” one of them finally answered, “we were out all day.”

“But where did you go? What did you do?”

“What’s that got to do…”

“Answer me! What did you do?”

A shrug, “We did a pub crawl, visited most of the pubs in town. Then in the evening we stopped for a bite to eat and then came home. I mean, back to the hotel.”

“And that’s it? You didn’t go anywhere else? Nowhere off the beaten track? Nothing happened that seemed strange to you?”

“No,” the man said.

“There was one thing,” another voice spoke up.

“What?” the priest demanded.

The man shrugged, “Well, we went into that old churchyard, remember?” He looked around his friends for affirmation. There were a few nods.

“A churchyard? Why would you do that?”

“Let’s just say this town could do with some more public toilets.”

Father Mullin was taken aback. “Toilets? That could not possibly have anything to do with all this, surely? Which church?” He was met with blank faces.

“Well where is it? What’s it near? A pub? A shop? What?”

“It’s an old looking church. I think it’s just across the road from the cinema. Seems out of place there, somehow.”

“St Abundius,” Father Mullin murmured, trying to think. Abundius was one of the older saints in the Roman Catholic church. He couldn’t imagine what could possibly be there to have caused this.

The beginnings of a plan formed in his head. Knowing that he would be tested here like never before, he began to put it into action.

“All of you, go back down to the church now. Look around there. Try to remember where you were standing, where you trod. If you see anything that seems strange or out of place to you, anything at all, no matter how small or insignificant it might be, I need to know about it. You can’t tell anyone about what’s happening here, you can’t bring any rescuers back; not if you don’t want anyone else dead. Not if you want a chance to save your friend.”

“What’s left of him,” one of them said in an abject tone.

“Even if all that’s left of him is his soul, it’s still worth saving!” the priest admonished, “It is the most important part of all.”

“We don’t believe in all that shit!”

“Even after all you’ve seen here today?”

The man fell silent, hushed.

The demon in the room ceased its rocking. It had taken to sitting on the corpse, crushing its organs beneath its weight. In spite of its horrific appearance, it contrived to look bored.

Father Mullin knew the hardest part of his plan would be distracting the demon long enough to allow the men to get out. Before someone else ended up neck-deep in a wall. He also knew he ran the risk that they might not come back.

No matter. He was all out of choices. It was in God’s hands now.

He whispered, even though he knew the demon would probably hear every word, “Don’t try to leave until I give you the signal.” Hoping the men had heard and would obey.

He turned back to the demon, “What is your name?” He spoke as if he had just met someone at a party. The demon gave him an appreciative chuckle.

“I am Legion.” His voice echoed around the small room.

“That old chestnut,” Father Mullin sneered, fear and dread pricking at his neck, “No name of your own then? You scorn men, yet you are nothing more than a plaything yourself, locked in servitude to an overlord who does not care if you live or die!”

The demon growled, “Silence, priest! You are the dog shit of mankind. You do not know the power I have within me. I am no servant!”

“Not even to the Prince of Darkness? The Morning Sun? Beelzebub himself?” His words were loaded with sarcasm, “You deny being his servant?” His mouth ran dry, a metallic taste on his tongue.

The demon looked up. Father Mullin saw fire in his eyes.

“I can break you,” it hissed.

“You said as much before, yet here I am.” His arms wide as if in invitation, Father Mullin wondered if he was going mad, deliberately antagonising such evil. “You talk a lot, demon. Why not do it, if you really can?”

“You dare to doubt me?” It stood tall again, bent at the neck where it reached the ceiling.

As devout as Father Mullin was, he had never before experienced a revelation as strong as he did at that moment. He was suddenly filled with a pure, bright light. An unbending certainty. He knew why the demon had not yet attacked him.

It was afraid of him.

God was in Father Mullin’s heart, mind and soul just as surely as he was in his living being. He was consumed with Him; not merely his servant, but his representative, put here on earth to do his bidding. He felt as if his whole life had been building towards this point. The demon had not yet taken him on, because it was afraid. It was right to be so. To lose this battle was unthinkable to the priest. He could only win.

He almost felt sorry for the Beast.

“Do your worst, servant!” he sneered, stepping into the room. As he did so, he lifted his left hand, giving a thumbs up to the men waiting in the corridor. He heard them hurry away, terror giving them speed. Then he gave himself up to the fight.

***

The men stumbled out of the hotel, shoving people out of their way. None of them stopped to answer questions or offer explanations. They could not believe what they had witnessed that morning. They could not deny it, either.

They found the church without much trouble. As before, the gates were open and unlocked. In the sober light of day, they saw that it was a forbidding building, despite its religious leaning. It seemed dark, somehow unwelcoming. Had they not been so drunk the night before they might well have pushed on until the next pub, to use the facilities there.

“I’m not sure I want to go in there to be honest.”

“I don’t think any of us wants to Danny,” John replied, “But look what’ll happen if we don’t.”

They went in together, rounding the church to find the areas they had used the night before. Apart from a strange stillness, nothing seemed unusual.

They looked as best they could, but nothing obvious jumped out at them. Deflated, they were about to leave when Danny stopped short, calling them back.

“Hang on a minute boys. Isn’t this where Donald went last night? He was so desperate to piss he barely managed to get round the back here before he was unzipping his fly, right?”

A few non-committal shrugs.

“Right, well that’s what I think anyway,” Danny went on.

“So? What about it?” John asked, growing frustrated.

“I don’t know,” Danny admitted, “It just feels weird to me, that’s all. Feels wrong somehow.” He blushed, stepping back to allow the others to see.

Cautiously, the group came closer, looking to where Danny was pointing. It appeared to be nothing more than another old crypt, skulls and skeletons giving it an eerie feel

“It’s just another pile of old bones,” John said, turning his back on it in readiness to walk away, “What’s the point of these fucking things anyway?” he demanded, “Once you’re dead, you’re dead.” He hawked deep, then spat, a gobbet of saliva hitting the outer edge of the crypt wall. He stalked off, hands in his pockets, an air of defiance about him.

After a few paces, he turned to find that his friends were not following him. They were all staring at the crypt as if it had cast some kind of spell on them.

“For fuck’s sake, what now?” he muttered, raising his voice to shout, “Come on boys, let’s go!”

“I think you better get back here.” Danny sounded deathly serious.

Exasperated, John stalked back to them, ready to dismiss whatever it was and get back to the hotel. He looked down at what they were all staring at and felt the blood freeze in his veins.

Beneath the morbid sculptures of skulls and bones, words seemed to have blossomed onto the surface of the crypt wall. They were bad enough, their meaning sinking into his senses as he took them in:

‘What lies beneath is best left buried,

God help the one who would disturb.

Bring dishonour or disrespect,

And you will take what you deserve.’

It was only after he had read it twice over, that he looked up to see the finger pointing outwards.

Pointing at John.

“You don’t think…” Danny began, leaving the question unfinished.

“Think what?” John barked, suddenly angry, “Just take a picture of the damn thing and let’s get back to the hotel.”

Danny took out his mobile phone. He took several photographs, ready to show the priest. He was pretty certain they had found what they had been looking for.

By the time they made it back to the high street, when John had sunk into a deep, introspective mood, falling well behind the group just as Donald had done the night before, Danny was convinced of it.

***

The hotel car park was packed with police cars and ambulances when they got back. They were not allowed back into the premises, no matter how much they protested that they were needed. A police officer took them aside to take a statement, incredulous at their story, muttering something under his breath about group hysteria to a fellow officer. They were threatened with arrest if they didn’t calm down. One or two of them ended up in the back of a police car.

The only one who escaped their attention was John. He skulked in the background, silent and unseen. He could feel himself growing smaller, weaker, inside his own body. He had no intention of ending up the same way as Donald. Believing that only the priest could help him, he used the ruckus his friends were causing as a distraction. He darted round to the back of the building, bounding up the fire escape two steps at a time. A young police officer chased him, shouted warnings against him going inside, threatening him with criminal action. John kept going. He hoped he could keep the young man away before the demon he was convinced was growing inside him did something to hurt him.

That grave. It had to be that damned grave. If he could get to the priest before the demon took him over completely, there might be a chance he could exorcise it.

He came up against the cold exterior of a locked fire door. He spun, like a cat cornered, in time to see the young officer reach the last step and draw level with him.

“Please son,” John begged, praying he could make the young man believe him, “you don’t understand. Just back off now, before you get hurt, please.” He could hear himself slurring.

“Are you drunk, sir? You realise it is an offence to threaten a police officer?”

John groaned inwardly. How could he make him see?

Too late. He felt a force shift inside himself. Something huge and dark. John wanted to stop it, to keep the young officer from harm, but he was helpless. Whatever was in charge of his body now was far bigger and stronger. He watched from inside his own eyes as hands that seemed no longer to belong to him, swept back in a wide, powerful motion. They caught the officer mid-chest, knocking him off his feet and over the rail. He fell, screaming, to the hard ground below. John screamed a silent and unheard ‘no’ from deep within himself, helpless to do anything but watch.

Lost in his own being, he began to sob. Outwardly, the would-be John laughed spitefully, leaning over the railing to look down on the shattered body of the policeman, colleagues running to him, looking up at the figure at the top of the fire escape, recoiling at what they saw.

***

Father Mullin was confused. Relieved, but confused. One moment he had been locked in battle with a dark and deadly force, the next he was suddenly and shockingly alone in the corridor. Two corpses lay before him. One belonging to the man named Graham, the other belonging to Donald; the man who had been possessed. He had not saved them after all, but he seemed to have defeated the demon.

The fight had raged, spilling out of the small bedroom. For the priest, it had been a battle of wills as much as anything. He had prayed harder than he had hit, resorting to violence only when there was no choice to do otherwise.

He had been surprised to find he had any effect on the demon at all. Part of him expected his blows to go unfelt. It seemed God had granted him all the strengths he might need, including physical force. The demon had picked him up and thrown him more than once, slamming him into the walls at will. All the while, Father Mullin had kept up his chant, delivering every word with every ounce of his belief.

“Lord, deliver this man of this evil spirit. Send this soldier of the devil back to its hellish army, bound beneath the earth, hid from the light of the world. Keep him and his kind from the eyes and hearts of man! Lord, deliver this man of this evil spirit. Send this soldier of the devil back to its hellish army, bound beneath the earth, hid from the light of the world. Keep him and his kind from the eyes and hearts of man!”

Over and over again, gripping the crucifix so hard he began to bleed, anointing it with his blood. He had shut his eyes in the end, unable to bring himself to look upon the sickening face of the demon. It had helped, to close his eyes. He saw the glory of God all the better in the dark.

He had been hurled the length of the corridor, hitting the bar of the fire door painfully. He fell to the carpet, opening his eyes with trepidation, convinced he was about to meet his maker.

Then it had all stopped. The demon-possessed man had fallen like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Father Mullin could scarcely believe his eyes. Had he done it? Had he driven out the Devil? He lay there for what felt like an eternity, contemplating the wonder of what he had achieved.

Something thumped against the fire door behind him. Groaning with the effort, the priest staggered to his knees, pushing down on the long horizontal bar that released the lock.

The heavy door swung open. He recognised the man behind it as one of the group he had sent to the church, to find what they could that might have helped. He was about to explain that it was unnecessary now, that the demon had been vanquished, when something in the man’s demeanour gave him pause.

He was sweating profusely, an odd light in his eyes. A short string of saliva hung from the corner of his mouth. When he spoke, he slurred.

“I came as quick as I could, priest,” he said, a grin playing upon his tightly stretched lips.

Deep within the would-be John, the real man screamed in anguish, driving the air out of his lungs as he roared the words he prayed the priest would hear.

“Don’t let him in Father! For God’s sake, don’t let him in!”

Father Mullin blinked, confused. He could have sworn he heard another voice, a smaller voice, coming from somewhere. It sounded a bit like the voice in his head he had heard when Donald had first begged for his help.

He turned, looking back at the discarded puppet-corpse of the possessed man, trying not to believe what was happening.

Behind him, would-be John grinned, and closed the door.

E is for Exorcism is available for Kindle, in paperback, and on Audible here.

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