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.

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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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Who Called You? (from D is for Demons)

Dona Fox

Aunt Tillie’s house was a gorgeous gray Queen Anne with hideous green trim. I felt a lustful pride of ownership that I immediately tried to tamp down. Dark ivy crept up to the house and edged the stone stairway. A giant rat ran out from beneath the ivy’s low cover and directly across my path. I told myself that it wasn’t bad luck, a rat was hardly a black cat. I straightened my back and marched bravely up the steps.

My boxes had been delivered earlier, or so I hoped, as I did not see them on the porch. I carried only two large suitcases with my immediate necessities. Despite my lack of a magic umbrella, I felt somewhat like Mary Poppins.

I rang the bell first so as not to scare the children, then I tried the knob, excellent, the door was locked as it should be. I fit my key into the lock and entered the house. Immediately, I felt dizzy.

I needed air. I fumbled for the knob behind me.

But once I’d gone in the door, I found I couldn’t go back out, partly because the knob simply wouldn’t turn but mostly because I couldn’t leave the three dear children that stood immediately before me.

Though I’d never seen them before, they were my cousins, and as they were much younger than I, on her death, Aunt Tillie had entrusted their care to me, along with the house, and her cat.

To clarify, I understood that two of them were my cousins, I had no idea who the other child could be. And, never having seen them before, I had no idea which of them was not my cousin. To further complicate matters, two gray cats, not the single cat mentioned in Aunt Tillie’s will, circled around my ankles.

I dropped my luggage. The cases must have landed on one of the cats, it hissed and howled and bit my ankle; then they both raced up the staircase their little feet pounding on each step to match the staccato in my chest as the adrenaline coursed through the chambers of my heart. Blood ran from two fresh gashes on my leg.

“I need to sit down.” I reached for the children, hoping they would steady me, perhaps lead me to a chair. Still staring into my face, not even looking down at my wound, they backed away. I staggered through to the back of the house, where I found the kitchen. I wet a dish towel and tied it around my ankle; then, I soaked and squeezed out a dishrag and fell into a retro plastic chair at the Formica-topped table.

I put the dishrag on my forehead. It smelled like a dead rat, so I threw it back across the room into the sink.

My phone rang in my pocket.

“Yes?” I said as if I’d grabbed a lifeline.

“Tab, is it you? You sound different.” It was my best friend, Mary.

“Oh, my goodness, it’s so good to hear your voice. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve walked into here. I need reinforcements. Come quick,” I blathered.

“Tab, is it you? You sound different,” Mary’s voice repeated.

“Mary? Can you hear me? It is me. This is Tab,” I shouted into the phone.

“Tab, is it you? You sound different.” No matter what I said, Mary’s voice repeated the same phrase over and over again. Finally, I hung up and tried calling her back. I got that horrible sound you get when a fax machine connects.

I tried everyone in my contact list and finally the number for an emergency, all with the same result—that horrible high screech in my ear.

And the three children, not two as there should have been, stood in the doorway and stared at me.

“Alright, it’s time for you to go home now.” I tried not to look at any one child. “Playtime is over, it’s time for just our family to be alone, we have, ah, family matters to discuss. Please go home now, you can come back tomorrow.”

None of the children made a move to leave.

I stood up, put my hands on my hips, and stared down at them, “Okay, now. Which one of you is not Aunt Tillie’s child?” Slowly they lifted their faces until they were all three staring solemnly into my face again. This was getting me nowhere, but I had an idea.

I circled around the children and darted about the rooms in the front of the house. Surely there would be family pictures showing off the children, standing with the awards for their accomplishments, in the living room, the dining room, or the study. No, not one photo. I searched the drawers of the desk – except for the one that was locked, I’d explore that one later.

The children stood in the study doorway as I finished. I skirted around the dears, careful not to brush against them. For some reason, I abhorred the thought of touching these silent children.

Failing to spot a light switch, I started to run up the dark staircase when finally, I heard a child’s high, thin voice, “The stairs are broken, use Aunt Tillie’s elevator.”

I felt cold fingers grasp my wrist and guide me back down and to the side. Then I heard the creaking of metal, the grinding of gears, and a door sliding open. I was pushed by those same small fingers, and once again, I heard the door slide, the grinding and creaking. Then the elevator stopped. I felt the walls. I was trapped. All four walls around me were solid. I couldn’t breathe. The children had tricked me.

“Push the door open.” The high, thin voice again, followed by several voices united in breathless giggles.

I felt the walls again, pushing each one until finally, one gave. Then I was out, and I could breathe again.

I walked down the darkened hallway, watching out for dark shapes on the floor that might be the sharp-toothed cats or dark shapes pressed against the walls that could be my giggling cousins – or the one that isn’t.

Then I felt along the walls, opened all the doors, and fumbled for more light switches all to no avail. Was it possible the only way to turn on the lights in this house could be by chains hanging from the fixtures in the ceilings at the center of every room?

Placing each foot carefully lest I step on or trip over a cat or other random object, perhaps pushed into my path by a mischievous cousin, I held one arm up. I waved it through the air at the ceiling as I walked toward what I believed was the middle of the first room.

They let me do this for three rooms.

In the third room, they pushed me into a closet and slammed the door.

I heard them arguing outside.

“I said the balcony,” one said in a husky whisper.

“No. We can’t do that; we need Cousin Tab alive,” the somewhat natural child’s voice replied.

“Just push her off the balcony, I’ll take care of you,” the first, the husky voice, said.

“Oh, no, please, no.” It was the high, thin voice. My savior from the stairs, my little friend of the elevator, cried. “Don’t do that.”

So that was the three, if they’d speak, I could tell them apart. So here I was in the closet and glad of it, who knows what a fall from the balcony might have entailed.

I was sure the husky whisperer didn’t belong here, and the cat that bit me should go home too.

They pulled me from the closet and tied me to a chair in front of a mirror.

Then I noticed I was sitting in the center of a pentagram surrounded by lit candles. A butcher knife lay at my feet.

The children were sitting cross-legged outside the circle, chanting. Their faces remained hidden in dark hoodies.

“Stop it! Stop it! Be quiet already. What do you think you’re doing?” I was very uncomfortable with this situation.

The children, three, where there should have been two, looked up, and I could see their little round faces in the light. The candles reflected in their eyes, and they looked like polaroid snapshots where everyone’s eyes are bright red like demons.

“Untie me, blow out those candles. What if those cats come in here and tip the candles over? Blow them out immediately.” It was as if they didn’t hear a word I said, so I screamed, “Untie me! Blow the candles out! Scatter this pentagram! What do you think you’re doing! You don’t know what you’re doing. Stop this foolishness. Right now.”

“We can’t. Bendix told us what you did,” the one with the most normal child-like voice said.

“What? What did I do?” I was beginning to feel cornered.

“You summoned him to kill Aunt Tillie so you could have her money and her house,” the normal voice said.

“No, I didn’t.” I squirmed in the chair.

“Yes, you did,” Husky voice challenged me.

“How would you know?” I began to feel cocky as I had been working the bonds on my hands, and they were quite loose now.

“I’m Bendix.” His voice seemed to deepen.

“So, you’re confessing to killing Aunt Tillie?” I felt kind of bright, outsmarting the child at his own game. The cats strutted into the room.

His laughter shook the house, “No. I made a deal with her instead.”

“You kids are just too silly. This has been fun; we’ll play it again someday. Untie me now, and we’ll go out to dinner. Hamburgers? Pizza? Anything you like.”

“No. I’m sorry,” the sweet one with the thin, little voice came toward me with the butcher knife, “we just need a little of your blood.”

“Get a lot.” Husky voice really had it in for me.

“Okay. Stop. What deal did you make with Aunt Tillie? I can do better. It’s true, it’s all true.” I’d play their game a little longer.

Apparently, the sweet one was surprised at my admission. Of course, she hadn’t actually believed that I had made Bendix kill Aunt Tillie, but I sounded so convincing, she dropped the knife.

As the blade hit the floor, it displaced enough of the pentagram to make a small opening in the circle. None of them, not even the demon Bendix, had noticed that I had freed my hands. I jumped up and dashed through the opening, kicking cats and candles out of my way. Now it didn’t matter what deal he’d made with Aunt Tillie, and I didn’t want the house or her money any longer, I just wanted out of here, away from these wild knife-wielding children.

I wasn’t getting in that creaky elevator again; I didn’t trust them. Children like these might stop the lift and keep me pinned in there until I starved to death. And I wasn’t wandering from room to room in the dark looking for a way out until they pushed me off the balcony.

All I wanted now was to get out of this house alive. I didn’t believe that the stairs weren’t safe. I’d heard the cats’ little feet bound up them step by step. I’d take the stairs; I’d just be careful. It was an unfortunate choice.

I grasped the railing and tapped each stair before I put my weight on it, but my legs were shaking, unsteady, and I was easy game for the children when they ran down the steps behind me and pushed me once again.

I tumbled down the stairs, then I grabbed a shaky baluster and righted myself thinking, Ha! I’ve outwitted the little vermin.

As I put my full weight on the tread, I felt it begin to totter up and down beneath and into the riser above it, then I heard the stringer separate from the wall. I flailed my arms as I heard nails squealing as they tore from wood, old lathe splitting, and plaster crumbling on top of it all.

I fell through the staircase as if I were a piece of meat in a butcher shop, the splintered wood sliced my hips and my legs leaving gashes and long sticky gouges that didn’t even hurt, at first.

The cold, wet cement floor of the basement felt good on my cuts and bruises. Again, that was only temporary abeyance of the pain to come. I lay, unmoving, knowing that with movement, this welcome lack of sensation might change. Then I heard a low hissing and ominous gurgling.

I held my breath and listened carefully. It seemed to be a living thing.

The sounds, its breath.

The floor was growing colder and harder, and I was beginning to feel my pain, but I dared not move.

Then it began shuffling around the edges of the basement, sniffling, as if it could not see me nor detect my presence. I kept my breath shallow and quiet.

It was making circles around the basement floor, drawing closer to me with every loop. Soon it would be upon me. I tried to rise. I winced. My chest. If a bone was poking through my lungs, I shouldn’t move, but what choice did I have?

The creature was right above me now. It looked like a log in the fire when it’s almost spent, charcoal with orange embers beneath. Drool of orange embers fell from its mouth onto my body. Each spark burned hotter than ashes, yet I dared not start nor call out. Its eyes were the thinnest of dark slits, no wonder it couldn’t see me. Fingernails like hot, sharp knives fanned through the air.

“I know you’re there. It takes a demon to know one.” It was trying to call me out. Playground taunts wouldn’t work on me. I could outlast it. I pictured myself next week, sipping a margarita in the sand while I got a tan under a Caribbean sun.

Wait, that light wasn’t a Caribbean sun. I opened my eyes. The children were shining a flashlight down through the hole in the stairs directly onto my body.

I intended to hold my arm in the direction of the light and block it with my outstretched hand as I yelled, “Stop!” then I would jump up and knock the demon on his keister while looking for the basement stairs up which I would beat a hasty retreat.

Actually, I raised my elbow an inch off the floor, mumbled “Stup.” Wiggled my body like a caterpillar stuck in a cobweb and started to cry. The demon growled and blew hot air up the hole in the floor at the children. I could hear them as they ran away, screaming. 

I waited in the dark.

Then I felt his hands on me as if he were trying to discover precisely what I was, what use I might be to him. Food, perhaps? He licked my face tentatively. He ran a finger through the blood on my leg. Twice. I think he liked the taste. Not a good sign.

“You’re a demon, like me?” he finally asked.

What was the right answer? If I said yes, would we be pals, or would we have to fight to the death for the territory? Should I throw the children to the wolves, so to speak, as our mutual enemies? Well, that Bendix, for sure, he didn’t belong. And that extra cat. What was going on with that? Finally, I decided to answer a question with a question, it always drove my best friend Mary mad, maybe it would work with a demon.

“Who called you here?” I replied in response to his question.

“What?”

“I said, who called you here?” I wasn’t going to change the question or elaborate, he seemed kind of dull, I didn’t want to confuse him.

“You can’t just show up, someone has to call you, right?” I said.

And he knocked me across the basement. The far wall, the one I landed against, was brick. I slid down the wall like a cartoon character. Then I smelled cigarette smoke.

“Listen, kid, I go where I want to go, and I do what I want to do, and you’re beginning to piss me off.” I heard leather shoes slapping against the cement floor then the tapping of those same leather soles right by my face. Apparently, he’d changed a lot. He wasn’t so dumb anymore. “You saw my soft side; now I’m through being Mr. Nice Guy.” And he kicked my cheekbone; he kicked me in the face. This wasn’t so funny now.

“You’re no demon,” he said. “What are you up to, anyway? I smelled a demon in this house.”

“Okay, let’s talk. I think there’s a demon here, too. Or at the least someone’s made a deal with the devil. But I don’t want to make any deals. What’s in this for you, anyway?” I asked.

“We don’t like fakes, it makes us look bad, cheapens our image.” He threw the cigarette down on the floor and stomped it out. “There’s a fake here, but there’s also the real deal.”

“Well, maybe the real deal is you,” I suggested.

“Yeah, maybe and maybe not. Help me get upstairs,” he said, his voice full of suave smiles that I couldn’t see in the dark.

“Can’t you just go up there?” I asked.

He sighed. “You must not be the demon; you don’t understand the simplest thing. No, I cannot. You have to go up there and call me. Just do it.”

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll do it.” I guess he was still quite dull. “Where’s the steps?”

He threw cinders and made a path to the basement stairs, “Hurry, don’t make me have to do that again.”

“Sure, I’m gone.” I fought my pain as I dug my nails into the brick wall to pull myself up, then I threw myself across the room and landed on the steps. I scuttled like an injured crab up the steps, shouting, “Kids! You guys up there, open the basement door I’m coming up!”

Of course, I didn’t hear their feet on the floor, rushing to rescue me, not those kids. But when I got to the top step and threw my body against the door, it fell open. As I lay on the oily linoleum floor of Aunt Tillie’s kitchen, recovering, my phone rang.

I answered it out of habit. “She left you a letter in the top drawer of her desk.” It was the one with the typical kid’s voice. The way these things worked in the movies, she was probably the demon. Trust no one, that was my motto now. But I’d look for the letter in the desk drawer anyway, what could it hurt?

I grabbed hold of one of the retro kitchen chairs and pulled myself up. I’d hang over the back and use it to get myself into the study. But first, I pulled every kitchen drawer open until I found a suitable knife for picking the locked drawer. Not knowing anything about how such things worked, I settled on both a small pointy knife and a large butcher knife in case I had to use brute force.

I put the small knife in my pocket and held the butcher knife down onto the seat of the chair. Then I scooted the chair across the linoleum, bounced over the threshold onto the polished wood of the hallway, and turned into the heavily carpeted study. There I crawled to the desk, holding both knives in my fists.

I felt the top of the desk until I found a candle in its holder with matches close by, lit it, and set it down on the chair. From my vantage point on the floor, I saw that the lock on the drawer was thick, heavy metal as opposed to the bottom of the drawer, which was made from sheets of fragile wood.

I grabbed the butcher knife and rammed it into the lower part of the drawer at all the sides repeatedly until the bottom fell out along with a single white envelope.

The envelope was, of course, addressed to me. I tore it open.

My dear Tab,

Please forgive me for any trouble that I am causing you, but I must think of my children first, and I know that you are up to this task. I remember you as full of strength and independence.

I have done a horrible thing. I succumbed to the weakness in my flesh. I hadn’t had a man since before my youngest was born. I often looked at myself in the mirror and thought about how my youth was not gone but was going to waste as a beautiful flower that dies in the vase with no one to appreciate it. I’m afraid I must have called my demon in those times when I stared into the mirror, feeling sorry for myself.

When he came to me in the night, I was startled at first, but he knew how to dispel my fears and make me feel wanted again. But enough of that, there’s so much more.

We actually married in the church. Not with a pastor. Oh no. We snuck into the church at midnight and performed our own vows. And we had a child together. Not an average child.

I blush even as I write this. That child must die, and that demon must be purged from my house. He isn’t as smart as he thinks, he let it slip one night, the secret of how to expunge him from my house forever.

You may think I’m asking you to become a criminal. Well, it’s true, I am. A criminal of the worst sort.

Go burn down that church, Tab. Three blocks from my house. You can see the spire from the sidewalk out front. It’s the only one you can see from there. Make sure Pastor Martin gets out, he’s not a bad man. But if he burns, he will not go to hell.

I have no more time.

Love, Aunt Tillie

After what I’d been through since I walked across the threshold of Aunt Tillie’s house, her letter was not outrageous. Anyway, if I did what she asked, what could it hurt?

I grabbed the candle and the matches off the chair. As I stood, I realized I’d been down too long, I need to keep moving.

If I let the pain take over, I’d stiffen and be unable to move at all. I needed to pretend it wasn’t pain but rather cold. I told myself I wasn’t feeling pain, but rather ice against my skin, a little mind trick on myself I’d often used before. Not pain, but cold. I was not in pain, not at all, I was just cold, and I needed to keep moving. I stood up straight and headed for the door.

“Cousin Tab!”

“Wait!”

“Stop. Where are you going?”

Now the children were talking to me. I ignored them and grabbed the doorknob with purpose this time. I twisted it, and it turned. I pulled, and the door opened. The children gasped.

On the sidewalk, I turned until I saw the spire. Then I wasted no time getting to the church; after all, it was just three blocks, and I needed to keep moving.

An old man was kneeling on one knee beneath the camellias beside the church, putting dead flowers into a woven basket. He’d also made a pile of clippings and dry branches that might be convenient for my purposes.

“Are you Pastor Martin?” I asked.

“Why, yes. How may I help you, child?” He looked at me and smiled.

“An old woman is sitting on some steps a few blocks down the street with a bag of groceries. She seems quite winded, and some boys were lurking about. She said, could I have Pastor Martin come and see to her,” I lied.

“Of course. That would Mrs. Wooten.” He stood up slowly and brushed off his knees, then he put his hands on his back and stretched. “I’d best hurry, she gets confused. Thank you, dear.” He walked briskly down the street.

The church was open. I went inside and down to the basement to reconnoiter. There was a pile of boxes, cleaning supplies, and holiday decorations. Of course, under all that was the furnace. This was going to be easy. I pushed some of the pile aside and opened the furnace door.

I could already smell a leak in the fuel line. I patted my pockets. Ah, I still had the small knife. I poked some more holes in the leaky fuel line then I got as far away as I thought my throwing arm could manage, I lit a match to a holiday decoration and tossed it, then I ran up the basement stairs and out the door.

I was amazed when the church blew up.

I prayed for forgiveness all the way back to Aunt Tillie’s house.

Even more so now, I felt a lustful pride of ownership in the house that I saw no reason to tamp down. This time I didn’t ring the bell so as not to scare the children, though a little scare might do them good.

The door wasn’t locked.

Two children stood before me. Yes, I’d seen these two before, so these were my cousins, I’d rather miss the little demon with the sweet voice, but of course, she was too good to be true. And here was the cat that had bitten me, it was the real cat, of course.

My phone rang in my pocket. Once again, I answered it automatically. Maybe it was the sweet-voiced demon cousin, calling to say goodbye.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Tab, is it you? You sound different.” Of course, it was the voice of my best friend once again.

“Mary?” I ventured.

“Yes, Tab. Where are you?” It was really Mary this time, what a relief. I gave her Aunt Tillie’s address, and she agreed to come immediately because that’s what best friends do.

“And, Mary, bring wine,” I said in parting.

“I’ll bring tons,” she promised with a laugh, then she hung up.

The old house creaked. Its cold, dry chuckle brought back my uneasiness. I had to wonder if the demon or demons were really gone or if they had just tricked me into burning down the closest church. If so, what might they do next?

I made sure the basement door was locked. Mary should be here soon.

D is for Demons is available for Kindle, in paperback, and on Audible here.

Find out more about Dona on her website.

Pigpen (from C is for Cannibals)

Aisling Campbell

Donna handed the bowl of scraps to her eldest daughter.

“Careful you don’t drop that now.”

“Don’t worry Mommy, I got it,” Cayleigh said, and Donna watched as arms, which seemed like only yesterday to have been wrapped in baby fat, juggled with the blue ceramic bowl. The thing must have been a whole quarter of her size, but she managed it. Her little sister — and there were the chubby, baby arms Donna remembered — watched, wide-eyed, with her thumb in her mouth.

“Careful there, don’t run,” Donna called as the girls scampered out past the screen door, on their way to the pigpen.

She watched them through the window, shooing the chickens out of the way as they wove their way over the dusty ground. The pigpen had been built in the shade of a pair of oak trees, but she still had a clear view of the front of it from her kitchen window. She could keep an eye on her daughters, even as they tipped the scraps over the fence.

The girls loved the pigs — they’d been told several times that they were for eating, but still they’d sulk when one of their favorites went to slaughter. Well, mostly it was Cayleigh doing the sulking — Crystal just copied her sister.

She heard Brett’s truck pulling in and the front door opening.

“Hey, handsome,” she said, when he wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed her tight. His stubble rasped across her neck as he kissed it.

“Hey there, beautiful.”

“Gonna do a pot roast with that leftover brisket. You good with that?” He hummed in agreement, almost a purr, hands slipping over her hips.

“Good hunt, I take it?” she asked.

Again, he hummed, fingers working at the fastenings on her jeans. He’d take her right there in the kitchen if she let him.

The screen door slammed open, startling Brett’s hands back into a more innocent position on her hips.

“Mommy! We got to stroke Princess 2! She come right on up to the fence an’ I stuck my hand in and…”

Cayleigh was beaming, chest puffed out like a little rooster, cradling the now empty bowl, her sister tottering along close behind.

“Did you now?” Brett said, taking the bowl and setting it on the counter before scooping up his daughters — one in each arm — and giving them each a kiss.

Donna knew he didn’t exactly approve of the girls giving the pigs names. And there’d certainly been tears when the original Princess had reached her time. Lots of tears followed by a hunger-strike and a vow to never eat meat again, until Donna had finally sat Cayleigh down for a talk.

She told her that the meat was Princess’s gift to them — that it was cruel to refuse it, to let it go to waste. Cruel to let the pigs remain in their pens, toughening over the years, before succumbing to illness, to old age.

“They’re animals. It’s what they were meant to be,” Donna had said. And, at their next meal, Cayleigh had cleaned her plate and asked for seconds.

“Make sure you wash your hands,” Donna reminded. “How ‘bout you Crystal? Did you get to stroke a piggy too?”

The little girl nodded, holding up her hands like Donna would be able to see the evidence herself.

“Okay, to the sink then.”

Brett leaned over the kitchen sink, still holding the girls as they washed their hands with soap and water. He laughed as they wiped their hands on his shirt, depositing them both back on the ground with such care as if he were handling the finest porcelain. It always delighted Donna to see how gentle he could be, how he knew exactly when to temper that Samson-like strength.

To her relief the girls immediately darted for the door again, heading on outside to the jungle gym Brett had made for them.

She turned back to her husband, standing on her tiptoes to give him a quick peck on the lips — chaste, innocent. The hand fumbling with his belt loop was anything but though. She untucked his shirt, felt his skin and the thick hair over his stomach.

There was a thud from outside — not the backyard, but up front where Brett had parked his truck.

“Goddamnit,” Brett muttered. “Sorry baby, I gotta go deal with that.”

“No problem, we’ll pick this up later. I’ll bring you out a cold drink and something to eat in a bit.”

He smiled down at her with such love it took her breath away. It made a bubble of pride swell in her chest. I did that!The one good thing besides her daughters that she’d managed to create.

“Thanks, babe.”

He squeezed her tight, but not too tight. Just right.

“Hey, you show that sow who’s boss!” she said, as he let go.

***

Donna went to the living room window and watched her husband wrestle a bound, leggy blonde from the truck bed and march her over to the barn.

She’d asked him once why it was that he only brought home females, never males, and Brett had blushed and kinda stammered that they were easier to catch and control. Donna wasn’t sure whether she believed that. She’d seen plenty of guys Brett could have picked up and tossed in the back of the truck no trouble.

It was fine, she’d decided, if he was attracted to them. But if the horny state he came home in was any indication, he certainly wasn’t getting his rocks off in the back of the truck with them. Besides, once they made it into the barn, they were pigs. Just meat which hadn’t realised it yet.

***

The girls came to help with hanging out the laundry. Cayleigh handed her clothes, while Crystal was in charge of the pegs. Donna brought both of them inside and gave them a cookie from the jar.

They scarfed them down and then they were off again; bare-foot forces of nature whirling through the yard.

Cayleigh picked up a stick and started drawing in the dust. Her sister copied her, and then both of them were scoring swirling lines into the dirt, giggling and laughing.

It still amazed Donna how much fun they seemed to have all on their own — in her house growing up the phrase ‘go watch TV’ had been her mom’s mantra. Like the TV would do the job of raising three kids for her while she smoked and got fat.

Donna remembered when she found out she was pregnant with Cayleigh she’d just burst into tears, wailing that she didn’t know what to do. Brett had calmed her down, told her to trust herself. When the baby came, she’d know what it needed. She’d be a great mom.

And it was true. When Donna had finished panting and looked down between her legs at the tiny, red-faced little creature lying on the bloodied towel she’d felt a change. Like the world had just shifted and this tiny being was the pivot.

It was just natural.

One day the girls would start asking questions, and Donna would have to deal with that. The lack of TV would slow the process, but a child’s curiosity couldn’t be kept at bay forever.

Donna had asked Brett how his father had explained it all to him — the food chain and their particular place in it — but he’d shaken his head.

“Not his way. Never his way.”

Donna trusted him that he knew what to do, like he always knew.

***

She made the girls lunch meat sandwiches and, while they ate, she put together a tray to take out to the barn.

It usually took Brett most of a day to process a new sow, and after that he had to keep a close eye on them for another week while the wounds healed up before they could go into the pen. He’d gotten pretty good at it, and it had been a few years since they’d lost a sow to infection.

Alongside the sandwiches she added a pitcher of iced tea and some jerky.

“Mommy, can we hose down the pigs?” Cayleigh asked, tugging at Donna’s jeans.

“Uh-uh sweetie, I don’t think you’re big enough to handle the hose all by yourself. But you can help Mommy do it — just let me take this out to Daddy and I’ll meet you at the pen.”

Cayleigh had started to pout at the refusal but perked up at the second half of that sentence.

“Okay Mommy!” she said, darting out the door, leaving Crystal to scurry after her.

The way now clear, Donna picked up the tray and headed to the barn.

***

The barn wasn’t really a barn — it had been, several generations ago, but Brett’s grandfather had modified it to use it as a slaughterhouse and butcher shop when the family’s attention turned less from general farming to just meat.

Brett’s father had added a walk-in freezer for additional storage, but Brett had made the most recent additions — a surgery room for processing and a recovery room for afterwards.

It was hard work, but worth it in the long run.

In the pen they could control their animals’ diet, allow any drugs or toxins to be flushed out naturally, and slaughter as they needed to. Brett could plan his hunts better and there was less pressure to bring home a catch every time.

Donna had jokingly suggested Brett bring home a stud, try raising some piglets of their own, but it just wasn’t feasible. Assuming they even managed to breed one sow, and that the pregnancy and delivery all went smoothly, they’d still have to wait fifteen years to have a decent size pig for butchery.

Donna slid open the barn door with her foot.

“Brett!” she called. “I got food.”

Enough time had passed that he should be through with any tricky bits, but it didn’t hurt to announce her presence.

The processing room was through to her right, and she could hear the buzz of the saw running.

“Brett?” she called again, shifting her grip on the tray as she moved to avoid one of the meat hooks hanging from the ceiling.

She kept telling Brett he should tidy up. Most of the hooks and chains hanging from the ceiling hadn’t been used in years. Brett had bought and installed a bunch of modern butcher equipment, leaving the majority of his father’s things to rust.

The saw was still going even as she approached the door and knocked.

She wasn’t supposed to go into the room — Brett tried to keep it as clean as possible, to prevent infection, and apparently her opening the door while he was working could bring infection in.

She knocked again, calling his name a little louder.

Still the saw kept running.

Donna tried the door handle.

***

The room was empty, the table in the middle bare. No Brett, no pig. But there was blood — big drops of it on the shining metal of the table.

“Brett?”

She looked around for the saw, still thrumming away, and spotted the white plastic of an electrical cable disappearing around the far side of the table. She put the tray down, and she walked, slow like she was wading through molasses. Or maybe it was her mind that was going slow. Trying to stall, to slam on the brakes.

She rounded the edge of the table and looked down at her husband.

***

Brett had been first in everything that mattered. First love, first kiss. First to get her, to understand.

It had bothered her a little that he hadn’t been her first, especially after she learned she had been his. She’d broken down, told him about her mom’s boyfriend and his wandering hands, the cruel words, bruises where no one would see. Told him that was why she’d run, why she’d been out here looking for shelter.

Donna could remember every detail of the moment they’d met. Could remember standing in this barn, wet-through from the rain, looking up at a freshly split carcass.

She remembered the horror, as the shape made sense. And then the peace.

Headless, handless, identity-less. Donna had felt envy. Here was someone who didn’t have to look in the mirror, feel the self-disgust and loathing every time. No, whoever this was was perfect — pared down to just the meat on her bones. Raw substance, no soul, no feelings.

So, when she heard the footsteps behind her, when she turned and saw the handsome boy holding a hammer, she’d smiled.

Brett told her later he thought she was nuts at first. His grip on the hammer had trembled and something in him had rebelled. Had told him it would be a mistake to bludgeon this strange, smiling girl to death.

He’d had to hide her.

If his father had found her, he’d have slit her throat and strung her up to bleed out almost as soon as look at her. At first Donna hadn’t cared, thought about walking out into the yard, offering herself. She wanted to be clean, like the girl hanging from the hook.

But there had been Brett.

They talked, they touched, they kissed. It didn’t take long before they made love too. His technique had been pretty lacking, but he’d actually wanted to make her feel good too which was another first. There was something in his eyes that called to her. It was like a radio signal, bouncing back and forth between them. Their frequencies just fit.

***

She was shaking as she knelt by her husband’s head. Blood soaked into her jeans, touched her skin even as she reached out and touched his hair.

There was no point checking for a pulse.

Donna looked for the saw and found it under the table, still covered in Brett’s blood. She switched it off, and then she finally heard the moan. Felt it in her chest, low and animal, the noise she was making.

Brett’s face was cold. It must have happened before he’d had a chance to knock the girl out with the gas. Maybe he hadn’t restrained her properly – somehow, she’d got loose. And done this.

She used the table to haul herself up. Her legs were shaking so bad she thought she’d fall, land face-first on her husband’s corpse.

The smell hadn’t hit her at first — the copper scent of blood was so familiar it didn’t bother her, but the stink of crap from shredded bowels was less so. She looked down at the messy cuts — the saw had sliced through the muscles and into the abdominal cavity. Ripped his guts apart. Sloppy, shoddy work. If Donna had treated a pig like that Brett would’ve been so mad that he wouldn’t’ve spoken to her for a week.

Ruined. That bitch had ruined him.

Tears stung her eyes as she walked around the table, away from Brett’s body. She stumbled over the lip of the door, had to hold onto the frame for a few moments until the ringing in her head stopped.

What am I gonna do?

Cayleigh and Crystal. Her daughters’ faces sprung up in her mind so strongly it was like they’d been put there by something else — something outside herself.

That bitch-pig was still out there, and Donna’s children were too.

She staggered over to the countertop and looked at the knives, picking up one of the skinning blades. Brett’s skinning blade.

She gripped it tight and headed to the barn door.

***

It felt like things outside should have changed — for the sky to be dark with rain clouds, or the bitch to be standing there waiting — but it was still the same bright, summer day it had been.

The pen. Donna had told the girls to meet her at the pen.

Her knees still felt weak, and she could see Brett lying there every time she blinked.

If that bitch hurt her babies…if she did that Donna would…would…

The girls weren’t by the pen. Donna ran up and leaned over the fence. The pigs were there, all six of them, staring back at her and smiling.

“Where are they?” she snarled, breaking one of the rules. You didn’t talk to them like they could answer, like they were still human.

The smiles dropped from a few faces, but one, a redhead, tipped her head to the side and shrugged. Donna knew that look. The peace and resignation which came with knowing there was nowhere further down you could go. When the knife came to rest against her throat it would be like a prayer being answered.

Donna pushed away from the fence and headed back towards the house. She glanced up front and saw the truck was still there. If the sow had made a run for it on foot, she wasn’t likely to get far. There were lines of traps set up all around the property as well as a razor wire fence.

She heard a thump from somewhere in the house.

“Girls?” she called, praying they would come to her. She glanced around the kitchen and saw a knife missing from the block, saw smudges of blood on the counter.

She jumped out of the way as the cupboard door under the sink swung open. She crouched down, and Crystal flew into her arms, shaking like she’d been dunked in ice-water.

“Baby, are you okay?” she asked, her hands flying over her head and arms, checking for marks. “Are you hurt?”

She looked back at the cupboard, hoping to see Cayleigh crouched behind her, but it was empty — just bottles of bleach and cleaning supplies.

“Where’s your sister? Crystal, sweetie, where’s your sister?”

Crystal had been silent up to this point, probably too scared to make a sound, but now she began to cry. She pointed upstairs, and Donna managed to translate the baby-talk.

A monster had her sister. It had taken her upstairs.

“Okay, okay,” Donna said, running her hands over Crystal’s head, soothing her. Stray smears of blood now marked her hair, and Donna would have to make her take a bath after all this. “You just stay here now. Hide. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Crystal didn’t want to let go, but Donna insisted.

“Just stay here. Shh. Shh. It’ll be okay.”

She shut the cupboard door and padded around the kitchen table and out into the hall. She moved quickly, as quiet as she could manage, listening as she climbed the stairs. There were muffled voices, Donna recognised the voice of her eldest daughter, coming from the direction of the bathroom.

Donna tried the door, already knowing that the latch would be on. It rattled but stayed stiff in the frame.

“Mommy!”

“Cayleigh, sweetie, are you alright? Did she hurt you?”

“I called the police!” another voice answered. Donna’s grip tightened on the knife. She longed to kick the door down, but it was solid wood and she’d be more likely to end up with a busted foot than a busted door — she just wasn’t strong enough.

“You’re sick. How can you–Oh god. They’re people, not animals! A-and you…you’re…”

“Monsters?” Donna suggested. “You’re gonna find out just how much of a monster I am if you’ve hurt one hair on my daughter’s head.”

But first she needed to find something to break down the goddamn door.

***

There was an axe in the barn. She slipped the knife through two of her belt loops and hurried down the stairs. The cupboard door opened, and she had to usher Crystal back inside, tell her the monster wasn’t gone just yet. But Mommy would get rid of it soon.

When she came back with the axe in hand she glanced at the phone in its cradle on the wall. There were bloody fingerprints on the handset and the wall, and any hope that the sow was bluffing crumbled. But she didn’t know the address, she didn’t know where she was — and maybe the police would be able to trace her but it would take them time to drive out here, time to find the place, to make it past the fences and the traps.

***

Cayleigh was sobbing when Donna made it back to the door.

“I’m coming, just hang on sweetie.”

“I called the police!” the sow shrieked again, like it was some sort of magic charm that people like Donna were supposed to flee from — like vampires from the sun.

“Well, the cops aren’t here!” Donna said and took the first swing.

The axe-head sunk deep into the wood, and both the sow and Cayleigh screamed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Just stay back from the door, honey.”

Donna managed to wrench the axe free, pulled back and swung again, aiming for the same spot.

Three more strikes and she could see through, could see the blonde sow-bitch who’d killed her husband cowering next to the toilet with Cayleigh held tight in front of her.

The sow pulled out the knife she’d stolen.

“You hurt her and I’ll make you eat your own guts,” Donna snarled, using the blunt side of the axe to knock out more of the wood, enough of an opening to try to reach through for the latch.

The sow tried to scoot forward, to slash at Donna’s arm, but Cayleigh wouldn’t let her move.

“Noo! Don’t hurt my mommy!”

Donna finally got the door open, kicking aside shards of wood as she stepped into the bathroom.

“Y–you cannibal freak…I told your daughter what you really are. You eat people! Stay away! Stay away from me or I’ll…”

But her hand trembled on the knife. Bloody hands which had left bloody handprints all over Cayleigh’s clothes and arms.

Before the sow could untangle herself from the child Donna swung the axe. She hit her with the blunt end, snapping her head to the side and ramming it into the cistern. It busted her nose in a bright spray of blood.

Donna pulled her sobbing daughter out of the way, reaching in to grab the knife away from the stunned pig. She grabbed a handful of blonde hair, wrenching the sow’s head back. She held a hand over her mouth, enough to check she was still breathing.

She made sure the axe and the knife were both out of reach before she turned and gathered Cayleigh up into a hug.

“It’s alright, shh, it’s alright now.”

She wanted to remember this. Remember what it felt like to hold her daughter in her arms, would have to imagine how it would feel in one, two, five or ten years.

Donna finally let go, cupping Cayleigh’s reddened face in her hands. She glanced around at the sow, still out cold.

“Daddy…I want Daddy!” Cayleigh moaned.

“Oh, baby, I’m…Daddy’s not…Daddy’s not coming back. He’s gone.”

Cayleigh frowned.

“W-where?”

Donna hugged her again, wishing she didn’t have to explain this.

“Somewhere he can’t come back from. And it’s…it’s her fault. She sent your daddy away, and I’m gonna punish her for it, but I need to be quick before she wakes up.”

“Daddy…”

Donna pulled away again with an apology, as the sow’s eyelids were starting to flicker. She picked up the kitchen knife and sliced through the sow’s top, tearing it into strips and tying it around her wrists and ankles.

Cayleigh sniffed.

“What’re you doing?”

“I told you, I need to punish her for hurting your daddy.” She finished off the last knot and glanced at her daughter. “Want to help?”

***

Together they dragged the pig down the stairs. Donna did the heavy lifting, while Cayleigh followed and tried to make sure her head didn’t hit the stairs on the way down.

“We don’t want her brains getting all mashed up. If she gets too stupid, she won’t be able to understand what we’re doing.”

They got Crystal out from her hiding place. She giggled and poked the ‘monster’ in the chest, and then she followed them out across the yard and to the barn.

Donna didn’t tell her about her daddy, knowing she would understand it even less than Cayleigh.

Once in the barn Donna sliced off the ankle bindings and replaced them with shackles. She rummaged around in a few of the drawers and finally found an old ball-gag — a survivor from her father-in-law’s era. She pushed a button and a motor started up, lifting the sow feet first into the air. Donna let it run until she was about eye-level with the sow’s knees and then she stepped back.

“I’m gonna show you something your daddy showed me.”

She took out Brett’s skinning knife.

“If you practice, maybe one day you’ll be as good as he was.”

The sow didn’t wake up until Donna had started work on her left leg. She started screaming not long after that.

***

When the police arrived, the sow was still alive. Donna knew she wouldn’t stay that way though. Brett had told her all about the skin — it was the largest organ in the body, and Donna had thought he was pulling her leg about that one until he showed it to her in one of his textbooks. Without it the body had no defence against germs or even against the cold. The world was a harsh place, and it became harsher still without your skin.

He’d showed her how to separate skin from flesh, piece by piece. She’d been enchanted, watching a transformation like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. People talked about things being skin deep like it was a bad thing, like goodness should be written all the way through to the bone. But Donna saw it differently. A person was only a person so long as they had their skin. Once you took that away, they were nothing. They were clean.

 Donna stepped away from the bloodied, shivering pig when asked. She lay down the knife.

She looked at her daughters, frozen with their newly cut capes still grasped in blood-slicked hands, eyes wide at this encroaching army of blue-uniformed creatures.

The world was a harsh place, but Donna hoped that the memory would live on — of a time of simple joy, simple love, where there had been only two things. Family and pigs.

C is for Cannibals is available for Kindle, in paperback, and on Audible here.

Follow Aisling on Instagram and grab a copy of It Calls from the Doors which also includes their work.

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Red Cape Publishing, in collaboration with Tony Sands and MJ Dixon, are proud to bring you the horror anthology Sweet Little Chittering on October 29^th

From the creators of Castle Heights comes…

Sweet Little Chittering is a quaint looking village, nestled in the English countryside. Picturesque, peaceful… deadly. The day of the annual village fete will be one that nobody can forget, one that many may not even survive. Experience the horrific events in these thirteen interconnected stories, all taking place on the same day. From strange cults to serial killers, demons to curses, Sweet Little Chittering is a village you’ll be desperate to escape… if it will let you.

Includes stories by Bob Pipe, Teige Reid, MJ Dixon, Annie Knox, Damon Rickard, Jack Joseph, P.J. Blakey-Novis, Tony Sands, Matthew Davies, Freddy Beans, Richard Rowntree, Rae Dixon, and Tristan Sargent.

Available to pre-order for Kindle (included in Kindle Unlimited) from Amazon at https://mybook.to/SweetLC

Paperback available from Amazon from October 29^th