The City of This

by Alex Boast

  On the third evening of this particular week – nearing Christmas time, I think – the snow was growing heavy, and it was with some surprise that as I was filling my glass of water at the sink, I looked up and out of the pale pane that overlooked our garden to discover that my friend… had made yet another accomplice. I watched as the three of them took a step closer, in perfect unison, shadowed hands clasped together. Something about this movement caused me to feel uneasy and I retreated to bed where I slept, oh how I slept.

  On the seventh day of the first sighting, I had finished my usual activities which included reading a particularly interesting colouring book about English mammals of the Mustelid Family and was ready to head to bed. It occurred to me that Father was still sat with his paper in the kitchen, he rarely moved; when was the last time I had seen Mother? On this particular evening, as the snow billowed down, blanketing the world in its cold venom, I remembered my glass of water before heading upstairs. I had taken little notice of my friends in the snow, deeming them unworthy of my friendship. I looked up, out of the glass that caught my breath and steamed immediately. Once it had cleared I saw seven figures in the garden. They had moved closer.

  They were not boys at all, but grown men, and their shadowy forms jittered and twitched as they took a single step towards me, and my home. No longer were they in unison: they ambled and shuffled forwards like the drunken men I had once seen at Father’s working men’s club. Something about their fall from grace, their solidifying escape from fluidity utterly unnerved me and I strained on the very tips of my toes to reach for the blinds, and pull them somewhat satisfyingly closed, locking the monsters from view because no, I did not like these new men at all.

  I had created them, and I could hide them away, behind those flimsy paper blinds.

  We did not open them again.

  After a fretful night in which I did not sleep one wink, life continued as, well… not quite normal. Something had changed Mother. Had she seen the men too? If this was the case, she certainly did not make it known. In fact, she very rarely spoke at all now. Only to tell me to stop shaking, and call me for tea, but lacking the energy she once had. Father, as ever, sat by the window with his paper. If Mother stopped speaking to me at all, how I would survive, I wondered. Whilst I did know she keeps the bread in a small container next to the fridge, situated on the left of the large window next to several storage cupboards, I did not know how to make anything as impressive as mashed potato. What would it matter, though? Considering I had lost all appetite. The very house seemed to be mocking me. It was getting smaller, its hallway lengthening, the small flight of unruly stairs I had mastered. I could even reach the cord to open the…

  “Stop shaking, darling,” She says, and with that I fled to bed, tummy growling, and dreamt of a thousand eels, writhing together, trapped in a wooden barrel fit to burst. The sun had been fighting a losing war with the moon, and would illuminate the snowy fields around our land for only a few hours a day. I was dismayed to discover my frog pond had frozen over, my newt friends likely trapped in tiny cold prisons. I had spent some time clawing at the frozen surface of my amphibian friends’ home, hoping that my efforts may thaw me a new plaything, but I was gravely mistaken, and as I felt a shadow cast itself over my back I turned to witness the sun set behind that tall, lonely tree.

  A peal of thunder tore through the pallid sky and sent a new chill through me. I wanted desperately to flee to my bed, but could not tear my eyes from what I saw. From behind the tree, spilling like eels from a barrel, some 49 bodies invaded my eyesight, falling over each other and clambering to their feet. I watched wide eyed, breathe billowing in the cold air as they organised, rank and file before me in one great line, illuminated in the desperate light of the moon. They were ever so close now, and as they shuffled I turn and ran. Ran not to Mother, or to Father, but to my small cot-bed, in my small cot-room, where I slept and dreamt of great engines and spinning wheels like the kinds I had seen on the automobiles back in London. I dreamt I had wings. Oh how I dreamt and slept and dreamt ever more, soaring in the snowy clouds. I know not whether I slept through the next day, or whether the sun had simply given in and admitted defeat. I doubted it was even there behind the clouds: for me it no longer existed. On trembling legs I stood in my small cot-room and reached for my night lamp, the only current source of illumination. It travelled with me, down to the kitchen where my cold throat, begging for warming moisture, might be sated.

  Father had, for the first time in my knowing memory, moved from his vigil, leaving only his paper on the work surface. I moved to look at it, but my thirst could not wait. As I stood, no longer on tip toes, filling my small glass with cloudy water, a curious sensation overcame me and I reached with long and spindly fingers for the cord to the blinds. The cord I could now reach. I would lift it, ever so slightly, and just peek…

  - I speak now to you with tear filled eyes dear listener, and I swear to you I tell no lies. Unveiled to me by the sickly light of my lamp behind that flimsy, skin-like blind were two hundred angry eyes -

  Raw and hate filled eyes, yellow and throbbing, the skin around them blistered and caked with the unknown. I could hear the moans of the dying fill not my ears but my eyes as I understood the chilling truth – observe the hairs on my arms raise as I narrate this to you! – and I snatched for Father’s paper. It was a London publication, the headline ran: DECEMBER 1940, 100 ENGLISH SERVICEMEN KILLED BY NAZI BOMBINGS.

  The Fall

  I didn’t fall

  I was pushed

  There was no one there

  But I felt the hand

  Earlier, the boy had been wrestling with the worthless debris in his patched up pockets, searching tirelessly for his little change in a sea of receipts and NHS prescriptions. At the chink of coins, a smile darted fleetingly across his face; success, he would not go thirsty today. He muttered a gesture of gratitude to the disagreeable man at the counter of the bustling off-licence as he hefted the four cans of lager onto the counter.

  The shop-keep was not listening, though: his eyes were staring straight through the boy and the other forgotten customers, out through the window of his family shop. The boy was puzzled, and the older man’s eyes filled with silent tears. Not heeding the warning, the boy span around, scanning for what could cause such fear and remorse.

  It did not take him long.

  The atmosphere of the cramped shop and its narrow aisles of canned goods changed in an instant. Only for the two, though. The other patrons of the corner shop appeared oblivious to the monstrosity that stood just a few feet away, peering in through the thin glass. Hairs stood on end and an ice mist flooded out of the mouths of the boy and his patron, but life was flying by for others, in their hurry to gather the essentials needed for the coming festivities. It would seem the spectre was invisible, or else unnoticed by everyone except the two. People out on the bitter street walked straight past with little concern. For the newfound companions, time had stopped.

  They were transfixed. The shambling grey mass at the left edge of the large glass paned shop front towered at seven feet tall. Wrapped in dirty, sodden rags and covered in muddy grass stains. Stunted and bent legs lent it the gait of a drunken man, deliberate yet flawed. Wilted leaves protruded from what passed for its hair, snakelike fingers of darkness running down a pale and emaciated skull. Huge black eyes bored into the souls of the two just realising their connection.

  They shared the gift, the curse.

  Final, kindred spirits: they could see the devil.

  The other customers had begun to leave, impatient and unnerved by the odd behaviour before them at the till, as they had taken a sharp breath as a young couple, arm in arm, happily chatting and puffing on barely lit cigarettes, passed right through the creature. Now they were alone with their fear, and the spectre had its chance.

  It slowly raised a gnarled talon of a hand to the glass window. A screeching sound followed as the beast dragged its nails across the glass, leaving a
deep wound in its surface. The older man whispered pleadingly,

  “Don’t look lad, please don’t look.”

  It was too late; the younger of the two had been marked; chosen.

  The hulking creature turned now, slowly and awkwardly, to begin its march towards their final destination. Right towards the old church, a gothic structure, tall and intimidating in the darkness further afield. It would normally be teeming with revellers, but stood solitarily against the grey horizon. The boy turned to the man, traumatized but calm. Hands steady.

  “Now whatever you do lad, do not go following her you hear me?” his elder demands.

  The command from his distressed comrade should have dissuaded him. It did not. It could not. Upon hearing that this creature was or had been a ‘she’, the boy was halfway out of the door, his precious lagers in hand, ears closed to the shouts and warnings of his would be guardian. He belonged to her now.

  His curiosities such that he was overwhelmed with a burning desire to discover and investigate, explore and learn, for he was, after all, but a child. She knew he had always been alone at Christmas. She knew she could take care of him.

  He threw beer down his throat with silent conviction and enjoyed the warm hoppy taste as his eyes searched the busy street for his menacing visitor. The adrenaline streamlined his vision, but his heart beat slow. He looked down and watched his feet move instinctively towards the church, following the dread procession of a spirit that only he could see. Floating, not walking. Swimming, not striding, towards the holy place of a God he had never known or believed in.

  It had been a marital church once, abandoned and derelict for years now. Something terrible had happened there.

  He had to know what.

  You should never go chasing ghosts, for they are not of this world, the answers you find only cryptic clues that are impossible to understand whilst still alive. This was human nature at its best, or its worst. This thirst for knowledge could never be satisfied, and would not relent, only end in self-destruction. He had to be with her, and hear her story.

  The snow began as people rushed around him, eager to avoid the young beggar. Cars honked as they struggled to negotiate the rush hour traffic of the thriving suburb. Quizzical glances here and questioning stares there. Unbeknownst, the shopkeeper watched the young man’s progress from the safety of his doorway, one hand on the cross that had recently fixed above it. He had been too weak to protect the boy, and his penance was his tears, for this was not his first failure.

  He looks at the four lines of the tally tattoo on his right hand as he scratches on the fifth with a safety pin and wipes away a tear, as he is forgotten for another year.

  The boy walked slowly, waiting for destiny to unfold. He wanted to reach out, appeal to a stranger, and beg for help. She would not let him. He noticed for the first time the trail of brown and wilted leaves he follows, the same leaves, swept into huge piles on either side of the spacious church grounds, crunching under his sandal clad feet. He takes three more steps and everything changes and twists, becoming a corrupted parody of itself. The boy was immediately plunged into darkness and his footfalls made loud metallic tangs as he continued the death-march.

  Offered one last look back at the bustling and oblivious city road struggling on the cold winter’s day, he stepped into the personal darkness reserved in his name. In this moment, he is truly afraid.

  His hourglass is running out of sand, faster than a cigarette turns to ash. Then he saw her, and choked back a sob as he looked beseechingly into the cavernous, hungry eyes. A divine malevolence swirled within them. He shouted at her, demanding a reason as a smile cracked across her face and a thin black tongue snaked out of her mouth to lick the blood from its corners.

  She allows him to look at her, examine her, learn her. She was not borne of happiness. She is tragedy incarnate. She is a reminder that dark and terrible things will befall those who are unlucky. This is his explanation. This is why he has to die. He understands. At last, finally, he belonged to someone. He felt sure that she was beautiful once. That the lank and greasy hair that hangs over her shoulders was once a glorious blonde, that the dark and broken lips were once full and red. The rags that hang about her person once were once part of a billowing and beautiful white wedding dress. What is now so frightening and confusing was once so gorgeous and appealing.

  Steadily moving closer, he detected the slightest hint of a nod: she approves of his subservience.

  Waiting patiently as he finished his beers, allowing him one final luxury. Knowing that he will not miss this life and will not enjoy the next. The young urchin was born, and would die, in lonely despair.

  After a life of fighting, he had decided to stop asking questions, to accept what must be. He now knew why he had chosen this road, in this town, in which to beg for coin. He’d never been given a choice. He laughs at the thought. How shameless we are in believing we are ever, truly in control. All he had wanted was not to be alone anymore, and his Christmas wish had been granted. He learns more in these last few minutes of life than in all his unforgiving years combined. About what it is to be a man, what it is to believe.

  He saw now that if fate and destiny were real, as he understood they were, there must be balance. He is made to suffer so that others might live on and experience true happiness. This is his calling and he would meet it admirably. They had made it to the church, and he shuddered violently as the enormous wooden door slowly swung open. They stepped together into a wide vestibule, greeted by hundreds of faces he did not recognize. Ghostly visions of things long forgotten.

  This was not his memory, but hers. The ghostly voice of an ancient priest boomed through the empty haunted hall. Candles lit themselves and shadows appeared and melted away again as a tiny vestige of light raced through the dark church, illuminating the grandeur of its parapets and pedestals. He sees his companion standing stalwart under the huge stained-glass window at the end of the long hall, accompanied by two men.

  Priest and Partner. Bride and Groom.

  “Felicia, do you take this man?” the voice of the priest sounds guilty and a sudden crash announces the closing of the huge wooden doors, slamming shut behind them and extinguishing every votive candle.

  Darkness his only friend, something seized the boys hand, and he is shocked by its cool touch. Not seeing but feeling the presence of others around him. Hideously afraid of their palpable aggression. He did not need to see. It was at this point he decided to scream, and another, colder hand, slammed down over his mouth. Sharp and broken fingernails scratched at his lips, drawing blood, and he felt the excitement of the spirits around him.

  He was flying.

  His feet lifted off the ground and fear splashed onto the floor. Is he going to heaven? He thought not, imagining, for a moment, the sprouting of enormous angelic wings from his back to aid his flight, only to have them torn at and ruined by the dark hands clawing around him. Sunlight flashed and stole his vision. It was early evening and he stood on the church roof among the birds. Pigeons take flight and then turn to look through him, before landing again and fighting over empty wrappers.

  He was truly alone now.

  The corpse bride was gone: lay to rest with the spirits in the hall below. Her purpose served. Not knowing how to feel, he paced the roof, ashamed of his own fear. He wondered now, what he could have been, and admits to himself that he really could never amount to anything. Trying desperately to find peace, he only managed to vomit down his already filthy t-shirt.

  For the first time he wished for the Mother he had never known. For the Father he had met so many times in his dreams. Countless invented family members and the only friend he had ever known: a faithful hound that had served him so well for years until its death exactly one year ago on Christmas Eve.

  He cried now, on his knees, overcome and overwhelmed, a shuddering and apoplectic mess.

  Surely, this cannot be real, if only he could have afforded his medicine.

  He screame
d and shouted at far away figures who took no notice. They were worlds away. He thought of friends he could have made, girls he never met, love he never felt. He wanted to know what it all meant. Has his life had any point? Or is it only in death that he will achieve anything? If these thoughts and feelings that had haunted him all his life were indeed real, surely there must be a good side too, a God and a Heaven.

  Night fell fast on the young man, who wondered why he had to wait for the inevitable, what more could he need to see or understand? To his surprise, he found one last tin in the back pocket of his tattered jeans, strong local ale, brewed especially this time of year. He smiled now: old habits die hard.

  He felt strange, sat in this place. A place of worship, he thought that it was good to know people could still believe in things, as he did not know what he believed in now.

  Barking behind him, tired and familiar.

  He spun around, spilling the beer. Some things are more important. The old dog waited for him at the opposite end of the roof, the only part still in the escaping light. Looking young and handsome, his wispy grey beard replaced with a full coat of dark and glossy hair.