The Darkness Rising

by David Stuart Davies

  Michael's voice crowded in on her words, filling her mind, crushing all her thoughts and ideas. ‘I want you Kate’, the voice boomed. ‘I want you.’

  ‘Michael, no, it's too late. It's impossible. If you love me, let me go. Leave me in peace.’

  ‘No. It is not impossible. I can come back. I'm nearly there.’

  ‘NO!’ This time she screamed the words out loud.

  The features darkened and the eyes blazed. It was not just the expression which soured, but the shape of the face altered as well. Slowly it seemed to buckle with age, the flesh crinkled and fell from the face in long moist slivers until all that was left was the grinning skull, glistening with slime.

  ‘You have no choice in this, Kate,’ the skull said, moving towards her.

  She gave a sharp cry of terror and closed her eyes, but even then she had a vivid image of the skull. It grew and the darkness of the socket-less eyes engulfed her. She felt heavy with fear; her veins and arteries seemed to be clogging up as though rigor mortis were setting in. With great effort she prised her eyes open. She was back in Crabtree's parlour once more.

  The medium was slumped, still in a trance, in the shadows beyond the circle of light. The piano was still being played by his 'helper'. All seemed the same as it had been; and yet it wasn't. Kate felt uneasy. There was something different—something wrong.

  Then she saw it.

  ***

  Timothy couldn't sleep. His head was full to bursting with thoughts of his father. He lay on his back listening to the snores and whispers of the other boys in the dormitory and watching the shadows cast by the trees outside as they shifted in the night breeze. They made interesting shapes on the wall.

  ***

  Michael, or rather his rotting corpse was sitting at the table to Kate's right. He smiled. The grey putrid skin wrinkled around his mouth revealing a black aperture where his teeth had been. Maggots writhed on the top of his skull, their foul bodies slithering down the forehead and landing on the table.

  ‘Ask him what he wants.’ The words came from Crabtree, but his mouth did not move. ‘Go on, ask him!’

  Kate formed the words slowly, forcing them from her dry throat. ‘Michael... what is it that you want?’

  The eye in the corpse's head glowed with animal fire. The foul mouth opened to speak, expelling the noxious stench of the grave.

  ‘Life, that's what I want. LIFE!’

  His spider-like hand reached across the table towards her and Crabtree's leaving a fine trail of slime in its wake. Kate tensed, her heart almost ceasing to beat as the corpse's hand clamped itself over hers. She felt the cold moist texture press against her skin producing an obscene sucking noise. She fought back the overpowering feeling of nausea and wrenched her hand a way from Crabtree’s grasp in revulsion.

  Time stood still for a moment as she sat transfixed in horror at what she had done.

  Too late. The corpse gurgled with delight.

  Crabtree gave an agonised gasp, his own hands flying to his throat as though he were being strangled by an unseen force. His corpulent body writhed and twisted wildly like some crazy marionette. As if by some invisible power, he was then lifted out of his chair and propelled with great speed to the corner of the room where he crashed against the wall. Still clutching his throat, he dragged himself to his feet, while his whole body rippled and contorted. He stumbled forward to the table, his eyes bulging from a purple face. With a final flagging scream, he fell forward on to the table vomiting forth a stream of thick green bile.

  Kate sat petrified in her chair, transfixed by this hideous pantomime. She saw now that Crabtree's features had changed virtually beyond recognition and his eyes... his eyes contained no pupils.

  Kate bit her fist in terror. God, let this nightmare end. It was a nightmare: it could not be real. This could not be happening.

  Then, suddenly, Crabtree slid backwards onto the floor and strangely an air of serenity filled the room.

  Quietly, Crabtree laughed.

  It was a small gentle laugh.

  It was Michael's laugh.

  And then the medium stopped breathing.

  ***

  As the headlights of Rob Moore' car illuminated briefly the front of his house, drunk as he was, he could see the place was in darkness. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard and as he did so, he dragged the wheel to his left causing the car to scrape against the garden wall.

  ‘Shit!’ he cried and stamped on the brake. Stumbling from the car he examined the damage.

  ‘Shit!’ he said again as he saw the multiple lines of scratched paint. He kicked the front tyre in anger and then suddenly smiled. So he was still in this world. Little concerns still bothered him. Well, that was something.

  ‘You can stay here until morning,’ he growled at the car and staggered towards the house. What had the clock said? Eleven o'clock. Fiona must be out; it was too early for her to be in bed. But as he tried the door, found to his surprise that it was unlocked.

  ‘Curiouser and fucking curiouser,’ he mumbled as he tottered over the threshold.

  ‘Fiona,’ he cried. ‘Fiona, darling, your husband is home—pissed as usual. Aren't you coming to say hello to him?’

  He waited for some moments in the dark hall until his words died away.

  ‘Ah well, sod you, I’ll have another drinkie.’

  He clicked on the lights in the sitting room and what he saw there sobered him up immediately. He staggered backwards, wetting himself as he gazed in horror. Lying on the rug by the fire, circled by a neat pool of dark red blood, was the severed head of his wife.

  SEVEN

  David clicked off the television and stared at the blank screen. He might as well do that, it was just as interesting as the programme he'd just been watching—but then he hadn't been concentrating. His thoughts had been in a state of turmoil since his interview with Nelson Parker that afternoon.

  ‘We're going to have to ditch your resurrection idea, I'm afraid,’ the big man had said across the wide executive desk, a symbol of his importance which he used as a barrier to keep minions at bay.

  ‘Oh, why is that?’

  ‘Ross McGary, the actor who played Margo's husband is dead.’

  ‘Dead. Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, I've spoken to his agent and he should know.’

  David frowned. ‘That is a turn up for the book. How did it happen?’

  ‘Suicide. Apparently after leaving the show, the poor sod couldn't get any work apart from a few walk ons and some walk overs.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It seems the family were able to keep his death from the press or we would have seen it served up as a nice juicy titbit in the tabloids: 'Sacked Soap Star's Sad Suicide'.

  ‘Yes,’ said David suddenly feeling very tired.

  ‘One minute you're in a thriving family business two nights a week in all regions and next—you're dead meat.’ Parker paused to light a cigarette. ‘So I'm afraid that kills your idea of resurrecting John Doyle stone dead.’

  David nodded.

  ‘I mean we don't want to extend the viewers’ credibility any further; say that he's had plastic surgery to alter his appearance and bring in another actor. Even the cretins who watch the show won't wear that.’

  ‘You don't seem too upset about it.’

  ‘I'm not. In fact, I'm rather pleased because—just between you and me—really don't want Vernon and Sons to survive.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Nelson Parker leaned back and gave David one of his knowing glances.

  ‘Come on, David. You are a shrewd cookie. You know as well as I do that V and S is tripe—but what is worse is that it's old-fashioned tripe. It ran out of steam years ago. It's now fading completely from the ratings and has no street cred whatsoever.’

  ‘So all that talk this morning...’

  ‘I was obeying orders and going through the motions. Believe me, Vernon and Sons will be dead and buried by spring.’

  ‘I
see.’

  Parker shook his head. ‘No, no that's where you are wrong. You do not see. Look, when V and S sinks from view there will be a gap in the schedules—a key spot waiting for some up to the minute hard-biting replacement.’

  ‘And you have got such a replacement?’

  Parker beamed and wriggled in his chair in smug pleasure.

  ‘Bright boy. I will have it and I want you in on the ground floor.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘I can't say more until I know more.’

  ‘That’s fair enough.’ Parker chuckled and then stubbing out his cigarette cast a keen glance at David. ‘Right: provisional title is 'Cop Shop'. A police station in one of our inner cities—maybe Birmingham. It will follow the lives of the police officers on and off duty. There will be plenty of scope to include all the topical issues, current concerns etc. Half the cast will be permanent and the other half will be transient, giving us opportunities for guest appearances and big name cameos. I'd like you to mould the format into shape and head the writing team. Are you interested?’

  Of course he was interested. This was what he had longed for: to be in at the creation of a high-profile programme. He'd realised long before that shoring up the failing fortunes of Vernon and Sons would bring no kudos; although, ironically, it must have been his work on this that had led to Parker's offer.

  Since the interview, David's mind had been swimming with ideas and he longed to tell Kate the good news. It was possible that she could be written into the show and this mutual interest would help to secure their new and brighter future. Cue the strings and bring on the sunset. He grinned. But dammit it was true. Working together would help to forge a firmer partnership and eradicate the bad memories, memories of Michael from their lives.

  David suddenly realised that he didn’t want to lose Kate. It was a revelation. It finally came home to him that he not only wanted her but needed her. My God, he thought, is this it then? Is this love with a capital L? He had always known there was something special about Kate, but now it seemed he was being forced into the responsibility of loving her. No, that wasn't quite true. His feelings had not suddenly changed; it was only that he had found a name for them. What was really new was that the thought of it no longer frightened him; in fact, he felt good.

  He glanced at his watch. Nearly eleven. Where was she? Then he grinned. He knew that having dinner with a director was often more ordeal than pleasure and often ran into extra time. If it was doing Kate and her career some good, he could wait, impatient as he was.

  He stretched himself luxuriously and drank in the quiet of the cottage. All was still and peaceful. He grinned again. At last things seemed to be going right.

  ***

  For some moments Rob stood transfixed, his mind failing to come to terms with what he saw. This must be some kind of monstrous practical joke: a latex head, tomato sauce...

  The dead glazed eyes of Fiona Moore stared unseeing at him, the mouth slightly open as in surprise. Her blond hair trailed in the dark pool of congealed blood which circled the head.

  With a few faltering steps, Rob moved to the head and leaning forward allowed his fingers to touch the skin. It was cold and hard, but it was real.

  Dead meat. Rob retched and, turning quickly away, he was violently sick.

  Moments later, wiping the tears away, he gazed at his wife's decapitated head. He knew now that the nightmare had finally taken over. He was no longer in touch with reality. The madness had claimed him. He cried uncontrollably, his body racked with sobs. After a time, a stoical quietness finally overcame him, and the deadness of spirit settled down within him. It was then, as a chilling numbness overtook the pain, that the thought struck him: where the hell was the body—where was the rest of his wife? Slowly he scanned the room; but it wasn't there. As in a trance he began to search the downstairs rooms as in some ghoulish game of hunt the body. He moved slowly and methodically through the stillness of the house without the full emotional comprehension of his task.

  Finally, he peered up into the darkness at the top of the stairs and with an instinctive realisation, he knew Fiona was in their bedroom. She would be lying there, waiting to be discovered. As he mounted the stairs towards the encroaching darkness, he began to feel a dull ache in his heart.

  Not daring to turn the light on, he felt his way along the landing and into the bedroom. There sprawling diagonally across the bed was the headless corpse of his wife. Splatters of blood were everywhere. Rob was now drained of all emotion and reaction. He just gazed dully at the bed, the pain in his heart growing stronger, like cramped fingers squeezing each ventricle. Creamy moonlight spilling into the room dusted the body with pale frosting, giving it the appearance of some large theatrical doll.

  And then from the shadows he heard a low mirthless laugh. It cut through the silence like a sword. It came again louder and harsher. It was a laugh he knew. It was a laugh he expected. It was a laugh from his nightmares, only this time there was no waking up.

  Once more the laugh spewed into the darkness, the darkness that still shrouded its owner. He was the master of Rob's nightmares and he had come to claim him.

  ***

  ‘He's dead. He's dead.’ Jean Wilson knelt by the body of Arthur Crabtree and moaned. ‘Arthur, it's Jean.’ She leaned close to the still white face. ‘Speak to me Arthur.’

  Kate looked on as though she were watching a play. The scene she had witnessed had no connection with her. It was being acted out by strangers wanting to achieve some gruesome dramatic effect. In this it had been successful: it had terrified and nauseated her but thankfully it wasn't real. How could it be? It had been fantastic. However, now she'd had enough of this entertainment and it was time for her to go. To get the hell out of there. With stiff and unsteady legs, she stood to leave—as she did so, Jean Wilson, disturbed by her movements, turned her moist eyes to Kate. They narrowed to a vicious slit.

  ‘Yes.’ The word was almost a grunt. She moved towards Kate, her dull tear-blotched face twisted with hate. ‘You are to blame for this,’ she growled pointing an accusing finger. ‘If it wasn't for you, Arthur would be alive. You’ve killed him!’’ She lunged at Kate, pushing her back against the table with a crash.

  ‘Please, no,’ gasped Kate, winded by the attack. The woman now seemed to have lost control and had turned into a manic harpy. She grappled ferociously with Kate, the coarse hands reaching for her throat. It was the blindness of the attack that allowed Kate, who was the stronger of the two, to thrust her away.

  ‘Stop it’ she cried. ‘Pull yourself together.’ Kate realised that now she was playing a part in this weird drama, dragged as it were over the footlights. The words were not her own, just her lines: the remembered clichés. ‘No one is to blame. He knew the risks. I didn't ask for this.’ She slotted these fragments of dialogue into a coherent statement. ‘I didn't ask for this,’ she repeated, making a wide gesture as she did so, to indicate the set. Her hand knocked against the lightshade sending fierce shadows swinging across the room.

  The woman playing Jean Wilson had fallen back and was once more crouching over the body of Arthur Crabtree, her fit of fury over.

  ‘It must have been his heart; some kind of heart attack.’ Kate continued, ‘You’ll need to contact a doctor to confirm that. And now I must be going.’

  With the cool confidence that the part demanded, she straightened her coat and walked slowly from the room. The Wilson creature looked after her for a few moments as though mesmerised by Kate's performance, then turning back to the inert form of Arthur Crabtree, she fell upon his body with a moan of despair.

  Calmly Kate left the house, buttoning up her coat against the sharp night air as she did so. It was all very ordinary. She slipped casually into the driving seat and showed no surprise when the car started without any difficulty. She gave no final glance back at the peeling green door or a thought to what she had just experienced on the other side of it. She jus
t revved the engine and drove off.

  After driving for some five minutes, it began to happen. At first, she started to shiver. Her armour of pretence started to buckle under mental pressure and the reality of the séance pierced her consciousness. She was ice-cold and shivering so much that she could hardly keep her hands on the wheel. The oncoming headlights began to blur into one amorphous brightness. Kate heard noises too, loud fierce wailing noises. Car horns. Blaring. Searing. The light seemed to be coming towards her—to engulf her. Momentarily her brain cleared and with chilling realisation, she saw she was in the wrong lane. The bright lights burning down on her were the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. A large oncoming vehicle.

  Desperately she swung the steering wheel over and with squealing tyres, the car rocked violently and slewed across to the other side of the road, out of her control. A large hedge sprang up into the full glare of her headlights. Skeletally spiky, it advanced towards the car at great speed. Kate was too slow to react. Her mind was confused and dull as though the cogs of thought had jammed. She just felt so cold.

  The car tore through the hedge and seemed to Kate to shoot up into the dark void of space. There was a sensation of flying. And blackness was all around. Indeed, blackness was spilling into the car: she welcomed it. She was glad to feel its inky warmth as it enveloped her, caressing her, just before she felt the pain.

  ***

  ‘Hello Rob. Did you like my little surprise?’

  The voice was thick and guttural but still recognisable as that belonging to Michael Barlow. It came from the grey shadows of the bedroom.

  The taunting smug tone created an edgy tension inside Rob and snapped any self-reserve he had, ‘Let's see you, you bastard,’ he barked. ‘Let me see you, you murdering bastard!’