The Devil's Dead and More Tales

by Marius Renos Dicomites

  Stifling a cry, he hurriedly climbed the stairs as he heard the sound of glass breaking in the kitchen. Almost falling into the bedroom, he threw the door shut and bolted it. Keeping his eyes on the door, he began to back away at the sound of steps slowly climbing the staircase, until he came up against the sash window. He knew what he would see when he looked out; his other self dragging the body of his wife across the garden – again, and again, and -

  There was a sharp crack as something heavy smashed against the door, causing him to flinch. The door heaved and shook violently inside its frame. He was relieved to see the bolt remained intact, but it wouldn’t hold for long. He opened the window wide; as the force struck the door again, he climbed up over the window sill so he was straddling it, half of his body leaning out into the open air. Looking down, he saw the concrete patio immediately below – it was almost a fifteen feet drop; there was the wooden fencing, but it was such a small space – he could aim for the land outside it. He could do –

  He screamed as another blow against the door caused it to splinter open, and Tom’s bloodied and dishevelled figure burst through the doorway and rushed towards him. He leant back, and lost his balance; and he could only reach out blindly as he plummeted to the ground headfirst.

  He couldn’t move.

  He had fractured his neck on the fence when he fell, and his right leg and arm were also broken. Despite his injuries, he had still attempted to attack the paramedics when they tried to put him on the stretcher, so they had tied his good arm around his waist. It didn’t matter now anyway. There were too many of them to kill.

  He began to turn his head as he heard Tom speaking quietly to the police at his side, and winced as the neck brace he had forgotten restricted his movements.

  “He knocked me unconscious,” Tom explained. “Thank god he did a bad job trying to bury me – otherwise I’d be dead.”

  As the paramedics lifted him up on a stretcher, he saw the covered body of his wife being carried out past him.

  “If they had just stayed dead,” he muttered to himself. “Why didn’t they stay dead?

  Home

  Ten. It was ten o’clock, and there was still no sign of him.

  The thoughts in her mind couldn't be contained anymore. “Come home,” she said out loud. "Where are you? Come home.”

  Shaking her head, Leila emptied the contents of the plate into the bin – the food was inedible now anyway. Tired of listening to the tedious voices on the radio, which had merged together and stopped making sense some time ago, she switched them off, and couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the kitchen clock before she turned off the light, and then looking expectantly at the front door as she made her way to the living-room. No matter what she did, the elusive but persistent senses of unease was there gnawing away at the edges of her consciousness - it almost brought tears to her eyes. But there was no reason to cry; there was nothing wrong. She was overreacting. There had to be a good reason for Iain being late – an emergency at work, transport problems – he had been late before.

  So why hadn’t he called?

  In the living-room, she inhaled sharply as the uneasiness in her mind shifted into her surroundings. The ordinary and familiar were returned to her with a jarring and hostile discordance - it wasn't her house anymore. Imperceptible on the surface, the shift was everything, and it was nothing.

  “No,” she said to herself, clenching her hands into fists as she sat down on the sofa. But the room closed in, and kept closing in as she resisted the influence in the room. She had her back to the door. Seized by the thought that someone was in the passage looking down at her, she jumped up and turned to the door. There was nobody there, but a penetrating chill swept into the room and caused her to shiver involuntarily - it brushed against her and climbed up to the ceiling - the light above her head began to hiss and flicker. She stepped back as the cold came down on her. There was nothing there, but her sight insisted otherwise, and it followed whatever it was as it shifted from one space to another, refusing to be held. She couldn’t dismiss it. Curious, she found herself tentatively reaching into the cold – and caught her breath as she heard the front door being opened and then slammed shut.

  "Leila!"

  Everything else was forgotten. “Iain,” she called out with relief, hurrying into the passage, and stopped with a shudder as she found him leaning against the wall, his back to her, his shoulders hunched as he clutched at his stomach. “Iain…?” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady, “what’s wrong?” As she waited for him to answer, her attention was drawn to voices outside approaching the front door. Her first impression was that they were speaking to each other; but as she listened to them she realized they were speaking independently of each other – each one was insistent, relentless, and frustratingly incoherent. Why were they outside the house? She looked at Iain with a sudden thought. What had they done to him?

  She stepped toward the door.

  "No," Iain shrieked at her, reaching out and clutching her arm, his fingers digging painfully into her skin as he pulled her away. He was covered with blood. His shirt had been ripped at the front, and under the torn clothing there were three wounds just below his abdomen. They looked like cuts - each one just an inch, but they went deep and widened with his movements. Inexplicably, impossibly, the bleeding had stopped. The blood around the wounds had dried.

  The shock threw her back. Stifling a moan, clinging to the staircase as her legs buckled with a sudden inertia in her limbs, it took every effort to just go to him. But then she realized what she had to do. Throwing his arm around her shoulder and pulling tight onto his hand to keep him to her, wrapping her arm around his waist as he almost collapsed against her, she carried him into the living-room, still listening to the voices outside as they seemed to move closer to the door. His weight became too much for her, and they both almost fell back onto the sofa.

  “I’m going to call the ambulance,” she heard herself say, hardly able to think. “It’s going to be alright. I won’t be – “

  He shook her off and drew into himself. Rolling back against the sofa, he closed his arms over his wounds and brought his knees up into his body. "No, I don't want help,” he mumbled drowsily. “I’ll be okay.”

  “You've been hurt,” she pleaded. "We need to get you to a hospital."

  He shook his head convulsively. “I just need time.”

  She looked at him with disbelief. “I don’t understand why you don’t want any help. What happened?”

  His eyes sought her out; watery, suffused with pain, they were barely able to focus on her. “I was attacked in the street…” he answered, finally, visibly struggling to get the words out. “There were three of them. I wouldn’t…wouldn’t give them my wallet. One of them stabbed me.”

  Tears spilled from her eyes; she wiped them away. Holding herself, she breathed deeply to hold back the panic. Yes, he had been wounded. Yes, he might have died. But he was okay. The wounds couldn't be as bad as they appeared. He had managed to make his way home - the bleeding had stopped. But he was still in pain. He needed help. He needed her to be there for him.

  "I'm going to get help," she said steadily.

  His head sank back against the sofa. He closed his eyes. “No,” he said breathlessly. “I’m fine. It's okay now."

  But he wasn’t fine; she could see that just by looking at him. It was probably shock -he wasn't thinking rationally, and she had to think for him. She needed to get him to a hospital.

  Apprehensively, she watched him as she picked up the phone from the coffee table, and then moved quietly into the passage. The voices were still outside the front door. There were more of them now. They were close, but she still couldn't make them out, and they refused to stay in one place - shifting restlessly over the door, drawing back momentarily, suddenly rushing forward, as though searching for a way to get into the house. It couldn't be Iain's attackers; there were more than three, and as she listened, some of the v
oices slipped away only to be replaced by others which were distinctly different. She had to call the police, but there was another urgent matter to deal with.

  She began to dial the number. Before she had even finished, the insistent voices surged at her from the handset and flooded the air around her; simultaneously, more voices drew closer to the door – there were too many to count. She threw the handset to the floor, and looked up with renewed dread as the lights started to flicker again.

  And went out.

  It took her a moment to recover from the shock. There were no more sounds from the handset, but the passage remained in darkness, and so did the living-room – she could see that through the door. But it wasn’t complete, there was enough natural light to make her way round.

  “Iain,” she whispered, glancing warily at the front door as she heard something scratching against it. But there was no answer. Cautiously, she took a step toward the living-room, and cried out involuntarily as an invisible, palpable force pushed her roughly aside and swept into the room before her.

  It was going to hurt him.

  Irrational, inexplicable, the belief was persuasive enough to cause her to cry out a warning as she followed the presence into the living-room. But there was nothing visible to the eye. Whatever was there, it was outside the confines of the room, all around her – squirming, restless things creeping behind the walls, below the ground, in the room above, scraping impatiently beneath the surface, constantly stopping and shifting into different directions.

  “They’re…coming.”

  As she turned to Iain, she heard the voices outside swiftly moving to the bay windows. The curtains were closed, but that gave her little comfort. Hidden, faceless and unknown, the incessant voices fed her imagination – they came at her from every part of the window; they moved beyond the window and crawled over the other parts of the house, exploring its flaws, searching like a pack of wolves for a way to get in.

  “No,” she hissed angrily to herself. She went over to Iain. “We’ve got to get into the garden,” she insisted, pulling at his arm. “We’ll call out for help.”

  He wrenched himself away from her and pushed himself back against the sofa. This couldn’t possibly be her husband. She scarcely recognised the terrified, contorted face that looked back at her - it was an effort to look at the deranged, irrepressible fear that shone its eyes. The sounds in the house seemed to draw closer to them as she sat down beside him.

  “What are you afraid of?” she whispered, wondering if they could hear her.

  His eyes welled with tears. “They…they won’t leave me alone,” he sobbed. “I just wanted to be here….I wanted to be here with you. I didn't want to be alone!”

  She placed her hand on his shoulder. “But you’re here…you’re home,” she tried to reassure him. “There’s nothing – “

  Nothing.

  The words died in her throat as she caught sudden, frenetic movements at the corner of her eye. It was the television screen – a reflection of them on the television screen. Turning her head, she was finally given a glimpse of the intruders. They could only be described as human shadows that moved of their own volition. The dark in the room and the reflection diffused and obscured their detail, but it was their actions that perturbed her. There were so many of them she could hardly see Iain – all around him, bent over him, they thrashed restlessly against each other as they reached out to him.

  Screaming, she leapt to her feet. Her first impulse was to pull Iain away from them, but he appeared to be oblivious to their presence – leaning back against the sofa again, with his head dropped to the side, his eyes were half-closed, staring inwards, as his mouth moved silently.

  What were they?

  Her blood ran ice cold as she turned to face the window. There were so many voices – none of them speaking to each other. They seemed to be gradually gathering together outside their house. What did they want? What were they? She had to know.

  The decision was made; in her mind there was no alternative, but her body worked against her as she approached the window - every step twisted the muscles in her legs and feet, and the thought of what she was about to do sent her heart pounding heavily and painfully in her chest. At the window, she clutched hold of the curtains; unable to breathe, she threw them aside.

  The image she had seen on the television screen had been more accurate than she realized; quivering, ink-black, for the most part they lacked detail. Human forms with an inhuman substance, they weren’t just standing at the window - their writhing limbs twisted and stretched disproportionately as they crawled all over the frame, and whenever they moved against each other, they rapidly began to melt and merge, until they moved in opposing directions and separated. The only glimpse of detail was the volatile features of their faces – black masks which briefly swelled out from nothing, and stared at her until the entities extended themselves too far and the faces fell away.

  She shouldn’t have opened the curtains – they had been searching blindly until that moment; and now they were all scrambling eagerly through the window’s frame – passing through the wood and glass, as if the wall around the window itself was an obstruction; crawling into the room like insects, scrambling over each other to get in, rapidly swarming over the floors, walls and ceiling until they possessed every space. She shrank back with revulsion as some of them dropped onto their feet and reached out their hands.

  “Don’t let them touch you!”

  But it was too late. As she turned to him, a hand pressed itself against the side of her face; as it sank into her, through skin, flesh and bone, she began to choke as her breath was stifled. Iain reached out to her; she took a step towards him, and screamed as her sight was blinded. “Iain,” she cried desperately, stretching out her hands. She could hear them all around her - open her eyes, she had to open her eyes. She had to open –

  Opening her eyes, she found herself in the bedroom with her family standing silently around the bed, looking down at her, trying to be brave for her, trying to hold on. But there were tears in their eyes. Her daughter was holding her hand, resting her head beside her on the pillow. The moment which would always stay with them, she thought; and realized the moment had already come as the doctor came forward and closed her eyes.

  The living-room caved in on her. There were only the phantoms – everything else was hidden; frantic, restless, they shape-shifted as they stretched out their hands - all around her, frantic, desperate faces that opened their mouths to scream before they lost shape. But even the faceless ones had a voice. They wouldn’t stop. They wanted to be heard.

  “I’m coming,” Iain shouted at her in the distance, as another hand reached out and stole her sight again.

  The truck came at her without warning. As it struck her, it dragged her under and went over her before it could screech to a stop - and then she was thrown across the road. Her body was broken – she was paralysed, and she could taste warm blood in her mouth. Struggling to focus, she could only look up as people looked down – most were concerned, others were simply curious; but they all dissolved into red as the blood crept into her eyes; and as their voices fell away – as all the sounds around her were suffocated – she could only think about the things she would never have the chance to do.

  The voices came back to her. She was back in the living-room. She screamed as a hand seized her shoulder and pulled her back. “It’s me,” Iain shouted, taking her into his arms. “It’s okay. It’s me.”

  “No more,” she pleaded, seeing him now, turning and clinging to him, waiting for the next entity to show her their death. “I want it to stop!”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her ear. “It’s my fault.”

  “I don’t understand,” she cried.

  “I remember…I remember thinking I wanted to be with you,” he went on. “I didn’t want to die alone. I didn’t realize they’d come back with me. I just wanted to come back home.”

  Before she co
uld respond, she felt the strength drain from his body; his arms slipped away from her, his knees buckled against her, and he slid down to the ground. Impulsively, she reached out to help him, but she knew it was too late. He lay at her feet, lifeless, clutching at the wounds that had killed him, his eyes wide open, stained with tears.

  It was all over. Satisfied, the entities drew back as they lost their substance, rapidly dissolving into shapeless shadows, into fragments, into nothing. The voices drew away into different directions. They had what they wanted now. There was no reason to stay.

  But she didn’t care; it didn’t matter. Numbed with shock, she sank onto her knees. Stooping down, she closed his eyes. “You’re home,” she said softly, stroking his face gently, thinking it was good that she had been with him when he died for the second time. The tears suddenly came to her eyes. “It’s okay, everything’s okay now. You’re home.”

  The Dangerous Hours

  "Are we ready?"

  "The camera's gone again."

  "Perfect timing. Aren't you supposed to check the equipment before we take them on locations?"

  "I did. You'll have to give me a moment. I've got another battery in my bag."

  "I don't suppose I've got much choice."

  "If you want the use of my equipment, no, you haven't."

  "Cass...?"

  Her hand shook and twisted at the curtain as she heard her name being called out so carelessly; out in the open, it was a piece of knowledge to be used by whatever hid in the house. He shouldn't have said her name.

  "Yes," she said evenly, watching the passers-by in the street. They were moving too quickly, and they seemed far away. It was the house; it was alienating them from the outside.

  "It shouldn't be long now."

  Reluctantly, she released the curtain. Sensing her, hidden things stirred in the house as she turned and looked at the room again; waiting, the extreme cold surrounded her, crept under her skin and stayed there as the room appeared to close in with the desire to confine her - with its scarred walls, rotting floorboards, a neglected, derelict space.