St Aymon

by George Gordon

  In our individual groups, we set off into the deep forest, calling Johnson’s name until our throats hurt. But there was no reply in the silent woods. No footprints, nothing—not one sign of him. Johnson, it seems, has vanished. My group consisted of the father and a few uncles, and they questioned me nonstop about Johnson’s last location. I saw him late last night before bed whilst he wrote on a piece of parchment, I told them, but I couldn’t understand the writing because it was written in Latin. For some unknown reason, they were very interested in this piece of information and, after we returned to St Aymon later, a few family members arrived at the log cabin and collected Johnson’s belongings and took them away.

  One thing I am not looking forward to is all the damn paperwork at the police station. It’s not like I already had enough to deal with, convincing the British family there was no hope of tracking their lost son. Now, I will have Johnson’s family to deal with too.

  Earlier, I tried to radio back to Vancouver, yet, once again, there was a problem with the connection and I ended up on another radio frequency. The transcript of the call is below:

  “HQ, Officer McPartland, reporting from the Northwest Territories. Come in, HQ. Over.”

  “…Hello…hello…Gold Town?…”

  “Is this police HQ Vancouver? I repeat, is this police HQ Vancouver?”

  “No…is…survivors…Vermont. I’m…hunted…by…Possessed. Do…you…coordinates…Gold Town?”

  “No coordinates to Gold Town. Where is that? Do you need help? Over.”

  “Please…I…coordinates. The Possessed are coming. All my group are dead.”

  “Dead? Where are you located?”

  “Vermont somewhere…don’t know…my name…separated…family…November 2026…”

  And that is where the line went dead. I was flummoxed. For the second day I’ve been on the radio with someone that thinks we are in the future. Crazy, the date given was 29 years from now. Imagine that, Mary. We will be old then! And our children will be not much younger than we are now. The call was strange—must have been kids messing around.

  The family wish to thank me for my hard work and have invited me for their evening meal. I have happily accepted of course and look forward to their food. You know, these rural communities are actually very open and friendly, the complete opposite of what I thought.

  I leave in the morning, with or without Johnson. Too long I have spent in this place now (8 days is far too long in the boreal forest). I hope you are nice and cosy back home and have me in your mind! Please—I know you can’t read this—but remember, please, please don’t watch the series without me (I will be annoyed!). I’m thinking about you always and hope to see you in a couple of days.

  Love you more than anything in the world,

  Liam

  Letter XIII

  Dear Mary,

  Jazz music is playing, sounds a lot like Miles Daivs. I can tell by the soft breakdown in the middle of the song, followed by the modulation to B. Been drunk for…I can’t remember.. four das now? Think I’m stil in the family home after I was invited for the meal. Not that I feel to down (how could you with Miles Davis in the background?) the soft piano lull. I swear the old grandmother is playing the piano, damn she is good. Ahh I feel sick, start go shiver. Wow, did I ever tell you how I wanted to be a jazz player back in the day? Maybe if I were anygood, this would be the letter when I pour my heart out and tell you that you were the reason between me and glory; future jazz legend. Well sadly, I was pretty dire. Me and old Deven from college used to drink at the jazz bars in Vancouver and listen. Miss lectures, jazz we wanted to listen to. Late nights, booze.

  I met a girl once there who broe my heart. I was a ttwisted mess for a year. One year of life ruined over a girl I lusted for. I once saw her out in jazz club with another man, nearly killed him. Could have been the ende. Stoof on a bridge that night for 2 hours planning to jump. A stranger talked me out of it, can’t remember his name tho, think e was called Jusses I reckon. Long hai guy.After that I sobered up and stopped the booze. That smell on the path way her. Johnson and I took, that was the smell of her. I rmeber it clearly. But now I have you, Mary, the love of my life. Sweet, kind Mary, a little boring yes, but I couldn’t get the other girl, she was too good for me.

  Damn that piano is sweet. No keep playing. The room is empty apart from me and the piano lady. Occasionally, the children come into the room and prick needles into my feet. It kinda hurts. Though, what do I care if in drunk and Miles Davis is playing in the background? Did I ever tell you I could have been a jazz player? Boring story really, I’ll tell you when I return.

  Not sure if I’ll return at this rate, how could you leav with the sweet music in the background. Johnson doesn’t know what heis missing. I kinda get Johnson now. He travels round, taking money off peoples family and not helping to return them. Good guy Johnson. The family like Johsnon too, I think anyway, for they keep asking me where he is. They want to know a lot about Johnson. Why I am with him? Johnson’s borin I tell them, No he’s a typicaly yank. Selfish, goes missing before I can return to that promotion.

  Anyway, its now nighttime and they are taking more blood from my arm. Or injectin it with something, not sure. Fires warm outside, they dance. I’m being led to the middle. I kinda don’t want them to, but why would I care with Miles Davis in the background. Write this letter while they dance near me, Damn that groove is nice. Big black dog looks fierce, it knows what I’m thinking, talks to me inside my head. Good dog. You know what, maybe we’ll get a dog when I get that promotion, it might spice upm our relationship a little you kno. We need it, you’re boring. I never wanted to be a cop. I wanted to be a jazz player, like Mr Davis.

  evil child. evil child. evil chilD. Evil child. eVil hatred. evIl. evil. hatred. Lucifer. evil child. Iona. evil child. Serpent. evil child. evil Child. iOna. evil child. ayMon. Ioana. ioNa. evil child.

  Letter XIV

  Dear Family,

  Rejoice! Life has changed. Much has changed since my last letter, so please, burn the last few you received in the post, for I no longer suffer from the toils of life, and now live every second in bliss, pure bliss. In all my life, I have never felt this content or happy about my current situation. Gone is the snow, the wind, the demons in the night. The woods are no longer terrifying; in fact, they are the total opposite: luscious, thriving forests, full of merry birds, deer, and bountiful fish that swim in the streams. My morning consists of feeding the grey squirrels who sit beside the windowsill of the cabin and wait for me to arrive (some of them are rather mischievous, very much like my younger siblings used to be). Fruits of every kind grow outside in the garden: apples, pears, bananas, grapes, mangos—you name it, it grows outside! I take the necessary steps to avoid any wastage of food, and I can even say my carbon footprint is negligible (never before has this been true).

  The air is warm but perfect for British tourists like me, as it is not too warm, just the perfect climate. Slightly cooler at night to allow me to sleep, but in the mornings the sun shines down onto my face once again. Rejoice, as well, for a miracle has occurred! My feet, I have my feet! I can walk again! And to rejoice about my good luck, I take long walks deep into the forests to cherish the use of my legs. Sometimes, I stay out for a few days at a time and explore the woods, sleeping in piles of leaves as comfortable as the softest bed you have ever laid on. The animals keep me company, and we trek for mile upon mile. The river streams are refreshing and pure and quench my thirst in a few gulps of the fresh water. Through the forest we travel into the rolling hills as the insects roam, and although I am thousands of miles from Nottingham, I am content with my being. The sweet honey the bees make pours from the local hive near the cabin and runs thick with natural goodness; sometimes, I feed it to the giant bears in the forest.

  Maybe, I guess, comes a time when we all settle in a place we call home. Finally, after much searching on Earth I have found peace, virtuous peace. If truth be told, I have always been quite lost in
life; that is why I drifted in and out of jobs throughout my years, never quite content at my being.

  I didn’t know where I was going in life until I met Lucy. Yes, I was confused. I felt down all the time, and I suppose life never panned out as I expected, but perhaps, one day, I’ll become someone you can all be proud of. Regarding Lucy, I feel no anger toward her—the opposite, in fact. I still cherish the memories we had in England and the time we spent together over there.

  But anyhow, I have to go now. For it is my time to tell you with a heavy heart that I am not coming home to England. But please do not despair! For our journey in this life is only a holiday until we meet in the next. I have already been amongst many of our friends and family; we feast each day and night.

  It is not how you fall that decides who you are, but how you rise. For in the face of adversity, do not lose faith in who you are. Do not become corrupt, or wise, and believe you have achieved nothing. Forget the past, for it holds regrets, nostalgia, and many what-ifs; embrace the present and what you can become, as in time, the world has a way of working out.

  Please remember, that love conquers all. Not hate, jealousy, or anger. A small act of reconciliation triumphs the greatest act of vengeance. Evil has no place in our beautiful home we call Earth. Humanity is something we should cherish every day we wake. And the beauty of the world is a miracle shared with family and friends. That is why, the next time you go out, think of the person in the street without love, and maybe we can find it in our hearts to share our love with others. Embrace, not reject, those who wish ill on you, and maybe you will see the joy of creation. All life is special, sacred.

  So, cast away the shackles of what destroys and corrupts you. Reject the stereotypes, selfishness, and envy of those around you, and in time we can all become united as one without the barriers of religion, the barriers of race and skin colour. Despair not in the memory of me never returning to England, but in the memory of the happy times we spent together back in Nottingham, France, or wherever we were. And know this, I am always beside you. I look forward to when we meet again. But until that time.

  With lots of love,

  Michael

  P.S.

  If fate deals you a deadly blow,

  Only chance can heal the pain.

  Through time these wounds may linger on,

  Life may never be the same.

  The wind may howl,

  The dogs may bark,

  And hope seems far away.

  For in this hour,

  When all seems lost,

  I say to you,

  God Willing, I will Succeed.

  Letter XV

  Dear Mother,

  I’m afraid our plans have changed and sadly we won’t be able to make it this weekend as Liam insists religiously on a romantic getaway. His choice of destination will surely shock you. He wants to visit the Northwest Territories. Can you believe it? I expect this is connected to his rapid decline in mental health.

  Mum, I constantly worry that the last investigation has damaged him permanently and the old Liam has been lost. For the first few days when he returned home, I took his silence and oddness as a result of fatigue from the mission, and that he would swiftly be back to his normal self. However, he has been back for four weeks now and nothing has changed; his mental health is as fragile as ever. Since we last spoke on the phone, the police too must have noticed a change, for they have given him absence with sick leave. He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t sleep—most nights I wake to find him standing beside the open window watching the moon. The only reason I am writing a letter is because, recently, he forced me to disconnect the phone line and turn the electricity off for the whole house. He howled like a tortured wolf whenever the TV, cooker, or any device that requires electrical currents were on, and constantly pleaded with me to turn them off.

  I’m scared, Mum. This Liam is not the one who left me a month ago, and I’m even avoiding friends and neighbours, embarrassed they will find him in this state. I got in touch with the police station, and Lieutenant Sydney came to see him the other day to try to get some life out of him, but to no avail. I interrogated the officer and made clear my anger. What has that mission done to him? Why is he like this? Who is this Johnson he speaks about?

  Always, Mum, he talks about this Johnson character. This unknown person fascinates him. Liam interrogates me with the same questions: wants to know where he is hiding, who sent him, and how to find him. I asked Lieutenant Sydney, but he appeared confused at the name too—he had never heard of a Johnson before and told me Liam was the only person sent on the investigation. After Liam’s persistent requests, I got in touch with a few private detectives to see if they could tell me more about this unknown man. I paid them all a decent dollar, but Liam was not happy with any of the pictures or information they sent back of the “Johnson.” I think it is all in Liam’s imagination, and he has suffered a brain trauma of some sort.

  The police paid for the top psychologist in Vancouver, but little good that did. No, it only seemed to wind him up, and he nearly attacked the doctor. He is suffering from post-traumatic stress, something neither the police station nor I can understand as we were contacted during the mission—and everything was fine then. He was only in the Northwest Territories for two nights!

  According to Liam, they found the missing British guy and his wife they were looking for, so the mission was just a routine inspection and nothing out of the ordinary. The stupid Brit was just too lazy to let his family know everything was fine in Canada (so the investigation was basically pointless).

  Now Liam is a stranger lost inside his own thoughts. Mother, I despair. I love him so much. The psychologist was this close to taking Liam away from me, said he was displaying psychotic schizophrenic traits. The man’s not leaving my side until he is well again, and we can finally have the wedding we dreamt of.

  All the dogs bark at him on the street, and our cat Missy hisses and runs away whenever Liam is around. Missy herself has now been missing for the last week—yet another misfortune. Mum, I can’t deal with all this. He was meant to come home, then we were going to buy that house near the lake and get married soon after. Now everything is on hold, and I am becoming more miserable by the day.

  Anyway, over the past week he has stabilised a little, but only after I promised to travel to the Northwest Territories with him for a weekend getaway. We are soon to leave, so hopefully I will call you soon from a hotel when we arrive.

  Love,

  Mary

  Letter XVI

  Dear Monsignor Francesco,

  Dark tidings, the end is nigh.

  It is with great regret that I inform you I won’t be able to report back to the council in Rome, as I have been slightly delayed on my latest mission in Canada. You know me as a man of honour and one of the last few who suffer this ominous role in the Catholic Church, please, I beg you, Monsignor, listen to what I have to say for the sake of humanity.

  The mission in Canada has neither been a success nor a failure; only time will tell the extent to what I have uncovered here. Yet know this, it is much worse than we assumed, far worse. The expected routine exorcism in the rural village was—to put things plainly—the tip of the iceberg. These weren’t typical spirit hosts, no, they were something I haven’t witnessed before, and I am one of our most experienced in the department. The tide is turning, Monsignor; the world I fear we know is about to change.

  I can’t go into the ins and outs of the mission in this letter for fear it ends up in the hands of evil entities. But the extent of the number of worshippers has been revealed to me here in Canada, and these aren’t your typical human worshippers. No, the evil has secretly been building an army of demons hosted in humans. A whole community, Monsignor. This is not the odd single case we expect each year.

  I fear—this is only a hypothesis—that they have established a gateway between the spirit world and Earth, something Father Egorio spoke of shortly before he went missing earlier this year.
We didn’t take him seriously at the time, but even now I can admit, I have witnessed much evidence to suggest his theory holds true. The demons are far stronger than any I have ever come across, and they seem to have an ulterior motive. They have been sent for a reason.

  Our secret society may be small, and I fear it may be hard to convince our Holy Father, but hopefully you will judge to seek his council. I know you are still deeply connected in the Vatican, Monsignor, so I implore you to utilise these connections while we still have time.

  I, however, may not be around in person for long. I suffered a deep trauma wound while trying to escape the demonic village, and…have been given less than three days to live. I won’t disclose the hospital’s location, but the surgeons here are amazed I am still alive.

  With a great regret, I left behind my companion on the trip—a Vancouver police officer called Liam, and at the gates of St Peter, I will be judged for my selfish actions. In the afterlife we will meet again soon.

  Lastly, Monsignor, for the sake of the time we studied in Valladolid together, please begin to recruit and educate priests to our cause. I know it is hard in this modern world, but we still have a part to play in protecting our fellow humans. God will not forsake us. Evil forces are gathering. War is coming.

  Father Johnson

  Letter to the reader

  Dear Reader,

  Many thanks for reading my first self-published novella. I appreciate your time and hope you enjoyed it. Please feel free to leave feedback as to what you liked (and what you didn’t like!). It will help me going forward.