The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

  That was Vincent’s last thought before he finally fell into a listless sleep.

  ***

  Jean-Paul's body was discovered three days later.

  Hanging from a tree.

  He had been beaten beyond belief, battered, bruised, twisted limbs, eyes plucked from his head. Castrated. Nails yanked from his feet and hands.

  Around his neck a cardboard sign had been placed, something had been scratched upon it, but as it had been raining, whatever had been daubed there had been washed away.

  Not that Vincent knew any of this.

  He was in his grandfather’s room, in the corner, against the wall, rocking backwards and forwards, his legs tucked up under his chin.

  He’d been in bed at some point but he must have been sleepwalking, following the trail of a trumpet.

  After a while, he stood up. He caught a glimpse of his naked self in the mirror.

  He was horrified.

  His young body was covered in bites - some large, some small - what was happening to him?

  He touched his flesh. Tender. His chest, his stomach, between his legs...he winced...it hurt so much...but...

  ...the door opened.

  His mother let out a muffled scream as her hand covered her mouth.

  "Shit! I'm sorry..."

  She backed away, her eyes firmly closed.

  He covered his genitals, dashed to his own room, grabbed a t-shirt and shorts.

  In the hallway, his mother was leaning against the banister, a cigarette in her mouth. Her hands shook as she tried to light it, after a couple of attempts, she gave up.

  "I should have knocked." A pained expression on her face.

  “You didn’t know I was in there,” he stated. "What's the matter?"

  "Let's go downstairs," she took his hand.

  Vincent's father was holding his head when they entered the kitchen. He glanced up, a faraway look in his eyes. Tears stained his face.

  "Papa?" Vincent was confused.

  His father pushed back his chair, went to the cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Bourbon, broke open the seal with his teeth, spat out the cork.

  "Your grandfather is dead." He took a swig, scowled as he swallowed.

  Vincent's legs turned to jelly, his throat dry. His wounds itched.

  "It was the Amon, that cunting Amon - after all these years it finally took him."

  His mother, finally having lit her cigarette, tutted. "Stop talking such crap."

  Such venom in his father's eyes. He lifted his shirt, his scars evident for both to see. "No? Then what the hell did these to me?"

  No-one spoke. Vincent tried to take it all in. The tension in the room building, finally broken when his father spat. "I can't stay here anymore...you're stifling me." He slammed the bottle down, stormed out the back door, almost yanking it off its hinges.

  His mother stayed silent, just filled the kettle with water, placed it on the stove, turned on the gas. She picked up the Bourbon, replaced the cork, went to put it back in the cupboard but Vincent grabbed her hand.

  "You want some too?"

  The boy stared at her.

  "Don’t say I never warned you." Defeat in her voice as she turned her back and headed out of the kitchen.

  He waited a moment before putting the bottle to his lips and gulping back the booze, ignoring the screams of the kettle as it slowly boiled.

  ***

  "The house is too quiet. Where are the boys?" Vincent closed the fridge.

  Adele turned her back. "Help me with this." He pulled up her zip, kissed the nape of her neck. She let her hair fall back into place, picked up the glass of wine he'd just poured.

  "The boys?" He prompted.

  "Kevin is at Jacques'. Emile decided to stay home after all."

  Vincent played with his bow-tie. "You're okay with that?"

  Adele frowned. "Kevin or Emile?"

  He took back the glass. "Both."

  "Jacques' parents will be supervising, and Emile, well he's sixteen now, we've got to start trusting him some-time."

  "I guess." He mumbled.

  "He knows the rules."

  "Fine." Vincent seemed distracted.

  "I'm ready." She flattened down her dress.

  He snapped out of it, grabbed the keys from the table. "Let's go."

  "Back tomorrow afternoon, Emile, love you!" Adele called, picked up the small suitcase and followed her husband out of the door, praying that neither of her sons was going to let her down.

  ***

  Adele's phone vibrated.

  She looked at the display, rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

  "Emile?" She whispered.

  Only silence. She tip-toed to the bathroom, pulled the door behind her. Vincent was still sleeping. Luckily. They’d had an argument, he’d stormed out, gone for a drive he said, but he was back now. Snoring.

  "Emile?" She asked again. "What's the matter?"

  An odd sound, whimpering. A frightened animal.

  "Mother?" He could hardly get the word out.

  "Breathe Emile...catch your breath."

  "There...was someone...here..."

  "Where?" This wasn’t making sense.

  "In the house...there was a noise."

  "It's an old building, we live in the country, there's always going to be noises." Who was she trying to convince? Him or her?

  "It's not that."

  She ran a hand through her hair. "Lock your door Emile, stay in your room until..."

  He cut her off. "You're not listening to me. I heard a noise and..." He was sounding hysterical. "...remember those stories father used to tell us..."

  Adele sat down on the edge of the bath. “That's all that they were Emile, stories."

  "They're not. They're really not."

  "Of course..." Worry turning to frustration.

  "It was in the house."

  "You're mistaken honey, I'm sorry." She sounded exasperated.

  "It was just as father said it would be." Anger in his voice now.

  "It's almost four in the morning, can we talk about this later?"

  The bathroom door opened. Vincent stood there. "Who's that?"

  "Emile." She mouthed.

  "Doesn't he know what time it is?"

  She handed him the phone, shrugged.

  "Emile?"

  "I saw it papa. The Amon. It was here."

  Adele wanted to scream. Vincent appeared confused, perplexed.

  "What do you mean?”

  "You've got to believe me. It must have woken me up. I thought I heard someone playing a trumpet. I went downstairs. The front door was open which didn't make sense, as I remembered locking it. I heard someone behind me, I turned around and..."

  "...and what Emile?" Vincent's anger rising.

  "It was horrible, must have been seven feet tall...it stunk like a sewer...it just stood there staring. It raised a claw, pointed at me and then it said..."

  Vincent walked into the other room. The bed creaked as he sat down. "It spoke to you? What did it say?"

  Emile inhaled deeply. "You will pay for your father's sins." He whispered. “But that’s not all. After it spoke, it attacked me, I tried to get out of the way but I must have hit my head and I blacked out. When I woke...it looks like a bite...I think the damn thing bit me.”

  Vincent dropped the phone. "Bastards." He said. “Fucking bastards.”

  Adele, standing at the door, silently wept.

  ***

  At the funeral, Vincent's father was totally out of his face. Ever since Jean-Paul’s body had been cut down, cleaned up (as best as they could) and put in its box, he had hit the bottle and hit it hard.

  That same night, after his mother had turned in and his dad had passed out on the sofa, upstairs in the sanctuary of his own bed, Vincent tossed and turned.

  He was scared out of his wits. He had even propped a chair under the door handle. There was no way anything was going to get in tonight.

  It was cold but the sweat was pourin
g out of him. He put his hand under his covers, between his legs. It felt welt. Soaking.

  Vincent switched on his lamp.

  Blood.

  He got out of bed, went to the mirror. Another bite mark on his body, top of his leg, near his groin. Fresh. As if something had only just taken a chunk out of him. He grabbed a shirt from his washing basket, wrapped it around the wound.

  The door handle moved. He covered his mouth. His pulse raced. Too fast. He leant forward, hands on hips, tried to catch his breath. He could hear the trumpets.

  He ran back into bed, switched off the lamp.

  Under the door, there was a flickering of light from the hallway, casting a disturbing shadow: two feet, legs, but didn't look right...not quite human?

  The handle moved again, more forceful. A fist banged on the wood.

  Vincent pulled up the duvet. He was shivering.

  The door started to shake - as if it was about to come off its hinges.

  Yet, no sooner had it started, it stopped.

  Vincent waited a couple of seconds to be certain - the only sound now was his own heartbeat. He climbed out of bed, crossed the floor, ready to knock the chair out of the way and pull the door open, but he then silently groaned, the pain in his side made him smart, he put his ear to the wood and listened.

  Something was the other side of the door. It sounded hurt. Crying. Whimpering.

  Vincent backed away. He trembled. Couldn't control himself. His eyes rolled in his head and he fell backwards, unsure if anyone was there to catch him.

  ***

  Adele stubbed out her cigarette. "We need to get you to a hospital."

  “It's not as bad as it was." Vincent replied.

  Emile dropped his t-shirt. Several weeks had passed but the bite was still weeping. It didn’t appear to be healing.

  "Are you for real?" She asked.

  "I’m almost better papa, aren’t I?" He went to the fridge, took out a can of soda.

  "Maybe she has a point." Vincent suggested, without much conviction.

  "I've got stuff to finish." Emile exited, headed upstairs.

  "I won't stand for this anymore, do you hear me?"

  He looked up through blood-shot eyes. "What are you talking about?"

  Her reply was calm and measured, even if her body language betrayed her. "I know what happened to you...I'm not going to allow that to happen to either of my boys. It stops now understand?"

  "You have me confused with someone else," he whispered.

  She went to the door. "I said, it stops now.”

  He sighed, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. "But he saw it Adele, he saw it with his own eyes."

  She grabbed her handbag and left, the slam of the door coming moments later.

  Later, Kevin and Emile came downstairs to find Vincent carrying out repairs to the front door.

  "What are you doing?" Kevin enquired.

  "Changing the locks."

  "Why?" The youngest boy was intrigued.

  "They need changing." Vincent curtly replied, his words slurred.

  Kevin went to ask something else but Emile put a hand on his shoulder, shook his head and Kevin clammed up. The brothers knew that there was no reasoning with their father when he was in one of his moods. Instead, they went outside, into the backyard, sat on the swings hanging from the old oak tree.

  "I don't like that place." Kevin pointed.

  "The forest?"

  "I have bad dreams about it, nightmares."

  "You've never mentioned that before."

  Kevin frowned. "I don't tell you everything."

  Emile laughed, grabbed his brother's head, rubbed his scalp. "I guess you don't."

  The boys fought playfully until Kevin broke free. He was very red faced and didn't like it when Emile picked on him. He puffed out his cheeks, took several deep breaths. He grabbed a fallen branch, started hitting his swing. "Shall we go down there?" Suddenly full of bravado.

  Emile let the sun shine down on him. "You’ve grown some balls! Anyway you know father doesn't like us straying too far."

  "But how's he going to know unless you tell him?" Kevin taunted, throwing his branch into the air. He followed the track that led down to the forest.

  Emile continued to swing for a moment or two before jumping off.

  "For fuck's sake," he muttered before following his brother.

  Neither boy saw Vincent watching from the kitchen window.

  ***

  Things were different now.

  Vincent's father had been acting even more stranger than usual, spending a lot of time on his own in his tool shed. It seemed that even his mother had given up and just left him alone to work it out of his system.

  Each night, Vincent couldn’t sleep. Most days he was waking up with more of those strange bites on his body, with no idea where they were coming from. Eventually he summoned up enough courage to speak to his dad.

  Quietly he approached the door, could hear him inside banging about, sounded like he was drunk again so Vincent turned away, there was no point in trying to reason with him when he had been on the liquor.

  He dropped to his knees, out of eye-sight.

  Voices.

  His father was talking to someone - definitely someone in the shed there with him. Two distinct voices. Raised. Arguing.

  As Vincent went to move in closer, the door was thrown open. He baulked.

  The man that stood there was his father, that much was true, but he seemed so different, as if he hadn't eaten or drunk properly for a long time. His skin was pallid, his hair matted, almost had a full beard now. His limbs shook, his eyes red-raw. He was also bare-chested. His torso was covered in wounds similar to those on Vincent's own body.

  He held a rifle.

  "This has to end, and end now." He marched away. “We didn’t want this...none of us wanted this.”

  Vincent followed. This was going to end badly. He could feel it in his bones. He half hoped that his dad had drunk enough booze to pass out before anything stupid happened, but he couldn’t take that chance.

  He kept his head down, out of the way, a few paces behind, off the path, in the bushes - fully aware that if he was caught, he was more than dead.

  They were heading to the forest. But when they reached where the trees were sparse, his father halted, raised his arms aloft, waved the rifle above his head.

  "I'm going to hunt you down. You’ve stepped over the line this time." He shouted.

  Vincent paused, took a deep breath, crossed himself and walked in his father’s footsteps.

  ***

  Emile laid Kevin down on the kitchen table. They were both covered in mud, their clothes were ripped. There was blood. Lots of blood.

  "Mum!" He went to the sink, ran some water, soaked a towel, wiped Kevin's face.

  Their mother rushed in, pushed Emile out of the way. "What's wrong with him?" Panic in her voice.

  "We...we..." Emile stammered.

  Kevin groaned.

  Vincent entered, he looked the worse for wear, holding his bottle of Bourbon. “What the fuck is going on?”

  "They've been to the forest." Adele replied as if that explained everything.

  "...I'm okay..." Kevin whispered, fighting for each breath.

  "I’m calling the doctor," she picked up her phone from the counter.

  Vincent launched himself across the kitchen, grabbed Emile by the scruff of his neck, lifting him several inches off of the ground. "What were you doing in the forest? I told you to stay the fuck away from that place, didn’t I?”

  Emile knew he had to say something. "Kevin want..." was all he managed as his father slapped him across the face, dropping him to the floor.

  "What do you think you're doing? Leave him alone!" Adele screamed.

  Dazed, Emile got to his feet, wiped from the blood from his face, his lip had been split. There were tears in his eyes. "It was all my fault...we shouldn’t have gone there," he spluttered.

  Vincen
t took a swig from the Bourbon, then smashed it against the wall. "Doesn't anyone listen to me in this fucking house?"

  He stormed out the back door.

  Emile stood by the window. "He's gone to the shed."

  "Do you think you can walk?" Adele asked Kevin.

  "I...think so..."

  "Then let's go."

  Emile helped Kevin down from the table. Adele pocketed the phone, grabbed her car keys.

  The back door was thrown open, Vincent held the rifle in one hand, an axe in the other. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

  "The hospital," Adele stated, thinking on her feet. "We've got to get Kevin to the hospital. Look at him, he's not in a good way."

  Vincent shook his head. "We're staying here as a family. We have to face this together."

  "Face what? I don’t understand." Adele panicked.

  Vincent was shaking, a sinister smile on his face. "It took my grandfather and my father from me, I had to face it all alone...I'm not going to make that mistake again. I'm stronger now."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The Amon you stupid cunt. It's coming. It's coming for all of us," he paused. "Now, everyone upstairs. I have to show you something, it’s a brilliant plan.”

  “Plan? What plan?”

  Vincent dragged his wife and children up the stairs...

  ***

  Try as he might, it wasn’t easy for Vincent to keep up with his father who was marching with purpose. Hitting out at the trees, the branches, the bushes, anything that blocked his path. He ran, he walked, he crawled. Suddenly his father halted, fell to his knees. He must have seen something, something in the distance.

  He had stopped so quickly that if Vincent hadn't been paying such close attention then he would have bumped into him, but the boy regained his composure, managing to jump behind a fallen tree trunk before his father spun round, the rifle primed.

  "I know you are there," his father said.

  Vincent was about to reveal himself, his arms raised as if in surrender - convinced that he had been discovered but no, his papa was talking to something else, something out there in the foliage.