The skin tore from Adam’s stomach, and his intestines pulled free, unravelling from the dripping cavity and vanishing into the maze of silver. Body liquidised, the creature hauled in his legs and reduced them to gore in a blink.
The explosion of blood covered everything inside the garage. The walls and ceiling dripped. The pool on the floor deepened as more and more burst from the slowing Megathon.
Jenny slid down the door.
The Megathon roared into life once more, the silver orb, tarnished with red splatters, spinning faster. The spikes retracted into its hand. Delicate metal digits moved and realigned along with the rest of the workings.
It reached out for Jenny.
Jake staggered around the rear of the garage, arms flailing out. He attempted to blink the blood from his eyes. The stench of meat filled his nostrils, and an almost mineral taste soured his tongue. He heard the sobs of his mother beyond the robotic slaughterer.
“Mum?” he called, his voice a high-pitched and trembling whine.
“Get out, Jake,” she panted. “It’s me it wants. Save yourself.”
“I can’t leave you!” he wailed, darting to the side and spying her.
“It’s too late.”
The Megathon’s hand drew close to her chest, the twitching mechanical fingers trailing ribbons of torn flesh.
Jenny closed her eyes and dipped her head, hair blown by the air disturbed by the machine. Her nightgown snagged and pulled taut, suddenly tangled in the hand of the Megathon.
A loud ting! rang out, and her head jerked forwards.
The nightgown fell back against her chest. She opened her eyes and looked up.
The Megathon stood upright, towering over her. Its rotating head bumped against the garage ceiling, causing another rain of dust. It lifted its arms upwards.
Jake saw the machine wasn’t moving smoothly anymore, its motions marred by wrenches and shakes.
He glimpsed his mother’s wedding ring.
Caught in the mechanism of the creature’s hand, the ring sparkled among the blood-streaked metal. It vanished as the Megathon once again reconfigured, only to reappear at its shoulder. Jake watched the ring on its journey; disappearing in the stuttering cogs one second before emerging at another point on the silver humanoid.
The Megathon’s movement grew more erratic, still one moment, then thrashing its arms and stamping its feet the next.
Jenny flopped onto her front and crawled through the sticky mess on the floor, taking a wide arc to avoid the creature.
It scratched at its chest, fingers trying to pluck the diamond from the workings.
The ring lodged between two minute gears, the metal straining against the obstruction.
A cracking sound rang out as a spring popped free, flying out and hitting the wall. The sphere head spun faster. The machine appeared desperate to free the ring, ripping out small pistons and lattices of silver as it dug deeper.
The garage filled with noises of snapping metal and hissing, as pockets of pressure were released. Small parts blew away.
Jenny crawled faster, passing the Megathon and reaching Jake at the back of the garage. She grabbed the leg of his wet jeans and with help, managed to climb to her feet on the slippery floor.
“Mum!” he cried. “Are you okay?”
“Yes! Go! Go!”
He slid his arm around her waist and led her towards the gaping hole in the wall.
The head of the Megathon spun with a drill-like whine that echoed around the garage. Its wild lurching hammered against the walls, threatening to bring the building down.
Jake pushed his mother through the wide hole. The ascending noise of the machine inspired a fresh bout of panic that washed over his dulled senses.
Jenny fell in a heap on the cold grass, her soaked nightgown a clinging fabric lover.
Jake climbed through the hole and landed on his feet. Wasting no time, he grabbed Jenny under the arms and, roaring with effort, pulled her up. Together, they fled across the garden and towards the house.
From inside the garage, the music of destruction played on, reaching a crescendo with a deep explosion. The ground pulsed.
Jenny and Jake ran on, expecting the building to fall and to shower them with dust and metal at any moment. Clinging to each other, they passed the front of the garage and approached the house. Jake lurched to a halt, keeping hold of his mother’s nightgown and tugging her back.
“What are you doing?” she screamed, scrambling forwards and to break his hold. “We have to get inside and get help!”
“Look!”
She gazed up at the house.
The man in black stood inside by the kitchen window, watching their advance.
“No…”
Jake pulled at her arm. “It’s him. We have to go!” He struggled to move the weight of his mother.
“It was him,” she muttered. “He brought that machine…”
Jake grabbed her by the shoulders.
“I’ll kill him, Mum. I’m gonna fucking destroy him, for Adam. But not now.”
“His machine killed…it killed Ad-”
Jake burst into tears and shook her.
“We have to go!”
He dragged her past the snarling face of the man, down the side of the house and through the gates. They ran out onto the empty street.
“Where can we go?” Jenny bawled.
The McGuire house stood dark; all the curtains closed and the lights out.
“There,” Jake said, pointing down the street.
Frank Harper stood on the pavement outside his house, hand held over his eyes to block the glare from his porch light, watching them.
“Help us!” Jake shouted, hauling Jenny down the street. She limped along beside him, soaked red nightgown slapping against her belly as she ran.
“What the hell is going on?” Frank snapped. “Have you any idea what time it is? That damn music-”
“Get inside,” screamed Jake. “Get us inside and lock the door!”
Frank’s mouth hung open as they ran under the beam of a street light, showing the vast amount of blood covering the both of them.
“What the…?”
“Go,” gasped Jake.
Frank backed up a few steps then turned and ran back to the house. In the doorway, he yelled to Anne and stepped aside as mother and son dashed in. The hall instantly stank of raw meat.
“Lock the door,” howled Jake. “For God’s sake, lock the door!”
Prowlers
1.
Through the clear night sky, the glow of the moon illuminated Eleanor’s thin curtains, projecting a dusky light into the room. Her eyes, suffering from old age and her love for reading, struggled to focus. She stared at the furniture in her dim room. It all looked monochrome in such low light, like a photograph of a Victorian boudoir. Her wardrobe stood at the wall in front of her bed, tomorrow’s clothes already hung up and waiting. To its right, her chest of drawers, the surface full of glass bottles, jewellery boxes and packets of pills. Alternative medicines were all well and good, but nothing eased her arthritis like her little round friends.
Eleanor heard Joe’s bedroom door open and listened to him walk to the bathroom. She lay in bed, her back propped up by a heap of pillows. Even so mentally exhausted, sleep seemed a mere fantasy.
Though she’d waited for years for Arthur to come back, the events had rattled her.
And now I have James Elliot Hearnsworth to deal with…if that’s his real name.
His name made little difference, but his presence concerned her. Obviously, he had some knowledge on the strange events, otherwise why would he be here? And what of this mana he mentioned? She wondered what part it played in this phenomenon. The man left too many unanswered questions for Eleanor, even if she forgot about his photograph in the encyclopaedia.
Those big, blue eyes, so predatory, she thought with a shudder. He wanted something badly, and I don’t think we have it.
On the bright side, her headache had completely v
anished. She hoped it wasn’t the start of something new, another irritation to add to her catalogue. She’d had her fill with joint pain and frailty. Migraines would simply be unfair. The pain had not returned, but she worried the painkillers merely kept it at bay.
Her biggest disappointment, which plagued her thoughts all day, was the wasted chance to contact Arthur. She refused to let this chance slip through her fingers, and no one could stop her. Not only could she be with Arthur again, but also her questions would be answered.
What lies on the other side?
If Hearnsworth wants this knowledge for himself, or just wants Arthur’s spirit gone, he’ll be in for a nasty surprise. I might be old, but I’m not completely helpless.
She rolled her eyes and groaned as music blasted across the street. The Dean twins had obviously returned and taken up their usual residency in their garage. The music sounded louder than ever, some kind of heavy dance tune. All Eleanor listened to the duff-duff-duff of bass. Grateful her bedroom lay at the rear of the house, she imagined how awful it must be for Joe at the front.
Trying to ignore the music, her thoughts fell back to Hearnsworth. She needed to talk to him again and find out exactly who he was and what he had planned. She only knew he really, really liked tea.
If only I could read minds, she thought.
Calling it a night, she returned some of the pillows to Arthur’s side of the bed, the right side that hadn’t been used for years. Lying back down, with only her head poking out the top of the duvet, she closed her eyes.
“…Ele…”
A whisper, one word spoken with little force behind it. And Ele. Only one person had called her that…
Her eyes shot back open, scanning the dark room for the source of the voice. She listened, lying perfectly still.
Duff-duff-duff continued the Dean’s stereo on the other side of the street.
Damn them!
Several minutes passed with her lying in the dark, listening for the slightest sound.
“Arthur?” she asked the dark room. “Arthur? Are you here?”
Duff-duff-duff replied the music.
“You’re going crazy, you senile old fool!” she cursed herself, rolling over away from the window. “Hearing things going bump in the night now.”
“…Ele…no…”
She quickly flipped back, reaching for the lamp on her bedside table. The room lit up as she pulled the short string cord. The shadows around the wardrobe and drawers shrank back.
Eleanor sat up and glanced around. She even leaned over the side to take a quick look under the bed.
A fresh terror surfaced. The sudden headache and now aural hallucination. Could they be warning symptoms? A sign she wasn’t right? Eleanor had seen many of her old friends lose the fight to senility, brains aged to mush.
Please don’t let it have caught up with me. Could Arthur’s ghost be me losing it?
“Hush up,” she told her thoughts before they spiralled to panic. “There’s no need to overreact. It could be many things.”
She clicked off the lamp and settled back down, finding the comfortable groove her body had carved in the mattress. Once again, she lay in the dark, her eyes no longer adjusted.
The mattress sank near her feet, and her breath caught in her throat. Someone had sat on the edge of the bed.
She froze. The intruder had sneaked into the room in silence. Eleanor strained to hear him breathing.
The lamp cord hung about twelve inches to the left of her face, and she considered whipping her hand free of the duvet and turning it on, catching her intruder by surprise. She remained too afraid to move.
The vision of Hearnsworth grinning down at her in the dark popped into her head; his red hair hanging in mad spikes from beneath his bowler, and his lips peeled back from pristine white teeth. Those eyes, those big blue orbs, would swallow her up.
Like a frightened child, she lay completely still, wishing her silent visitor away.
The seconds ticked by on the clock on the wall, still her mysterious visitor remained on the end of her bed.
“…Ele…”
The voice sounded like a sigh; she could barely hear it. She turned her head, and after a hard swallow, peered up.
The poor light through the curtain hinted at the side of a face. It seemed disembodied, hovering over the bed to stare down at her. As the figure became clearer, Eleanor saw a faint outline of the shoulders and arms, but looking at the figure directly, she glimpsed her chest of drawers right through it.
The bed springs creaked as the weight of the sitting figure eased, as though he’d suddenly become lighter.
The only part that appeared solid was the face. The light caught the large, squashed nose, the corner of the square jaw and the right eye, deep and dark.
“Arthur?”
The noise from the Dean’s garage stopped as she said his name. Her voice sounded alien and vulnerable in the sudden silence.
The vague form of Arthur smiled.
“I…I…” Eleanor stuttered. Her words caught in her throat and refused to emerge.
Seeing her struggles, Arthur reached out.
She pulled her arm out from beneath the bed sheets and tried to take his hand. She passed straight through it, feeling only a slight tingle instead of flesh and bone.
“No…Arthur…”
He slowly shook his head.
Eleanor understood. Excitement and relief swept through her, edged with a sharp pang of loss. She’d waited years for this moment. If not for Joe, she’d willingly go back with Arthur, wherever that may be.
A crash rocked the street.
Arthur continued to gaze down at her, his eyes full of sorrow and pity. He appeared starved; his normally plump cheeks sagging, his lips thin, eyes sunken. His mouth shaped words, yet Eleanor heard nothing.
“Arthur,” she whispered. “I can’t hear you.”
She tried to hold him as he winced, like he felt some unseen blow. Her hands again passed through his body, experiencing the same static-like tickle on her skin.
He faded, slowly at first; in moments his face matched the transparency of his body. The bedsprings moaned again, the pressure on them receding.
Arthur looked in agony, his eyes squeezed shut tight, face contorted in pain. Decaying to nothing, he mouthed one word over and over again.
Despite his silence, Eleanor realised his warning.
Run.
A final solemn stare, and her dead husband disappeared.
She reached out again.
“Arthur!”
She sank back down onto her pillow. Her breaths squeezed out in rattling gasps, and her heart drummed out a chaotic rhythm.
“Arthur,” she whispered, tears cascading down her face. “Don’t leave me again! Please…”
The dark bedroom remained still, not even the curtains stirring.
Her gaze lingered on the spot where Arthur had gone, hoping for a flicker of movement, for anything…
Nothing. No sound except for the blood rushing in her ears.
She ran her tongue over her parched lips and gripped her sheets. His message, that one word: run. Why should she run? Was there somewhere she had to go?
Or is something coming for me?
Hearing a scratch, like an anxious dog pawing the wood in an attempt to get inside, her attention shot to the bedroom door.
Eleanor pulled the duvet up to her chin. Her heart stepped up a gear. Once again, she resisted the urge to turn on the bedside lamp. If Arthur had returned, she might not see him.
Another series of quick scratches, louder this time, more insistent.
She snatched a breath.
“Arthur,” she whispered. “Please don’t do this!”
Once again, she remembered his warning. But if the wolf is at your door, where can you run?
More scrapes and scratches cut through the silence. The door creaked ajar.
Gripping her blanket tightly, Eleanor peered into the gap.
The do
or swung wide.
She held her breath, too afraid to look away should something step into view. She counted the seconds, each one slowing her racing heart a fraction. Ten seconds passed, then twenty…
Her fear ebbed into curiosity. Something had knocked the door open with some force, yet Joe hadn’t come running.
Is he okay? she thought. It isn’t like him to just stay in bed when-
She screamed as the monsters burst through the doorway and scuttled across the carpet.
2.
Joe sprinted across the bedroom, desperate for the toilet. He’d never been a bed wetter and didn’t aim to start at nearly thirty. He made a mental note to either stop drinking beer before bed or to guarantee a pit stop before turning in.
In the bathroom he relieved himself, eyes half open under the harsh glare of the overhead light. He scratched his behind through his boxer shorts and yawned. Careful not to let his aim waver and splash on the floor, he finished off, tucking himself away and flushing. He placed the toilet seat down; ever the courteous grandson.
He negotiated the dark landing and stopped to listen at his grandmother’s door. Silence. He assumed she was asleep or reading. Satisfied all was well, he returned to his bedroom.
Joe now checked both the house and his grandmother a lot since that morning. It amazed him the effect a few minor strange events had on your confidence. With the phantom smells, weirdoes in bowler hats and criminals locked in wardrobes, it felt only natural to be a little more wary.
He entered his room and quietly closed the door. It hadn’t changed since he had left at twenty one. The walls were still adorned with aging posters of outdated sports cars, bikini models who’d be married and sagging by now, and bands who had long since gone their separate ways. He’d neither the time nor the heart to redecorate, not on these fleeting visits.
He flicked on the small television and walked to the window. He thought he’d heard some strange noises from the street. Parting the curtain, he stared down onto Penny Crescent.
The street was empty. Even the windows of the Dean house were dark.
About to drop the curtain back and return to bed, Joe stopped and looked again.
The tarmac of the road, in the middle among the dividing white lines, rippled like a calm surface of a lake disturbed by a breeze.
The Collector Book One: Mana Leak Page 17