Run, you pathetic cunt!
Danni turned back to the demon; the thing that had been a constant evil in her life.
‘Fuck you,’ she shouted. ‘I’m never running from you again.’
Instead, she sprinted towards it.
‘Mom!’ she heard Leah yell from behind. As she ran, Danni kept her concentration on her son, who was right now fighting for his life.
Once close enough, Danni launched herself forward with a roar and collided into the creature shoulder-first. She felt its arms take hold of her; its grip strong, like iron.
Immovable.
It held her in both hands and twisted her, drawing her back into its cold, bony chest. Though it had her, Danni saw that it had released Alex, who was gasping and wheezing.
Danni lifted a foot and pushed it forward, making contact with her son’s backside. She kicked out, forcing him away from her.
Away from it.
‘Leah!’ she screamed as she felt the demon press its large hands around her head. ‘Now. Get out of here.’
‘Mom!’ her daughter cried back.
‘Now, Leah!’
Danni felt an incredible pressure on her head, and she let out a cry of pain. She was lifted from the floor by her head and dangled helplessly like a doll.
Die, you wretched bitch.
She ignored the monster as it taunted her. Instead, she called out again as she felt her skull fracture. The pressure building inside her cranium was immense, and the pain unbearable.
‘Leah… run!’
Thankfully, even though she clearly did not want to, and was crying in fear and heart-wrenching sadness, Leah obliged. She grabbed her brother’s arm and pulled him quickly from the mill, practically carrying him over the threshold. Poor Alex was disorientated and weak, and his legs were far more unsteady than normal.
But Leah didn’t give up, and she didn’t let him stop.
Danni watched as they continued on, away from the dreaded place.
The crushing pain and pressure she felt inside of her head as the demon pressed down harder was becoming unbearable. No matter how much she screamed, it would not let up. The thing would not claim her soul, but in its anger and hatred, it was instead going to take her life.
She heard a crunch and felt an excruciating spike of agony.
The end was here for her now.
Danni was scared. And sad.
Sad that she would never see her husband again, never have him hold her in his arms.
And sad that she would not see her children grow up and would never again tell them how truly, and utterly, she loved them.
She screamed again as she felt her skull compress. A burst of pressure forced its way through her eye sockets. Danni knew in that last, terrifying moment, that her eyeball had come free.
Still the pain increased.
In her last moments, she prayed for Leah and Alex to carry on and not turn around.
Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back. Keep running.
Her screams were snuffed out as her head collapsed completely.
31
LEAH KEPT GOING.
She wanted to look back, but even though it took everything she had, she didn’t.
She knew that she would be horrified by what she saw if she did.
So she ran, pushing her body, half-pulling, half-carrying Alex past the blazing house that still burned fiercely, all the way down to the road at the bottom of the drive.
Leah’s heart ached.
She was crying almost uncontrollably and wanted to break down.
She knew that by now her mother was dead. Her father too.
Both parents, stripped away from her in the blink of an eye.
By something that should not be real.
How was anyone, let alone a seventeen-year-old girl, ever supposed to come to terms with something like that?
Up ahead, at the end of the long drive, Leah saw the flashing of blue lights against the night sky.
A murmur of voices.
Leah kept going, holding off the impending breakdown she could feel coming. She had to get her brother away from this place for good.
She had to protect him.
‘Leah,’ Alex said, wheezing. He sounded exhausted. ‘Mom and Dad. They…’
He trailed off, and Leah didn’t answer. She didn’t want to have to tell him about any of that now. Not yet.
They broke through to the road, and Leah observed the scene.
She saw their overturned SUV—the family car of a family that was no more—flanked by police cars with blue flashing lights. Officers in high-visibility coats were blocking off the road. Another car, presumably a member of the public, was pulled over to the side of the road. Leah guessed that the driver had come across their crashed vehicle and phoned it in to the police.
‘I’m scared,’ Alex said, his voice no more than a whisper.
Leah set off again, away from the horror behind them and towards the safety of the flashing lights.
‘Help,’ she called, her voice croaky and weak. ‘Help us.’
The officers turned to face them.
‘Help us,’ she called again, louder this time, finding her voice. The emotions that she had been suppressing so they could escape came bubbling out.
‘Help us! Help us! Help us!’
She continued to scream it, over and over, and dropped to the floor. She cried, letting everything wash over her. The police moved towards them.
She tried to keep screaming it—help us—but her voice was lost, giving way to hysteria. A blanket was laid over her shoulders, and one of the officers was asking her something.
She could barely hear him.
She continued to cry.
IN THE WEEKS and months that followed, Alex and his sister went through a lot.
After finding them, the police investigated the mill. They found the bodies of their parents, but that was all.
The story Leah told them about the ghosts, about that demon, were not believed.
Of course they weren’t.
The police’s best guess was that his mother and father had somehow, for some reason, managed to kill each other. Though they couldn’t conclusively prove this.
They went to live with their aunt and her family; a husband and single child.
It was hard.
Leah withdrew.
The experience at Bishops Hill scarred her deeply, and Alex often wondered if she would ever recover.
For Alex, however, it was easier.
The experience had affected him, too, of course, but in a different way.
He remembered being in that mill, hanging helplessly, high up in the dark.
While he did, the thing that lived there spoke to him. Relentlessly.
At first, he resisted it.
But it would not let up. It whispered things, terrible things, awful things.
But they did not seem awful.
He listened to it.
And, over time, he wanted to hear the thing speak again.
He yearned for it.
And knew that, sometime soon, he would return to Bishops Hill. He would return to what was left of the house, and, more importantly, to the mill.
He would return home.
And he would once again see the demon that called to him.
THE BRASS FARM MURDERS
If you’ve read my blog over at www.leemountford.com you will know that I drew inspiration for The Demonic from some real life events.
Whilst The Demonic is an original story, some of the history revealed in its back story is based on real life events that happened in my home town of Ferryhill, in the North East of England.
In 1682 there was a farm know as Brass Farm—named after the Brass family, who owned it. One evening the parents of paid a visit to a friends, leaving their three children at home.
Employed on the farm was a young farm-hand; Andrew Mills, who was seen as a little slow, but harmless. On this night, however, the town of
Ferryhill was to see a different side to Andrew Mills.
The parents returned home in the early hours the next morning to find their three children slaughtered. Reports on how they found Andrew vary—some say he fled, only to be tracked down, while others say he simply sat outside waiting for the parents to return home, mumbling about how sorry he was.
His testimony tells of how something visited him that night. Some monstrous entity that got inside his head and demanded he kill the children. Fearing it was The Devil, he took up his axe and chased the children to a bedroom. They locked themselves in, but he forced his way inside—breaking the middle child’s arm as he did. Once inside, he set about them with the axe, concentrating on the head and upper body (and cutting their throats to stop their noise!).
He then tracked down the youngest girl who was hiding under a bed. She pleaded with him to spare her life, which seemed to work, and he set down the axe and left. But Andrew Mills recounted how the demon visited him again on the landing, telling him; 'Go back, thou hateful wretch, resume thy cursed knife, I long to view more blood, spare not the young ones life.'
So Andrew returned and—as he put it—dashed her brains out.
He was tried and executed, hung in a gib for all to watch as he slowly died.
To his last breath, he claimed to be under the possession of a demon (or more precisely, The Devil), who made him carry out these acts.
The only thing that remains of Brass Farm is the old corn mill. I've actually been up to it myself, and as kids it was said that if you ran around it anticlockwise thirteen times—on the stroke of midnight on Halloween—Andrew Mills would re-appear and reenact his heinous crimes. This time on whoever called him back.
Not that this ever happened... that I know of.
But even so, it is interesting to see how much inspiration can be found right there on your doorstep if you just look hard enough.
So, whilst names and places have been changed for my book (Ferryhill has become Bishops Hill), this was the inspiration for the character of Thomas Kerr, and something I thought that might be of interest.
ALSO BY LEE MOUNTFORD
Horror in the Woods
When Ashley and her friends ventured into those woods, their trip turned into a horror far beyond what they could have ever imagined.
For this is the territory of the violent and grotesque Webb family. A group of psychopaths who have a taste for human meat. And they are hungry!
Ashley and her friends must face this evil head on and discover the shocking secret behind their existence.
In the vein of THE EVIL DEAD, TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE, and WRONG TURN—HORROR IN THE WOODS will leave you exhausted and drained. A brutal, violent tale that hurtles along at break-neck pace—one that horror fans should not miss!
Horror in the Woods
THE DEMON OF DUNTON FARM
Enjoy The Demonic?
Find out exactly what happened on that cursed land in Bishops Hill all those years ago, and relive the most grisly events in its history.
The horrifying truth surrounding Demon that dwells on the farm will be revealed in this prequel to The Demonic.
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SHORT STORY CONTRIBUTIONS
And now, as a little extra for the people supporting this book, I have the pleasure of including two short stories by some fantastic authors.
First, we have The Muse, by Normal Turrell. It is a wonderfully weird horror story with hints of Lovecraft. If you enjoy it (and you will) I highly recommend you check out his other works—they will be well worth your time.
Next up is a deliciously creepy ghost story by Raven Blackwood. Raven is an emerging author of classical ghost stories that will really get under your skin. Her first book, The Haunting of Grove Manor, is coming soon. Be sure to pick it up!
THE MUSE
By Norman Turrell
Gregory was excited about visiting Professor Richards’ country home. His last submission to ‘Magik and Myth’ - ‘Angels vs. Demons: Contradictions in Anton LaVey’s interpretation of John Dee’ must have made a big impression.
The professor’s qualifications were astounding. A true polymath. He was known just as well for his mathematical computer art as he was for his contemporary music compositions.
Gregory had first seen him at a Physics lecture at Oxford five years earlier and been entranced by his ability to bring the equations to life. That’s when he’d started following the professor’s career. In the last two years, there had been distinct change. The professor had suddenly become reclusive and, obscurely, started a magazine devoted to a history of the mystical arts.
His University studies complete, Gregory had been inspired by his idol’s latest interest and began to research the same field. His father had recently passed, and the inheritance meant he could indulge himself. He found the study of magics to be greatly engaging; so rich in history, shrouded in secrecy. He spent some time and travel, connecting with magic resources around the world to source novel information.
The drive out of London had been difficult - the motorways always horrendously jammed these days - so the sat nav announcing ‘Turn left. In one hundred yards you will reach your destination’ was a relief to hear.
Gregory had to duck down to the steering wheel to see up to the towers rising from the professor’s classic Georgian home. The sun was getting low and the clear sky above took on a rich, darkening blue.
The car pulled up at the large oak doors and Gregory wondered if he should park it somewhere. His quandary was curtailed as the professor appeared a moment later, opening the door with a smile. He wore tweeds and a jacket, a large book tucked under his arm. Removing his glasses, he waved.
“Gregory,” he shouted. “Come in, quickly. This way.”
Gregory was taken aback by his friendly manner. They'd discussed a few things over mail, and one abrupt video call about the publication. Nothing as informal as this greeting.
The professor had already disappeared inside. Gregory entered the large hall; a classic of its design with its polished floor and ornate ceiling.
“This way,” said the professor. “My office,” he added, rushing ahead and through a door to his right.
The office was filled with books and antique curios. The professor was sitting in front of three computer screens and, for the moment, appeared to have forgotten his guest. Gregory took the opportunity to look around, unwilling to interrupt.
The floor to ceiling bookcase had the items he would expect: large tomes on legends, myths and the occult, both very old and very new. He moved to a glass bell jar containing a black, withered hand, the finger nails yellow, long and sharp. Another contained a straw voodoo doll, complete with pins stuck all over its body, plus one in each eye. A grotesque, wooden mask glared at him from its stand, a painted red tongue hanging down to its chin between pointed fangs.
“Here!” said the professor, pointing to the screen. “It’s the last piece. Look.” One screen showed an auction website displaying a picture of a half metal coin. “Can you see the inscription?”
The professor scribbled a copy onto a piece of paper and began deciphering it by cross referencing to books laid open on the table. Gregory noticed the table was full of notes and symbols, some with mathematical equations, some accompanied by exquisitely detailed drawings of machines and strange creatures. A white board, standing behind the desk, was filled with the same, their meaning unfathomable to the young man.
He had no idea what the coin was the last part of. As the professor seemed far too busy to ask, he stood by patiently as the man flipped pages and scribbled furiously.
“Excellent,” said the professor finally, closing the books and turning to face him, his eyes flashing blue through his spectacles. “Now. You’re my next project.” His wide, manic smile making Gregory feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“A drink!” shouted the professor as he jumped up, dashing to an occasional table with a decanter of wine. H
e poured two glasses. “Here. Sit here. No time to lose.”
Gregory took his drink and joined the man to sit in two red leather armchairs in front a grand, but unlit, marble fireplace.
“Thank you for inviting me here, Professor,” said Gregory, finally finding an opportunity to speak to his host.
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The professor reached down to the side of the chair and retrieved a file. He opened it and began mumbling. “Exemplary qualifications... distinction at Oxford. Only child... family deceased. Yes, all in order. Good. Good.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What?” The professor looked up. “Oh, I see. I’m sorry. Please. Drink.”
Gregory decided it might be a good idea to still his increasing anxiety and took a swig from the glass.
“Excellent. Now, put the glass down before you pass out.”
“What?” said Gregory, already starting to blink to try to clear his vision.
The professor jumped up and grabbed the glass as Gregory’s grip loosened. “I don’t want my carpet damaged.”
The professor stood holding the glass as the young man slumped in the seat.
Gregory woke, immediately aware of the tape over his mouth. He pulled at the ropes fastening his wrists and ankles securely to his seat. His shirt had been removed and, as he struggled, he looked rapidly around the room, lit only by candles. The professor wore a black, ritual robe. He held a large, leather bound book open in one hand, waving the other, all the time half muttering, half singing strange words. Gregory tried to speak and struggled harder, but the chair itself was secured to the floor.
There was a humming sound - a building resonance - that permeated his body. It made his head buzz. The room itself seemed to be shaking, vibrating, the walls appearing to blur. The professor closed the book and stared at the wall in front of Gregory.
The Demonic: A Supernatural Horror Novel Page 18