In the Devil's Name

by Dave Watson

  Sam and Griff doubled up with hilarity again, the all consuming mirth of strong LSD. Their hoots of laughter echoed and reverberated loudly around the stony chamber. Cairnsey joined in the laughter, though he wasn’t sure why.

  Phil wasn’t tripping though, and had been paying devout attention to Griff's tale. It seemed very important somehow that he finish it.

  “You were telling us about Sawney, Griff. Something about the killing chamber,” he reminded his friend.

  Griff managed to get control of himself again.

  “Oh yeah, that was it. Sorry, got distracted by the flame on the candle there. Look! It’s like a wee dancer shakin’ its ass there!”

  “Hey, your right!” Sam exclaimed in childlike joy, noticing the usually unremarkable spectacle which now so entranced his mate and leaning in close to the candle flame himself, completely fascinated. “Check this out, Cairnsey. We’ve got a fire dancer in the cave!”

  Cairnsey looked round.

  “Cool!” he said. “That’s brilliant! You should check out the walls, man. They feel really weird!”

  Sam and Griff suddenly found the bare rock as intriguing as Cairnsey had, and forgot all about the dancing candle flame, immersed in running their fingertips across the chamber wall.

  Phil was becoming more agitated by the second, frustrated by his mate’s inability to focus on one thing for more than a few seconds. He leaned forward and shook Griff by the shoulder.

  “The story, Griff,” he said with urgency in his voice.

  “What story?”

  ”For fucks sake, something about the killing floor!”

  “This is the killing floor,” Griff said, as if Phil was arguing with him.

  “What?” Phil asked, suddenly cold.

  “This chamber is the killing floor,” Griff repeated distractedly, not looking at Phil and stroking the wall. “They used this room because it’s closest to the beach. Back then, the tide used to come up higher than it does now, and when it did, this chamber would have been underwater. The sea would come in and wash it clean, take out all the bones and shit, which is why people would find them washed up on other beaches for miles around. Through there,” he gestured in the direction of one of the dark passages, ”was the storage cave where they used to keep body parts on the hooks and in the barrels. Check out the wall, man! It’s awesome!”

  The cold feeling in Phil's stomach radiated out through his body until it consumed every inch of his flesh. He could hear his friend's laughter in the background, but it seemed more like a compressed recording of the sound. He had the feeling of being a half step out of the real world, where everything around him seemed slightly different, as though what he was seeing and hearing was a split second delayed somehow. On top of this, the creeping apprehension he’d been feeling all day following his forgotten dream the previous night returned, but it came back with a vengeance; stronger and colder. A layer of chilled sweat had seeped out from his pores and now covered his shoulders. It began running in trickles down his sides making him shiver.

  This was not good. Something definitely felt wrong.

  He’d passed up the trip thinking that some quality time with the bong would calm him down, and for a while it had worked, but now the subtle, unsettling feeling of something being off kilter heightened in a sudden spike. His shivers became shakes.

  Phil ran his fingers through his hair and they came away wet with perspiration. Cold sweat beaded the goose bumped skin of his forehead and ran down into his knotted brows. He hunched forward, screwing his eyes shut and trying to take deep breaths.

  Get it together, for fuck's sake.

  The cold sweat on his shoulders and forehead now covered his entire body, and he trembled so hard that he imagined he could hear his bones rattling loosely in their sockets. He could sense his friends talking around him and recognised the words, but couldn’t make sense of the conversation.

  Sam, who was sitting next to Phil went to pass him a joint and noticed his friend’s haunted demeanour.

  “Shit, Phil, you ok?” he asked with genuine concern in his voice.

  Phil's head snapped up at the mention of his name.

  “What?”

  ”You all right? Look like you whiteying,” Sam said.

  “I’m… I don’t know, man. Something’s wrong.”

  Griff and Cairnsey caught the sudden tension in the atmosphere.

  “What's up?” Cairnsey asked.

  “Phil’s not doing too good,” Sam informed him.

  “Fuckin’ hell, Phil,” Griff said. “You look awful.”

  “This isnae good, lads,” Phil said in a quivering, cracked voice. This is fear, he thought. Pure fear.

  “Jesus, man, look at him. He’s shaking,” someone said. Phil couldn’t tell who. His vision had started to go grey at the edges. The voice and the music from the stereo took on a weird echoing quality, as if he was hearing it all from inside a vast tin can.

  “Chill out, mate,” a voice said. “We’re the ones that are tripping here. You’re not supposed to be freaking out. We are.”

  Phil felt an arm go around his shoulders. There were more voices, trying to talk him down and relax him. They weren’t working.

  “You’re alright, man.”

  “Just relax, Phil.”

  ”Take deep breaths.”

  They sat that way for a few minutes, vainly trying to chill him out with soothing words and gestures. Phil's mind however, was a whirlwind of dislocated images and thoughts. He was bent over at the waist, facing the ground and hugging his knees. His eyes were shut so tight that his face ached, and he shook uncontrollably. He tried to tell himself it was just the grass, just the grass, but it did no good. Thoughts ricocheted around his consciousness, bouncing around frantically like stray bullets. Parts of Griff's story intertwined with single frame flashes of images from his dream, painting a nightmarish spectral landscape inside his head from which he could not escape.

  ...killing floor… bones for miles around… the blood… fine wine… fire… gutted her in front of him… bone daggers… the slaughter………

  “C’mon Phil, calm down,” someone said from the end of a tunnel a long, long way away. Phil could recognise anxiety creeping into that voice now as well. A high pitched whine built in his head, blocking out all other sensory perception. He could neither feel, hear, taste nor see. The whining internal feedback grew and grew, reaching an all consuming volume. It was too much, too much…

  He slid bonelessly off the rock he’d been sitting on like a puppet whose strings had been severed, flopping to the ground in a dead faint.

  Chapter 16

  They put Phil in the recovery position at Griff's prompting. He’d done a first aid course as part of his scout training and knew this would prevent Phil from choking on his own vomit if he threw up.

  “We’d better get him back up to the tent,” Sam said, concern in his voice. “Probably wasn’t the hottest idea coming down here. He’s been acting weird since he had a nightmare last night. Was pretty freaked out,”

  Griff was kneeling over Phil’s prostrate body and checking him over, his first aid knowledge coming back to him despite the trip.

  “He feels like he’s got a bit of a temperature, but his heart’s slowing down again. Was way too fast a minute ago. He’s breathing okay as well. He should come round in a minute or so, then we can get him back up to the tents and get a fire going. Get some food and water in him. He’ll be fine.”

  “Good call,” Sam said. “Bit hungry myself.”

  “Must be the trips. I’m fuckin’ starving,” Cairnsey agreed.

  “Tell me about it,” Griff said nodding, then turned back to Phil, giving him a light slap on the cheek to try and rouse him. Phil moaned softly. “Good, he’s waking up.”

  Sam stooped over him.

  “You quite finished freaking us out now, mate?” he asked.

  “Tents… need to get back…” Phil murmured.

  “That’s the plan, bud. Jus
t need to give yourself a second to get your legs working and we’ll help you up,” Cairnsey said.

  “Got to go… the tents…” Phil moaned with more urgency. “Not... safe… something’s… coming…”

  “It’s all right, Phil,” Sam was saying. “Just relax.”

  Griff pulled back one of Phil’s eyelids, checking the pupil.

  “He’s still not conscious. Must be dreaming.”

  Suddenly, Phil began to thrash around on the ground, shaking his head wildly and lashing out with his fists and feet at assailants only he could see.

  “Help me hold him, Sam,” Griff ordered. Sam and Cairnsey immediately knelt on either side of Phil, restraining him so he wouldn’t injure himself on the stone floor with his violent movements. “Grab his feet, Cairnsey.”

  “What’s happening, Griff?” Cairnsey asked.

  “He’s havin’ another fuckin’ nightmare obviously,” Griff snapped at him, glaring daggers. Cairnsey was taken aback by the harsh way he’d spoken and the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

  “Cool yer fuckin’ beans, man,” Cairnsey retorted, suddenly angry himself.

  “I’m sorry all right,” Griff muttered, “but I’m a bit freaked out here myself, y’know?”

  One of Phil's arms got away from Sam and his fist cracked against Griff's cheek, snapping his head to the side.

  “For fuck's sake, Sam, hold him!” he yelled at his friend angrily.

  “Calm down, Griff,” Sam shouted back. “We’re tripping here as well you know.”

  Sam could also feel a slow anger building in his blood and found himself grinding his teeth together until they creaked in the gums. He was very hungry.

  Phil's struggles became even more frantic, and small sounds of distress escaped him.

  Cairnsey tried to grab hold of his flailing legs, but one of Phil's feet caught him in the groin. Cairnsey let out a strangled cry and doubled up, cupping his crotch with his hands.

  “Phil, fuckin’ stop it!” Griff screamed in his face, then pulled back a hand and cracked him across the cheek with his knuckles once, twice, three times. A thin trickle of blood emerged, and ran from the corner of Phil's mouth.

  Sam was looking at Griff's face, and what he saw there scared him badly. Griff's face was contorted into a mask of pure hateful fury, and yet he was smiling. It was not a pleasant smile.

  Cairnsey had recovered enough from the blow to his testicles to straighten up, and there too on his face, Sam saw the same raging excitement that had seemingly taken hold of Griff.

  “Fuckin’ bastard,” Cairnsey hissed and swung a vicious kick at Phil's writhing body. The force of the blow turned Phil over on to his side.

  What the fuck’s happening? Sam wondered in a near panic. He could feel his own control slipping, and the urge to lash out at someone, something, anything became almost unbearable.

  He got to his feet and grabbed a hold of Cairnsey who was lining up another kick at Phil, still thrashing around on the floor.

  “Cairnsey stop it!” he screamed in his face. “It’s the fuckin’ trips, man!”

  Cairnsey’s face cleared for a second and he blinked and shook his head. “What the fuck’s going on here?” he asked with real fear in his voice. He stumbled back, stunned at his own actions.

  Sam turned back to Griff who was still holding Phil’s head as he writhed around like a landed fish on the floor. Griff's normally calm expression was still distorted into that horrible grin, and an insane excitement etched his features. He was visibly panting, and looking at the thin trickle of blood that seeped from Phil's mouth with unmistakable naked hunger.

  Sam watched in stupefied horror as Griff leaned forward slowly, tongue extended to lick the blood from Phil's face.

  He shouted out and leapt at Griff at the last possible second, only just managing to push him away before his tongue could make contact with Phil’s blood. Sam clambered on top of his friend and grabbed Griff's face in his hands, forcing him to look into his eyes.

  “Get a grip, mate. These trips are fucking with our heads big time. We need to get Phil up and get out of here, alright?”

  Griff's eyes cleared, and he nodded a dumb acknowledgement.

  A sudden, savage cramp gripped Sam's belly in fiery claws and he cried out; falling to his side with his face a desperate rictus of pain and need. The scent of Phil's blood, impossibly strong for such a small wound, seemed to fill the stone chamber, infecting the three boys with a ravening hunger that tore at their guts and minds like a scythe.

  Sam could hear Griff and Cairnsey screaming, and he felt his mind tilting and slipping. He was spiralling down into a dark place where unspeakable things crept and sniggered.

  He forced open his eyes to try and banish the mental darkness that threatened to overwhelm him, and saw that somehow there were suddenly three more people in the cave.

  One of them had a machete.

  At that moment, something very bad found a crack in the thin membrane between worlds, and slithered through it.

  They flew at each other.

  Chapter 17

  Phil woke up alone.

  For the few seconds before full consciousness came, he expected to find himself in bed, the nightmare past, and he would get up and go for a shower then have some breakfast with his dad. He fancied bacon rolls.

  Then the terrible reality of his situation became apparent.

  He realised he wasn’t in bed, but lying on cold stone, and there was a taste of blood in his mouth.

  Phil sat up quickly, wincing as pain lanced through his ribs, and then he saw the blood.

  The floor and walls of the stone cavern were marred by sporadic streaks, splashes and pools of it that glistened blackly in the candlelight. The air was rank with the sickening stench of iron. As Phil frantically looked around, trying to make some sort of sense of the situation and fighting off panic, the nightmare experienced the night before came crashing back to him in violent clarity like déjà vu to the nth power. Every deranged scene and image collapsed like a burning building into place in his memory, and the mental force of the recollection caused his breath to explode out of him like he’d been punched square in the gut.

  He began to hyperventilate, bald terror building in a slow, squirming crescendo. Phil closed his eyes tightly and tried to control his breathing, repeating to himself desperately, hopelessly, just a dream, not happening, just a dream, not happening. The pain in his ribs and face, and the thick taste of blood in his mouth were all too real however, and made a convincing case that this was in fact actually happening. He dared not open his eyes again though, lest they be greeted with the sight of his friends; naked, crimson skinned and smiling soulless smiles, displaying oversize teeth and clutching those white daggers...

  The fear of what might be seen was trumped by the fear of what he might not be seeing though, and Phil opened his eyes again and staggered to his feet, spitting blood in horrified disgust. The sharp pain that flared in his mouth indicated that it was his own blood and not… He didn’t want to consider other possibilities.

  His back to the wall, still struggling to control his breathing, Phil tried desperately to arrange his thoughts and assess the situation.

  The guys. He’d been with Sam, Cairnsey and Griff in the cave and he’d started to feel shady after Griff had been talking about the killing floor. Then, it seemed like hours later, and he was still in the cave, but the guys were gone and there was a serious amount of blood splattered all over the walls and floor. He tried to quell the rising panic in his tightening chest. His breath began to accelerate again and his heart pounded like a double kick drum.

  Get a grip Phil. Don’t lose it. Find the guys. Get out.

  He suddenly became aware of a soft voice coming from somewhere beyond the chamber he was in, but the sound echoed and bounced around the stone walls, making it difficult to pinpoint the point of origin. Phil noticed for the first time that one of the pools of blood that lay close to a dark opening in the rock featured a wide ra
gged drag mark that led away into the inky blackness beyond. He looked around the cave floor again and saw another three drag marks all going in the same direction, all starting from glistening concentrations of blood of varying sizes, and leading into the narrow, gloomy passage.

  Griff's backpack was still lying on the floor. With shaking hands, Phil retrieved the torch from inside and shone it into the dark opening, seeing that the bloody trail continued along the small tunnel for about twenty metres and then disappeared out of sight round a bend in the passage. Phil stepped closer to the entrance of the tunnel, his breath coming in short rapid gasps. It was from here that the voice came. Although he couldn’t make out the words, he recognised the tone. It was a voice he’d grown to know well since he was a small boy in primary school.

  It was Sam.

  As he listened closer, he became aware of a second voice, again familiar. Griff.

  “Lads?” he called out, “Are you in there?”

  The voices abruptly stopped.

  Phil stood there holding his breath and shining the torch down the length of the claret stained passage, his heart beating so hard and fast it was almost painful.

  “Griff? Sam?”

  He gasped in surprise as something came sailing though the air out of the darkness and landed at his feet with a quiet thud.

  He pointed the torch down at the object, and for a split second was confused. It seemed to be a hair covered football. Frowning, Phil squatted down and took hold of it, turned the ball over, and found himself staring into Cairnsey's face.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Phil couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot in abject terror, his mind a complete blank. He just could not comprehend or process what lay in from of him. Cairnsey's head stared back at him, grinning a grin that displayed too-big teeth.

  Then the jaw creaked open and it spoke.

  “We eat this meat… in the Devil's name,” Cairnsey’s head rasped in a voice like rusty razor blades on a blackboard. The dead eyes rolled upwards and to the right, as if indicating something behind.