by Mark Cassell
A wind pushed into the clearing and Pete squinted into its bite.
“We gotta go!” he yelled at Kirsty. His forehead hurt from where he frowned so hard. Although the fire roared inside a smoky whorl, a darkness closed in. Cloying, reaching through the trees, over the rock face, and into the clearing. The moon slid behind something more than clouds.
The wind buffeted him, and the fire hissed and spat in a cascade of leaves and dirt and stones. The taste of grit was bitter on his tongue.
From beside him someone shrieked. Muffled, strangled.
Pete turned.
The teenager was hunched, head down. It looked as though he’d somehow shrunk. His T-shirt and shorts now clung to his stick-like frame, his knees and elbows twisted at awkward angles. Buckled in some way, deformed. The kid’s head jerked up. No face… The scalp was little more than patches of dark hair yet his face was as smooth and featureless as a pink balloon. No. Face. Flesh taut, glistening, and dark traceries of veins squirmed beneath the surface, bulging, wriggling.
Pete yelled and stepped back nearer the campfire. One side of his face itched from the heat and his heart filled his throat, bile rising.
Kirsty’s voice drifted through the fuzziness in his head. “Pete?”
With such effort, he turned.
Her eyes focused, no longer sunken black orbs—was she finally lucid? There was, however, a black goo dribbling over her lips.
“Come on!” he shouted. The taste of smoke clawed his throat.
She looked up, over his shoulder, and she screamed.
Something shoved him from behind and his head snapped back. His legs tangled in the sleeping bag. He shot forward and landed near the fire, the heat intense. Dizziness came at him in waves. Through blurred vision, he saw Kirsty on her back, the creature on her chest, her head clamped between gnarly fingers. Her arms twitched.
Pete scrambled up, unsteady.
The creature leaned over her, its head—that faceless head—rubbed against her lips. Black goo smeared her cheek.
Pete grabbed a rock. Agony flared up his arm and he almost dropped it. Hot.
He smacked the rock into the creature’s head.
Its spindly limbs flailed as it fell from Kirsty and thumped the ground. A tar-like substance pumped from the dented mess of its skull. Ruptured veins like purple spaghetti flopped and squirmed. An arm twitched once, twice, and the legs kicked. Then the creature was still.
Pete’s hand burned and he dropped the rock. Black stuff splashed as it bounced and rolled.
Massaging his palm, he crouched beside Kirsty.
Her eyelids fluttered.
“Kirsty?”
She groaned and tilted her head. “What—”
Pete’s stomach churned and his shoulders slumped. Relief.
He wiped away the black muck on her face. It was sticky. “You okay?”
She nodded.
His hand stung and throbbed. His skin had blistered…marked, indeed branded, in the shape of one of the symbols: two triangles, one hollow, the other solid, with facing apexes and separated by a curved X. He squinted at it. It kind of looked like an hourglass.
Kirsty pushed herself up on one elbow, hair covering half her face. Her bottom lip quivered. But she was looking past him, across the clearing.
A darkness roiled and twisted in the woods, thickening the gloom. Barbed wire sprung from the already broken fence posts and lashed the air. Staples pinged off the rocks.
Needle-like pain lanced Pete’s forehead and he wiped his brow. His hand came away slick.
Smoke billowed, shadows churned like dancing phantoms. Coils of wire whipped branches, leaves rushed with the wind. Darkness clotted the edge of the clearing; looming, shimmering as though Pete gaped at a pool of gravity-defying oil swelling against glass. The wire spiralled and wrapped around the darkness, seeming to pull it in. Into the form of a man taller than the trees. A torso, yes, with legs and arms—four arms—gangly yet muscular. Its head stretched impossibly long and wide and sported jagged horns. Like a silhouette against the churning smoke, this entity had no visible features. It was pure darkness. Its legs moved, as did its arms, giving the impression of walking or even marching. Yet it failed to advance, unable to pass through the smoke and shadows that tumbled over its shoulders and looped around its limbs. This thing was attempting to break into this world, onto their plane of existence.
Pete forced himself to breathe. It was as if the height of this thing created a sense of vertigo, only reversed and pushing down on him. His feet felt heavy, his whole body pressed into the earth.
He scanned the clearing.
The rocks that peppered the grass and also the ones surrounding the now-dying campfire glowed red. Not on fire, but with some inner light or energy.
What the hell? And that was just it; Hell was precisely where this four-armed Being came from. A demon.
The rocks, even the broken ones, pulsed. He thought of the chain-links in the oak tree’s roots. Before he and Kirsty disturbed the area, had a chain somehow contained the demon? On its own perhaps not, so in addition the symbols completed this ancient prison.
Or at least they had.
Smoke scratched his eyes and he rubbed them. His hand was cooling now, yet still the flesh was raw, angry. The barbed-wire cut had healed, leaving a jagged and fresh scar in line with the hourglass pattern.
“Pete.” Kirsty’s voice drifted towards him.
He stood. Hand raised before him, palm forward, he turned. His splayed fingers blocked the view of the demon but he knew it was there, seething in the darkness and close, so close to entering this world. His hand, his whole arm, tingled and warmed. A red light flared and shot from his fingers. From the rocks too, the same blinding light zigzagged to connect every symbol, every rock. Fire, yes, but a fire that didn’t burn—at least, it failed to burn Pete. Just warmth; a comforting, soothing heat. The clean smell of ozone came with it. Red beams turned orange, into yellow and white. Incredible energy, bright, dazzling. The whole clearing lit up as though a midday sun had returned.
The darkness cracked like a stone-chipped windscreen.
A roar of defiance echoed.
Pete heard Kirsty shuffle backwards. He straightened his legs, dug his heels into the grass, as the rush of energy pushed against him.
The shadows ripped like fabric. Shredded and diminished. Smaller, smaller.
Light faded and Pete no longer had to squint. His jaw ached from where he clenched his teeth.
The demon’s silhouette faded into the remaining wisps of torn shadow, now just a ghost cradled in grey swirls in what reminded Pete of curdled milk.
The trees shivered as though they relaxed, and the wind lessened and smoke drifted. Shadows, normal shadows, remained. The light emanating from the rocks further faded and the clearing dimmed. Moonlight returned. White, pure. Clean.
Silence.
He circled the dying campfire and headed for the teenager’s body. The mutated head still oozed black filth but the veins no longer squirmed. A spindly arm lay beside it, and that’s what Pete stared at.
Kirsty came up behind him, her breath hot at his collar as she hugged him. “What does it mean?” She sounded close to tears.
He clutched his stinging hand to his chest. The symbol was still there in his palm and blended with the barbed-wire wound. No longer raw; now lumpy and red like a scar. Like a tattoo. Somehow he knew it to be the demon’s symbol, indeed a sigil.
It was also branded on the inside of the kid’s forearm.
Pete knew he’d be learning much more about this entity. And he had absolutely no choice in the matter.
WELCOME HOME
The branch had punched through the windscreen and speared Tracy into the seat. Hopes of finding her friend, Amanda, now lay shattered with the glass in her lap.
No pain, just warmth. Even her heartbeat’s thunder had diluted into the silence. All she felt was the blood pumping from her chest, drenching her clothes. Her hands failed to r
espond, her legs just as dead. It was as though it was Death’s hand that had snatched the car from the road and slammed it into the tree.
Manic thoughts crashed into her head as her vision darkened. She cared little for the blood that gushed around the branch, nor did she now care how useless the Greek police had been. A day—or was it two?—had passed since Amanda vanished. The police didn’t seem concerned. And now she’d had an accident. She wouldn’t be able to afford the insurance on this rental car. Where was Amanda? She’d vanished last night…or was it last week? The police…couldn’t help. The branch…all this blood. Where was she? They were supposed to fly home today.
Her vision flashed in a patchwork of light and darkness, and somewhere amid those trailing shadows came the swoop of black wings. A moth, floating in a gloom she assumed to be night’s approach. Its legs thumped the dashboard. Each leg didn’t just titter, they crashed into the plastic, stinging her ears. Sharp, penetrating. She winced.
The moth skittered closer—the thing had to be at least the size of her hand. With antennae twitching, its proboscis swayed and reached out. A black goo dripped from the end and blistered the dashboard. A curl of smoke drifted upwards, the smouldering stink burning her nostrils. This winged creature leapt towards her, clutching at her face. Pinching, scratching…and the proboscis stabbed her skin. A needle of agony. In. Out. In and out. In-out-in-out-in-out. In.
A fire raged beneath her flesh.
Out, and in again.
Shadows clogged her periphery, this time more a liquid darkness rather than the promise of night. Her heart smashed against her ribcage and her stomach churned. She coughed and blood spattered the steering wheel.
In-out-in-out.
In.
Out… In.
The moth detached itself, wings whipping the air as it hovered near the shattered windscreen.
And the flames raged through her every pore, spreading, sinking deeper, seething upwards, downwards, filling her body. An energy pulsed and slammed where her heart thrashed out its final rush of life.
Silence and darkness; a quiet nothingness.
Her fingers twitched. Heat raced through her veins, the darkness powering fluttery movements. Her muscles flexed. Life? Her arms jittered and rose higher, and one at a time her fingers gripped the branch. This un-life surged. She squeezed and the bark split beneath her fingers. Her nails splintered with the wood. She yanked the branch from her chest. Slurp. Gush. Blood—and darkness—spewed from her torso. Glass cracked and metal wrenched; the sounds shrill to her ears.
She tore off her seat belt, shredding the fabric, and kicked the door. Metal screeched. It echoed through the woods.
Charged with this fierce energy, she clambered from the wreckage, her life force drained…now replaced by a welcome blackness.
The moth drifted with the shadows, just ahead. Tendrils of that peculiar darkness teased its abdomen, seeming to beckon her, taunt her, promising an existence beneath the veneer of her past life. Beneath…
Shadowy curls toyed with its antennae, and on its thorax she saw a reflection of Death’s grin.
Tracy followed the winged creature into the welcoming folds of shadow.
The smell was worse. Last time, the body was only two hours’ dead; this time it was two days. Such a difference. For a moment, Amanda wondered how many more bodies she’d find before the shadows allowed her peace.
She pushed a rag to her face, coughing. With her other hand she swatted the flies. Her bare feet sank into the sand, suggesting the tide was coming in. As the only human on the island, she was there to obey, and if she fought that peculiar obedience, the shadows—her puppeteers—made her do things, made her think things. Vile things no lady should ever think, let alone action. These last several days, all she was ever with was Death. She’d be just another body soon, she knew that. Dead, and then fuel for the shadows.
With reluctance, she poked the rag beneath her bikini waistband and grabbed the corpse by its feet. Grunting, grimacing, she heaved it towards the tree line. Her strength amazed her. This was one fat Greek; bloated, the flesh shrivelled by the sun and the sea. His head left a snake of disturbed sand behind. Maybe she recognised him from the main island. Perhaps, last week, he’d served her and Tracy cocktails.
Tracy?
A flood of grey pushed into Amanda’s head and the memories tumbled away as though the shadows snatched thoughts of her friend, their holiday, of everything.
Now almost out of the sunlight, her muscles screaming, she closed her eyes. She hated to come in from the sun, yet she did it. Obeying the shadows was all that mattered. Still with her eyes closed, she felt the shade wrap around her, and she dropped the Greek’s legs. The sound—that dead sound—echoed through the trees. Scratching her neck, fingers raking sunburn, her nerves flared as though a blowtorch seared the skin. Another waft of the wet salty stink, and she spewed. At least the shadows allowed her that much. When she’d finished, she wiped her mouth.
“Let the shadows take me,” she whispered, finally opening her eyes. The bitterness still inside, her legs folded and she sat cross-legged. She squinted into sunlight that lanced through branches, a broken canopy offering little reassurance from the clogging shadows in her peripheral vision.
How many other islands like this existed in the Mediterranean? A place of solitude for the solo-traveller, a romantic escape for others, or a break for best friends…again memories collided, jagged images of…Tracy. Where was Tracy?
Amanda’s breath came short and sharp, her eyes darting left and right. What was all this? When were they supposed to be going home?
The island.
That’s what was important. This island where the shadows own you, where the shadows feed on the bodies they find. That same darkness kept Amanda alive, only just, to drag corpses from the sunlight, to bring them to the centre of the island. To the Temple.
Her past no longer mattered. She knew her body would soon be offered. Often, those playful shadows suggested that.
She wished it would be now.
She was ready.
Further ahead, the grinding of stone over stone made her blink into the unfolding darkness. Close to where ancient rock huddled in the embrace of grey vines, the darkness thickened. It rippled and seethed, somehow energised.
A cloud of flitting shadow burst from its heart, expanding outwards. This was something Amanda had never before witnessed. She frowned. This wasn’t shadow, this was not that familiar darkness but a swarm of moths. Like black fog, wings too loud on the air, hundreds, thousands, of moths rushed towards her, up and into the trees.
She shrieked and ducked, but none came near. In seconds, they vanished into the surrounding darkness, into the deepening shadows. Several lingered, coming to rest on vine trunks and mossy stone.
Finally, she straightened.
From the remaining darkness, a woman emerged. Framed in shadow, vines, and crumbling stonework, her clothes glistened red, sodden.
Amanda’s throat was dry. “Tracy?”
Her friend nodded and dark flecks shot from dripping hair.
“Where have you been?” Amanda asked.
“Here,” said Tracy. She stretched out her arms. The shadows coiled around her hands, toying with broken fingernails.
Amanda walked forward. The shadows parted to allow her closer than she had ever been to those ancient stones.
“Welcome home,” Tracy whispered as the two friends embraced.
TEN MINUTES TILL DEADTIME
The alarm thundered into Terry’s skull, and he kicked at the darkness. His chest heaved. The duvet slid from his body and he squinted at the clock: 3.33 a.m. Again?
He punched it silent.
What the hell was this? He’d set the thing for six, and this was the third morning it’d happened. Only this time was different. A lance of moonlight pushed enough into the room for him to see his fist hanging over the edge of the bed. Poking between the knuckles was a piece of paper. Bringing it closer, his fingers
uncurled and he recognised his handwriting: Release the Forgotten.
Beside him, Kate moaned into her pillow and yanked the covers. “What is it with that thing?”
Terry’s heart smashed against his ribs, and he pulled back his arm. His fingers crushed the paper again. It sounded like a dead leaf.
“Give me it.” Her face was squashed into the pillow.
“What?” His voice sounded pathetic.
A rigid finger speared over his head. “The clock.”
She snatched it from him. Her fingers darted over its casing and she hooked off the back cover, shook out the battery and threw the clock over the side of the bed. Something cracked, and as she rolled over, the battery thumped to the floor.
Silence returned and Terry stared at the back of her head. He closed his eyes. How had he written something while sleeping? That was ridiculous.
Minutes passed and Kate’s breathing became softer. Without much of the duvet over him, it was easy to slide out of bed. A floorboard groaned, and Terry prayed it didn’t wake her. He listened for a response, but her breath stayed rhythmic.
He didn’t need waking up, but he knew he needed coffee. He pulled on his dressing gown.
Downstairs, he went into the kitchen and the cold linoleum bit his feet. He loaded the percolator and it began its boil, making that sound of pebbles being dragged by the tide. He squinted through the kitchen window, through the pale reflection of his face. His disembodied head hovered over the recently-laid turf. Darkness swallowed the new shrubs, the trees, the patio and the expensive garden furniture Kate had insisted they bought. They still hadn’t paid it off. Their debt was another reason for getting that promising work contract. He knew he should prepare for the presentation next week…but no. It could wait.
Mug in hand, he wandered into the garden. The chill darkness pressed in on him and he sat at the table. The lawn looked much better now they’d agreed to do something with it. Those rolls of new turf pushed neatly up to flowerbeds and shrubs, without a weed in sight. That shop-smell fragrance seemed dampened by the shadows. He had no idea what they’d planted, he simply let Kate choose whatever she wanted. She wanted more from him certainly, yet that was all he could do right now. She wanted children, a bigger house. And they needed more money for all of that. He knew it was a lame compromise and redoing the garden was a temporary fix, but she still made things awkward. Sometimes he felt he couldn’t keep up with her demands.