by Lee, Frazer
Tom’s eyes filled with tears of revulsion and he vomited stomach bile onto the damp stone floor. A ringing filled his ears, like the pealing of a bell, and he clamped his hands over them in an attempt to block the sound out. As the sound faded, he became aware of the protester’s voice again, begging him to set him free and get him out of there. Hands shaking, Tom got to his feet and set about trying to free the young man from his bonds. His trembling fingers made the task difficult, but once Tom had managed to free one hand, the man helped him untie the other. Tom then freed one of the man’s ankles while he worked on the other. The protester had barely the strength to stand up. He was bleeding profusely from an array of wounds that covered his torso and limbs; the beginnings of the torture that had marked Dieter’s demise. Tom swung the man’s arm around his neck and helped him across to the ladder. Pausing for breath, Tom leaned the protester up against the ladder.
“What’s your name?”
“Jupiter…” the young guy started, then shook his head and said, “Oh fuck it, man, I’m Brian.”
“Okay, Brian, here’s what we’re going to do. I can’t carry you up there, the opening is too narrow, so you go first and I’ll help you up as best I can. Can you do that?”
The protester nodded. Groaning from his collected agonies, he took the first couple of steps up the ladder, with Tom holding on to his legs as he helped him to the next rung, then the next. The welcome smell of the forest wafted down from above as Brian and Tom struggled up the ladder together, urging them on to the summit where they would be free of the hideous stink of rot and ruin.
Tom clambered from the hellhole after Brian, collapsing next to him on the tangled rug. Breathing heavily from his ascent, Tom kneeled on all fours for a moment, before standing up on still-trembling legs. His head spun with the sudden rush of blood to his brain, and he steadied himself against the old armchair before reaching down and helping Brian to his feet.
The dim daylight creeping into the derelict house through the unhinged front door was a beacon to both of them. Swinging Brian’s arm around his neck once more, Tom helped him take a few faltering steps toward freedom. They were almost at the threshold when the daylight disappeared into shadow.
A heartbeat later Cosmo came crashing through the front door, his wild eyes brimming with murderous intent.
Cosmo’s huge hands found Jupiter first, and he was on him like a rabid hound. The protester’s arm was torn from Tom’s neck as Cosmo lifted the young man from his feet like he was a puppet. The vagrant punched Brian square in the face, knocking him straight into Tom, who staggered back, trying to keep his footing.
With no option but to back off into the living room, Tom watched as Cosmo thundered across the floorboards and scooped up Brian’s limp form. The big man grabbed Brian’s head like it was a football and slammed it into the doorframe, splintering the rotting wood into great shards that fell to the floor. Again and again he slammed the defenseless protester’s face into the wooden frame until the lad’s features were an unrecognizable mess of blood and exposed bone.
Tom continued backing away, and tripped on a loose floorboard. He fell back, into the fireplace. Gathering his legs under him, Tom gripped his knees tight and watched in horror as Cosmo tore Brian apart in a murderous fury. The vagrant was rage personified, his fingers gouging his victim’s extremities amidst orgiastic showers of blood.
Tom was that six-year-old boy again, looking on helplessly at the ravaged bodies of his parents. Only this time he was watching the unspeakable as it happened. And this time he was seeing it from the hiding place of its architect. Tom felt those red eyes upon him once more and the nape of his neck turned to gooseflesh as a chill breeze oozed down the chimney like a ghostly breath. Terrified, he forced himself to look upwards at the little circle of light at the top of the vertical tunnel. He expected to see that red-eyed demon, clawing its way down the inside of the chimney stack like a great, black, carnivorous spider.
But Tom’s eyes found something else within the confines of the fireplace.
There, hidden on the inside of the keystone beneath the mantle were two words, etched in a childish hand:
JACK McCRAE.
Tom knew in an instant the handwriting was his own, but how could that be? That this was the house from his worst nightmares was now an absolute certainty to him. But what event could have placed him inside the very fireplace where his greatest fear lay in hiding?
The sudden thump of Brian’s lifeless body dropping to the floorboards shook Tom from his revelation. Cosmo, his work done on the protestor’s broken carcass, turned his attention back to the cowering form in the fireplace. The vagrant stooped and picked up the wooden stake from the floor next to the trap door.
Brandishing it like a dagger, Cosmo moved in for the kill.
Chapter Forty
Tom glanced up, feverish, wondering if he could somehow make his escape by climbing up the chimney. Cosmo jabbed with the stake, and Tom fled to one side to avoid the blow. The vagrant leaned back, readying himself for another lunge. There was no way Tom could escape upwards now; he would have to try to face Cosmo or be dragged to the same grisly fate that Brian had suffered in front of him.
As the huge man lunged again with the sharp end of the stake, Tom reached up on instinct and clawed at the sides of the chimney flue. A cascade of black soot billowed from the fireplace and into Cosmo’s eyes. Tom grabbed handfuls of the stuff and, emerging from his hiding place, threw them into Cosmo’s face, blinding him. The vagrant coughed and spluttered, clawing at his face to clear his vision of thick black soot.
Cosmo was still blocking Tom’s path; no way could he risk pushing past him without being grabbed, even though the man was temporarily blinded. Tom looked to the fireplace for an answer—and found one. Leaning up against the tile surround of the fireplace was an old metal poker. Tom grabbed it and whirled around to defend himself. The whites of Cosmo’s eyes glared from the soot and gore coating his face. The vagrant lunged again, low, trying to stab Tom in his stomach. Sidestepping the lunge, Tom raised the poker and brought it down, hard, onto the back of Cosmo’s neck.
Tom’s attacker’s knees buckled under the force of the blow and he hit the deck, facedown. He was out cold. Tom stood over Cosmo’s prone body; poker poised to deliver another blow should the man dare to get up again.
“Tom?”
The frail little voice was Holly’s. Tom looked up and saw her leaning against the doorframe. She looked deathly pale, her head bleeding from the wound Cosmo had inflicted.
“I remember,” Tom said.
The fire poker fell from his fingers and clattered to the floor beside Cosmo.
Tom clutched his skull, a tidal wave of memories flooding his senses.
“Morag and Aleister McCrae. They lived in the house in the woods. Trees all around. Winter came, they were snowed in. Their only son, stillborn. No doctor could come, no midwife present for the birth. They took his body to the Jill Tree. An offering—just like you said, Holly.”
“But how do you…”
Holly groaned and put her hand to her head where Cosmo had struck her.
Tom rambled on, words spilling from his lips faster than he could scarce form them.
“He lived. Somehow he lived. A voice nurtured him and the rot and ruin into which they had thrust him sustained him. He feasted on death’s blood and offal. And he grew, Holly, oh how he grew; into a feral child, fed by the forest’s bounty of blood and bone and raw, dead things.
“He was schooled by whispers, ancient lessons borne on the breeze through the leaves on the trees. The voice taught him how to hunt, how to kill and feed. And the voice belonged to the Jack in the Green. His true father.”
Holly clutched the doorframe, too weak to move.
“And when he grew big enough,” Tom continued, “he began to watch the parents that had abandoned him. He watched his father placing logs in the hearth. He saw them through their warm windows while he shivered in the cold. Watched t
hem trimming their tree. Placing gifts beneath it. Gifts for their dead son. Gifts for him. But the Jack told him he could not have them yet. Not until he was ready.”
“Tom, you’re scaring me. Please…”
Tom crossed to Holly. She tried to back away from him but fell. He caught hold of her, wrapped her arm around his neck and lifted her into his arms.
“Hush now,” he said. “I have something to show you. But first you must rest.”
Cradling her like a lover, he carried her over to the beat-up old armchair.
Her concussed expression turned to one of dread as he continued walking, past the chair and over to the hatch opening in the floor. He set her down at its edge.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, then squealed as Tom pushed her headlong into the cellar.
Her body hit the stone floor beneath with a thud and a breaking of bone.
Chapter Forty-One
Tom smiled, remembering the sound Julia’s body had made when he pushed her down the stairs at their apartment. Such a delirious night; the night she had told him she was pregnant. She’d seemed so wary of him since the miscarriage, afraid of him, even. Doped up on those drugs of hers, she hadn’t been able to tell anyone what had he had done. The fact that she’d come to her senses, that she’d gone and told Ellie, didn’t bother him. Julia was pregnant again, proof positive of the natural order of things; and he knew exactly how to handle it.
Life, death, and rebirth.
He had to honor the sacred cycle just as his real daddy had taught him.
Peering down into the dark depths of the cellar, he remembered the look of shock on Monroe’s face as he pushed him to his death from the balcony at Head Office. No one had seen him; he’d waited until Mathers’ secretary had gone for a bathroom break before doing the deed. He saw himself cradling the dying man’s head, sweet, sticky blood coating his fingers.
He’s in the trees, he’s waiting…
His own words, not Monroe’s; the poor bastard had been too brain-damaged to speak while they waited for the medics to come. The photos that Monroe had included in his PDF report had somehow reawakened the Jack within Tom; he knew that now. Faced with the image of the Jack and Jill Trees where he had been reborn, that secret, raging fire within him had been rekindled. Just as Julia’s news that she was pregnant had fanned the flames some months before.
That same angry fire had burst forth during his argument with Dieter. Cosmo must have been watching, and waiting. The vagrant must have knocked Dieter unconscious then dragged his body away so he could perform his workings upon it in peace—like the runt of the litter taking leftovers. The scarecrow wearing Dieter’s clothes had been Cosmo’s warning to Tom. But Cosmo had no idea what he was dealing with. Tom’s true self had been emerging all his adult life, through nightmares and murderous acts. In a way, Tom admired Cosmo. He knew the woodsman worshipped at the same altar as he, heard the same nurturing voice he had. If things were different, he could have been a worthy successor of the Jack’s affections. Or a partner in savage crimes. But his true father only had eyes for Tom.
All paths had led Tom here, to the forest. He was fated to come back to Douglass, destined to reclaim his birthright. Each of his offerings had been made of flesh and blood, and had brought him closer to hearth and home.
Tom climbed down into the cool dark of the cellar.
He had work to do.
Chapter Forty-Two
Holly awoke with an acrid, burning taste in her throat, her head splitting from a deep, throbbing headache. She was on the beaten old armchair next to the trap door. Still wide open, the stink emanating from the hatch gave the room a persistent charnel odor. Groaning, Holly tried to raise her hand to her forehead but could not move her arms. She looked down and saw that Tom had tied her to the chair with thick rope.
She struggled against her bonds. As she did so, Holly realized she could not feel her legs. Looking down, she saw a spike of bone protruding from the flesh of her right leg. Her left leg was twisted beneath her in such a bizarre configuration it must have been broken in at least three places. Numbness and nausea swam in her blood and her head span. She began to shiver and shake; she was going into shock.
“Oh, but you’re freezing,” Tom said. “Let me get a fire going.”
Holly watched Tom as he stepped over Cosmo’s body, which still lay facedown in front of the hearthstone. He then set about gathering up some dead branches and twigs from the floor. Placing them in the fireplace, along with some dry moss for kindling, he felt around in his pockets.
“Silly me, I don’t smoke. Nae bother.”
His accent had the beginnings of a Scottish brogue, like another voice was breaking through and usurping his own. She fought against the ropes, wincing at the way they burned into her skin as she struggled.
Tom rooted through Cosmo’s pockets as casually as he might search through a desk drawer. Smiling, he found a box of matches tucked into the breast pocket. He pulled a match from the box, struck it and set fire to the kindling, blowing gently to help the little flames catch the larger twigs and branches. The fire caught, and he beamed up at Holly.
“There you go, lassie, you’ll be a wee bit warmer already.”
But Holly was freezing cold from the shock of her injuries, and from mortal terror. The very blood in her veins had slowed with fear. Her heart pounded in her chest and her face was slicked with cold sweat.
She barely heard Tom’s words, asking if she was all right, if she wanted him to throw another log on the fire. All she could hear were screams inside her head. Splintered sounds telling her to run from that place and never look back. But her legs were useless, and broken. She gripped the musty old armrests of the chair so hard her fingers had begun to burrow beneath the rotten fabric.
In front of her was a fir tree. About five feet high, it had taken root beneath the floorboards and had sprung up into the room. Every inch of its branches was covered in human remains; threads of glistening sinew and shreds of skin and dreadlocked hair. Bones sat on the firmer branches like macabre gifts. At the top of the tree, the traditional location for an angel or a star, a heart had been impaled on the vertical branch, its chambers ruptured by sharp green needles that poked out of the top of the organ like dozens of little scalpel blades.
Holly wrestled her disbelieving eyes from the grim sight of the tree and looked at Tom. He stood, casual as Christmas, leaning against the mantelpiece above the fireplace like he was going to break into a carol.
He was holding an axe.
Chapter Forty-Three
“When he reached the age of six, he was ready.”
Tom spoke in that weird Scottish-American hybrid as he paced the room.
“He watched them from the window over there, and they saw him. They knew in an instant who he was, though they dared not believe it. He was half-naked and freezing cold, and they brought him inside, built up the fire, and filled his belly with hot broth and warm milk. They asked him questions, so many questions, but he remained mute just like the Jack had told him. After a few hours he yawned and stretched, right on cue and they carried him up to bed in his old room. He listened to them for a wee while, debating at first, then arguing, and eventually blaming each other for thinking him dead when he was born. Their accusations turned to tears of contrition and their voices grew softer as their emotions clarified. It was a miracle that their wee boy had returned to them. For that, they had to thank the Jack in the Green. Somehow, the energies in the forest had course corrected the cycle of life, death, and rebirth and their beautiful boy had been restored to them, safe and strong.
“They went up to bed, and he waited; just like he had waited in the shadows of tall trees all those years. He stole into their room that night and did as the Jack told him. Carrying with him his father’s axe, he killed them where they slept. Their eyes opened at the moment of impact and they saw the true face of the son they had abandoned.”
Tom swung the axe to punctuate his tale; with such
force that Holly felt a breeze pass over her skin. She pressed her upper body into the damp, limp armchair feeling more vulnerable than ever.
“Moments later, he had scooped those same eyes from their sockets and skipped downstairs to trim the tree with them. He dragged their corpses downstairs and worked for hours, finding decorative uses for the most secret parts of their bodies as he dissected and discovered them.”
He glanced at the crimson decorations that festooned the tree and smiled—lost in a boyhood memory.
“His work done, he sat down under the tree and opened all his presents. There were six; one for each year he had been dead to them. He did not know what to do with the alien objects before him; wooden toys that served no purpose for hunting, or killing. He tossed them on the fire and let them all burn down. As he slept among the remains of his dead parents, his true father sang him to sleep with a lullaby that whispered through the trees—the softest song, a killer’s song—just as he had each night since the boy’s rebirth.
“A few days later, a caller came knocking; a midwife from the village. The snow had stopped, but still lay in a great drift that propped the front door open. She entered, fearful of what she may find, but nothing prepared her for the horrors that awaited her in that room—in this room.
“And, cowering amidst the terrors, she found the boy. He was in the fireplace, this fireplace, curled up in the ashes of his burned toys. He sobbed and sucked his thumb and wet himself, just like his daddy told him to; his real daddy. So they would take him away someplace new, with new parents, where he could grow big and strong. But his real hearth and home would always be here in the forest, and his real father would always be the Jack in the Green.”
Still holding the axe in one hand, Tom took the poker from the floor next to Cosmo’s body. After a moment’s quiet contemplation, he thrust it into the fire and the blood coating its tip hissed in the flames.