A Weaving of Ancient Evil

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  The bodies on the floor, strewn over the seats, were rising; moving as a group towards Fields.

  On screen the car pulled up level with Matt. One window slid down and an arm reached out from within; a long slim arm, naked but for a diamond bracelet that glittered in the moonlight. In the elegant hand was a plastic toy ray gun. Matt saw it and his eyes lit up with excitement.

  “Don’t take it, Matt!” Julia yelled. “Don’t take it.”

  Matt walked to the black car, and reached for the gun. Other hands from within grabbed him, and he was lifted inside. Suddenly the sound system turned on and the soundtrack blared out; screams of pain, of bone being scraped.

  Julia rushed to the screen and began tearing at it with her hands. Trying to shut out the horror and the noise.

  Fields screamed; he was surrounded by dead bodies; some standing, others crawling, all reaching out to him, scratching at his clothes, pulling at his arms and legs.

  Robert ran to help him, but Fields pushed him away. “Get away, this is my audience. Did you hear about the guy took an overdose? Pretty hard to swallow I know…”

  Robert closed his eyes and probed into Fields’ brain. There were dozens of responses; confused, terrified, angry.

  Julia was slumped in front of the cinema screen. Robert sent a message to her. ‘Help me get Fields out of here.’ She seemed to notice the dead people for the first time. They were crowding Fields and Robert against the far wall. Julia drew up a strong electrical charge in her mind and released it around the room. She saw Fields and Robert both flinch but it worked; the bodies of the dead reacted violently, some bending in two with the shock, others fell shaking to the floor.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out.’

  Between the three of them they worked their way into the corridor, but it was in total darkness.

  “The generator must have failed.” Robert said.

  They moved slowly along the corridor, stopping when they got to a door.

  ‘What’s inside there?’

  ‘Keep going.’

  Fields had been silent since they had left the cinema. Now he said. “This smells funny.”

  Julia waited for the punch line but Robert sniffed the air. “He’s right. It smells like smoke.”

  Fields started to mumble in a W C Fields voice. “…never give a sucker an even break…on the whole I’d rather be in Philadelphia…Rebecca was a great fuck, Robert.”

  The lights came on, and the corridor was bathed in brilliant white light. They saw that the end they had been walking towards was bricked up; red building bricks had been erected across the height and width, completely blocking off the route. All the doors had been boarded up; planks nailed across them.

  The only option was to go back they way they had come; they turned behind them and saw that the corridor reached into a seemingly endless infinity. There was no door at the end, there was no end wall; the side walls stretched so far ahead that they lost sight of them. It was like looking into a vast tunnel.

  “Marty, heh, Marty Fontaine.” Fields pulled away from them. He could see someone coming towards him. “Marty, this is a pretty lousy gig you got me here. Still as Moses said ‘Keep taking the tablets.’”

  Robert looked at Julia. ‘Help me.’

  ‘He’s resisting.’

  Fields walked further into the tunnel. “Heh, Marty, did you hear about the nun and the priest went into the desert on two camels?”

  A figure was forming ahead of Fields, the figure of a man. Smoke swelled around him, black smoke, thick and oily. From the tunnel behind the figure was the sound of baying dogs; on the tunnel ceiling were bats hanging lifeless.

  “So she says ‘In that case forget about me, and stick it in the camel.’”

  The figure was fully formed now; half man, half beast; huge, towering, with arms hanging limp and long, coarse black hair covering the bulk of the body, yellow jagged fangs, talons glinting in the full glare of the light. The eyes were the most obviously human element – blue, bright madly shining blue.

  Fields saw only his agent, “Marty.”

  The monster spoke to him in Fontaine’s voice. “You’re all washed up, Chris. Finished. You were always second rate for me, I’m glad to ditch you.”

  “Marty, you can’t do this. I thought we were friends.”

  “The only friend you ever had was Francine, and see how you treated her.”

  The figure approached Fields, moving faster, and faster. Fields was beginning to realise this was wrong; this wasn’t Marty.

  The figure glided over the slime-covered floor; blue plasma drifted out behind it, billowing blue mist. The figure slammed straight into Fields and soaked right into him; the mist trailed on behind and was swallowed by Fields body. Fields seemed to swell; like a balloon filled with water his skin stretched and whatever was inside him was pushed outwards. He dropped to his knees, turned and faced the others. His eyes were blank, nothing there, and his mouth was hanging open, spittle dribbling from the corners. His skin was bloated, stretched to capacity. He stood and began to walk; looking like a beached whale, flopping helplessly.

  The bloated obscenity was filling the tunnel entrance. Illuminated by the light, the skin was stretching still further, the veins stood out clearly, the skin almost transparent. Then the pressure from within got too great, and the skin began to split. Black liquid oozed out, dripping from the eyes, the ears, then the chest, and the legs. The legs gave way and Fields fell to the floor. His features were almost lost; the bloated skin had released all the black liquid and the skin hung in folds. The split edges of the skin were red raw. The body lay in a fetid pool of stinking black liquid that swelled around Julia’s feet. She could feel the heat through the soles of her shoes.

  ‘He’s draining away, Robert.’ The mocking voice insinuated itself into his brain.

  Robert saw the body finally dissolve into the black pool.

  “Mummy?”

  Julia looked into the bright tunnel; it was Matt, he was beckoning to her, and he was holding a plastic toy ray gun.

  ‘It’s not Matt, Julia.’

  It was too late for Robert’s warning. Matt was turning back into the tunnel, and Julia was following him. Robert tried to hold her arm, and the tunnel swallowed them both.

  The tunnel was dark now, the walls rough and slimy, the floor sloping this way and that, like the entrails of a huge beast.

  ‘Where’s Matt? I don’t see him.’

  ‘He’s probably tucked up safe and warm at home where you left him.’

  Robert probed the way back. There was a dense black cloud barring the way. The way ahead seemed easier, so they moved forward, into a chamber, slightly wider than the tunnel. There was water under their feet, and their faces brushed through cobwebs. There were two windows in the chamber; they went to the first one.

  They were looking out over a wide expanse of ice; no, the more they looked they realised what they were seeing was a vast ocean of glass. Beneath the glass, faces pressed against the cold surface, and gradually they realised they were looking into the faces of everyone they had ever known. Almost everyone; there was no Rebecca, no Matt, no…

  ‘What is it?’ Julia asked Robert.

  ‘Your idea of Heaven, my dear,’ a deep, bass voice replied. ‘Or is it?’

  The faces under the glass were screaming out in silent turmoil; agony written on each face, the eyes pleading.

  The second window was smaller, and the scene darker, a little harder to focus on. Julia saw her father, he was holding Matt on his knee, but Matt was crying. Julia’s father was wearing a Mickey Mouse mask, and laughing as he stroked and fondled the boy. Julia’s mother appeared in the misty scene; she was carrying a small axe. Matt pointed to her and smiled. Mickey Mouse frowned and the axe was buried into his head. Blood spurted over Matt’s nude body and the boy started to cry.

  The scene altered and Robert watched as Rebecca took curtains down from their house in Boston. She threw them in a heap in the garden, on top of
tablecloths, towels, suits, shirts. She was wearing her wedding dress. She poured something from a can over the heap and struck a match; the fire flared, licking hungrily into the evening air. Imogen ran into the scene; she began arguing with Rebecca and slapped her around the face. Rebecca responded by pushing Imogen into the fire.

  The window started to cloud over.

  “There’s something coming down the tunnel.” Robert said.

  ‘My idea of hell,’ the deep voice chuckled.

  There was the sound of dogs in a hunting pack, barking and growling; and in amongst them was the sound of whistles and voices, as well as the grunts of larger animals.

  Robert and Julia ran through the tunnel; there was water up to their ankles, and the noises behind them were getting louder. They turned a corner and found themselves standing in a wheat field; the ripe corn reaching up to their waists. Behind them there was no sign of the tunnel.

  A pack of hunting dogs surrounded them; yellow eyes, sharp pointed, froth coated teeth. There was a low growling of blood lust in their throats.

  Robert took Julia’s hand and held it tight.

  ‘Concentrate.’

  The dogs circled them, snarling warily. The pack drew together as one huge beast and pounced. Julia felt teeth sink into her leg, and felt the blood flow down her leg; but when she looked there was nothing biting her.

  ‘Concentrate.’

  ‘I am hungry, Robert. Feed the beast. Let me have her, and I will let you go.’

  Rebecca appeared in Robert’s mind’s eye.

  ‘Let this bitch go and I can give you back your wife, Robert.’

  Robert squeezed Julia’s hand and sent jolt after jolt of energy into her mind. ‘Fight.’

  Julia took hold of both of Robert’s hands. They faced each other and the concentration played out on their faces. A wall built around them and gradually the dogs faded away. Julia felt the pressure on her leg diminish, and watched as a single dog slinked away, cowering in defeat.

  Around them the air was getting warmer. Black clouds were eddying around them; whipping into their eyes, choking their mouths. Figures danced around them, enticing and alluring; promising what they could not fulfil, telling them everything would be all right, sneaking touches inside their clothes, coating their flesh with sticky scents.

  Their eyes began to smart.

  ‘We have to get back to the tunnel.’ Julia pleaded.

  ‘No. We have to defeat this first.’

  Then Michael was standing in front of them; the Michael from Robert’s memory. Michael as a young man, his features already sullied with the thoughts he was carrying in his head.

  Robert locked minds with Michael and they fought. Julia was a helpless onlooker as the brothers probed and pushed; waves of energy sparking off them. Gradually, when Robert was fully stretched, his powers pulled to their limits, Michael began to change shape. The young adult began to adopt the guise of the beast; the bargain he had struck took hold in the folds of skin that drooped from his frame. The hair grew thick and coarse; the tentacles flopped out, the huge swollen head rolled dangerously.

  Julia sensed that Robert could do no more; he was barely holding Michael and there could only be one conclusion. She moved away from them and let her mind probe back and around. One by one she detected them, and she called them.

  Michael was battering Robert's defences and there was little Robert could do to resist. He had always known his brother had stronger powers but only now did he realise how developed those powers were.

  Then the band of pressure in his subconscious mind began to loosen. He was able to push back and feel Michael retreat. Robert risked opening his eyes and what he saw gave him the strength to push hard. The huge creature was shrinking; the body falling back to the young Michael. The reason was that Julia was conducting dozens of people surrounding him. There was Daniel, Rebecca, Whitney, and others Robert didn’t recognise. Julia was instructing them to direct their feelings of hate and anger directly at the heart of the beast. That it was working was evident, as the figure of Michael was beginning to fade; the skin translucent, almost diaphanous. Then it had gone completely.

  Julia opened her eyes and Robert hugged her. They were in the canteen in the research centre.

  Robert probed but couldn’t detect anything.

  ‘I assure you my hell is much more pleasant than any you can imagine.’ Julia smiled as she inserted the words into Roberts mind.

  He slapped her around the face. She held her head in her hands and cried. After a while she stopped, and Robert took her hands in his. Tentatively he explored her thoughts.

  He believed they were now completely alone.

  CRITICAL PRAISE

  THE SEMINAR

  “Are you a “wanna be” of horror fiction? Are you planning to attend a writing seminar to refine your technique and increase your chances of getting published? I strongly advise you to be extremely careful and to ponder about it before sending your application: it could be a deceit and a trap. If you don’t believe me I suggest you read the last novella by Maynard & Sims and meditate. They relate the story of a group of late teens lured to a remote place in Dorset, England, where a mysterious Senice Foundation is organizing a seminar supposedly helpful to launch them in a writing career. However, the expectations of the three girls and three young men taking part in the project are soon to be disappointed: the venue, although pleasant enough, is permeated with an eerie atmosphere, the teachers and the organizers appear to be a bit weird.

  Before too long strange events and odd incidents start taking place. The Foundation and the seminar are just a cover for the evil doings of a centuries-old witch who, in order to keep surviving, needs to feed upon young people’s blood and flesh, finding physical and spiritual sustenance in their youth. The initial misgivings quickly turn into a veritable nightmare and horror bursts in the house as the witch goes ahead with her wicked plan. The battle between good and evil will be strenuous and only two survivors will be left unharmed. But one, unaware, is linked to the witch by ties, which demand an answer… Once again Maynard & Sims prove to be extremely gifted in gently gaining the reader’s attention with their smooth narrative skill and then present him with an overwhelming flood of horror bound to disrupt his sleep for more than one night. As horror writers they know their trade so well that by now they deserve to be numbered among the masters of the genre. So, if you are a potential author and want to learn how to produce good horror fiction, always remaining stylish and tasteful, please ask Maynard & Sims to admit you to one of their own writing seminars. Only, make sure that it’s not taking place in Dorset…”

  MARIO GUSLANDI on Terror Tales website

  THE HIDDEN LANGUAGE OF DEMONS

  This is not the Maynard & Sims you may be familiar with.

  This is a modern nightmare of riotous colour, and white-knuckle action.

  This is Poe in his Sgt Pepper period. This is Picasso prose

  This is a novella that sucks you in from the word go and doesn’t release you even after you’ve hyperventilated and shouted for help.

  This is the language they speak just outside the parameters of normality.

  These are the hidden messages from Hell. The hidden language of demons.

  “I think it’s awesome…it reminds me of Clive Barker. When I say that I mean it starts off with that underlying feeling of menace before spiralling downwards into insanity-some of the set pieces are truly fantastic!”

  “Really enjoyed it. Vivid imagery, the graphic parts disturbing, making a reader squirm. As expected the quality of craftsmanship extremely high. Excellent read.”

  GENE O’NEILL

  “For readers appreciative of Maynard and Sims' traditionalist approach to the supernatural - subtly reached crescendos of terror achieved by careful plotting and an unobtrusive style - The Hidden Language Of Demons is both a surprise and a delight.

  Inviting a modern appreciation of ghost fiction by instilling classically constructed weird stories
with a style contemporary in approach; the fictional geographies of Maynard and Sims are the secret desires of the soul. Using the leisurely build-up of atmosphere and subtle incident to develop ‘human' characters (flaws, insecurities, and misguided perceptions intact), the emotional and psychological histories of their ‘everymen' answer to supernatural threats which, in the context of their naturalistically described environments, appear more believable, and therefore more threatening, than is common in many dark fantasies.

  Allowing only a drop of the fantastic to drip within otherwise realistic situations, Maynard and Sims make readers accept terrible denizens from nightmare as casual fact. In The Hidden Language Of Demons they question perception itself.

  Stripping away the use of normality to emphasize supernatural deviations, Demons vivisects the very notion of objective reality. Revolving around the struggle of two psychic brothers - Robert and Frank Moreland - to survive the psychic attacks of their possessed brother Michael, the fluid transition between realities, and projection of character's internal fears through a dangerously dream-like environment, sweeps away faith in sense and logic - tools by which we define the world.

  Retained are the author's attention to character and place. Gone are safety nets of dependability. The hidden language of demons is, in fact, the terrible ability of physical space (manipulated by Michael) to solidify character's weaknesses into murderous actuality. A white-heat plot reveals there is no longer a difference between thought and flesh, word and deed; no reality outside chaotic hunger.

  Marking a maturity in theme, Demons is unique for its uncharacteristic but effective depiction of graphic violence and perverse sexuality by authors who usually evoke terror with whispers.”

  WILLIAM P SIMMONS In CEMETERY DANCE

  “Writers and editors Len Maynard and Mick Sims are best known for their subtle works of unease. With this novella the pair have ditched the quieter approach to tackle a full-blown horror tale with as much nastiness as they could cram into 104 pages.