Timelock

by R. G. Knighton

  “Don’t give up yet.”

  Croaked Tyler, his voice giving way from the strain.

  “It’s no use; it’s not going to work”

  The professor replied as he stared intently at the centre of the pentagram, willing the hazy portal to stabilise but knowing deep down that it was doomed. Mary suddenly had a coughing fit, doubling over with her hands on her knees and the minor connection that they had, faded and vanished and everyone stopped knowing that it was over.

  Carl was the first to his feet and he searched through his sports bag until he found a bottle of water. After slaking his thirst he offered the bottle round the silent group in which was taken in turn with gratitude.

  “What a cock up.”

  Carl snapped as he threw the empty bottle at the open bag and missed; waking everyone from their thoughts as it clattered loudly on the stone floor.

  “I said what a...”

  “We all heard what you said the first time.”

  Mary interrupted as she tried hard not to burst into tears.

  “Do we do it again now to get George back?”

  Chelsea asked, confident that someone would have the answer and George would soon be returned to the group.

  Everyone watched as the professor stood up and started to disconnect the equipment. As he carried an oscilloscope to the bottom of the stairs he turned and said;

  “Tidy up, it will be dawn soon and all this equipment needs to be returned before Mr Jackson gets into trouble. Henry and I need to go home and get cleaned up before anyone sees us and thinks that we have committed a murder. Now I know you all want to continue and recover George but there is no more time today and if we all get caught, George will have no chance at all. We will reconvene as soon as possible, meanwhile I will stay in my rooms at the university to keep me in close proximity to the situation should anything else untoward arise. Tyler, when you have had some rest will you drive round to my house, I’ll write down my address. I want you to tell my housekeeper Mrs Goldstein I am staying with you for a few days and could she pack me some clothes and toiletries. Oh and I need a file from my study.”

  They all reluctantly agreed and busied themselves with returning the place back to normal. Tyler and Carl carried the equipment back into the storage room without incident and Mary gathered all the loose papers that lay scattered upon the floor. As Chelsea picked up a broom ready to sweep away the pentagram she was stopped by Mary who believed it would be a beacon for George’s safe return. When all was tidy they gathered at the foot of the steps ready to leave, Chelsea remarked,

  “What about the entities? Are they gone now?”

  They had all forgotten about their unwanted guests in the confusion and no one could honestly answer the question. The professor pondered for a while, conscious of the distress the students were under so he offered this suggestion.

  “Perhaps they were returned as soon as the portal opened and in the confusion we didn’t notice but I’m sure there is nothing to worry about.”

  He really did not know if this was true but hoped to ease their minds so that they all could get some rest. On that statement they all walked wearily up the stairs and turned out the light.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dawn broke over another extremely chilly night on campus. The news weatherman reported it as very unusual, as the ridge of high pressure across the area gave a very mild night everywhere else; he could offer no other explanation as to how this could have happened.

  Breaking the silence that complemented the dawn, a milk float hummed along the access road between two blocks of student accommodation. The beam from its headlights bounced up into the air then fell silently back to earth as the milkman gingerly eased his way over the speed humps installed during the summer break, much to the annoyance of every car driver on campus. The milk bottles chinked and rattled as the rear wheels cleared the obstacle and the electric motor clunked back into life as the accelerator pedal was pressed hard down by the milkman trying to make up for lost time on his round. Suddenly out of nowhere, someone ran across his path and he slammed his foot on the squealing brakes before locking the wheels on loose gravel on the road. Skidding in a straight line, the front tyres clipped the kerb of a bend in the road and the rear wheels slewed sideways before halting on the same concrete edge. In slow motion, the top-heavy float lifted the opposing wheels and tipped elegantly over onto its side, ending with a deafening crescendo of crumpled metal and shattering milk bottles as they slipped from the crates and crashed onto the pavement. The sound echoed from the walls of the nearest block repeating the din for a second time before leaving everything silent once again.

  From inside the cab, a blooded hand rose slowly into view, shakily clutching the doorframe of the overturned vehicle. This was followed by the figure of the stricken milkman rising into view. Turning all around to inspect the damage, his initial shock transformed quickly into anger as his eyes fell on the instigator of his predicament.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at, you stupid bloody idiot!”

  He yelled, the anger giving him the energy to scramble out of the cab. Circling around the front he cursed loudly as he tiptoed through the spreading milk pool and as he passed through the beams of the still working headlights, His body cast giant shadows over the illuminated trees of a nearby copse. Milk continued to pour from hundreds of damaged bottles to puddle onto the pavement then run over the kerb and into a nearby drain like white blood flowing from a mortally wounded beast. Amazingly not one student stirred or looked out of their window at the commotion; they were all too used to the sounds of late night revellers and jokers disturbing the peace to bother with just another racket. The milkman, furious at the damaged caused, stormed over to confront the architect of the accident.

  “I repeat, what do you think you’re playing at, you stupid woman!”

  The perpetrator remained expressionless and silent, so his rant continued,

  “Are you listening to me, are you deaf as well as stupid wait ‘till my boss sees all this, I’ll get the sack, I know I will!”

  The irate milkman ranted on, gesticulating wildly to the totally impassive stranger who ignored everything he said, turned away and walked closer to look at the damage. Crouching slowly down, the instigator picked up the bottom section of a broken bottle, straightened up then returned to stand in front of the confused milkman and offered him the broken piece. The poor man stepped back, suddenly quiet and fearful from this bizarre turn of events.

  “What’s all this? Are you threatening me?”

  The gesture remained in place, and with terror in his eyes the poor milkman found himself unable to look away from the glass shard as his left hand defied his will and reached out to take the lethal gift.

  A trickle of blood ran slowly between his fingers and down the back of his hand as he lifted the broken bottle into the air and involuntarily tightened his grip. As the glass sliced into his skin, his whole body shook from the monumental effort to resist this alien force that now turned his wrist to point the shard at his face. Falling to his knees and now using both hands clamped together this supplicating figure wept from the strain as the transparent dagger inched closer to his right eye.

  “Please I’m begging you, stop it!”

  This was the last phrase he uttered as suddenly mute from terror and unable to blink; he watched the needle thin point, prick the outer lens of his eye and with a tiny pop, pass effortlessly through to the cornea then slice into the main chamber as the eyeball sprayed vitreous fluid down a tear stained cheek. The point sliced easily through the retina and the optic nerve, reaching the thin bony orbit lying behind. Muscles quivered in his arms as the glass needle skated across the wet bone and a squealing sound resonated from inside his skull. Relentlessly the pressure increased, grinding away thinner glass splinters until the remaining shard became thick enough to crack the bone and probe deeply into the soft yielding jelly of the milkman’s brain. Even as he fell backwards, his hands co
ntinued to press and steaming hot blood spewed forth over his white coat and into the cold night air. Finally, with the broken shard pushed in as far as it was possible to go, he reversed the thrust and pulled out the glass dagger complete with skewered eyeball from the spurting socket and sat it onto his crimson stained chest. Blinking away the blood from his good eye, his last blurred visual memory was the sight of his own right eyeball glinting in the moonlight as he lay flat on his back on the milk sodden ground. He twitched once, twice then mercifully died with the heavy bottle bottom keeping the grisly display in place completing the macabre scene. Stepping away from the glare of the headlights, his assailant reached down with a gloved hand and gently removed the shish kebab eyeball, turning it curiously over in her fingers before placing it gently between her front teeth and taking a bite. Rolling the morsel around her mouth she could feel its smooth exterior and softer jelly insides with the tip of her tongue then slipped it to the back of her throat, swallowing it whole. Throwing the remainder of the eye up into the air, she caught it in her mouth when it descended. Chewing thoroughly, she washed the remainder down with a swig from the contents of one of the few remaining unbroken bottles of milk as she casually walked away leaving the dead milkman surrounded by a concoction of milk and warm blood forming abstract patterns as they mingled and ran away down the laughing drain.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  For Dean Sutherland, it was going to be a very trying day. The shrill ring of his bedside telephone woke him up in the early hours of the morning with a report from the head of campus security regarding the bizarre fatal accident of a milkman on the road in the middle of the student halls of residence. Further information revealed it to be near unit B of an all female accommodation. He hurriedly replaced the telephone receiver onto its cradle then rolled over to wake Gillian Taylor-Smith sleeping soundly at his side. She had arrived at eleven o’clock the previous night, desperate for attention but had to wait for an appropriate hour to avoid prying eyes and loose tongues. Sleepily she listened to the reason for the telephone call and now wished to be back in her own bed in the block neighbouring the incident, as a roll call was sure to be made and statements of her whereabouts taken. Her absence will be noted with suspicion by the other women, fuelling the fire for the gossip merchants.

  “I’ll be the main focus of attention all day.”

  She moaned, rolling over and covering her head with the duvet. Showing no hint of compassion for the death of the milkman, along with all the grief and anguish for his poor family and friends.

  “Get out of here now!”

  The dean snapped coldly, pulling the duvet away, exposing Gillian’s semi-naked body. Ignoring the verbal abuse that followed, he pulled on his boxer shorts and plodded wearily into the en-suite bathroom of his grand mock Tudor house that was far too expensive for someone even with his handsome salary. It was paid for with the proceeds of assorted ‘donations’ from the rich parents of dim-witted students who wished their offspring to be accepted and guaranteed to graduate from this fine old university.

  By the time the dean had completed a quick wash and brush up, he returned to find Gillian sitting facing the dressing table mirror, re-applying her makeup. Sitting on the end of the bed, he watched voyeuristically as Gillian stood up to remove the white silk lingerie that only a few hours ago she put on for his entertainment. Gillian sensed what the dean was doing and angrily turned her back to deny him the view. Looking up, she jumped to see the dean’s face in the mirror as he now stood directly behind, looking over her shoulder. Putting his arms around her waist, he pulled her in tightly and she could feel his excitement as he slid his hands up her body and squeezed her breasts. Fighting her angry instinct to push him away, Gillian eagerly watched their reflection as the dean tenderly kissed the side of her neck then playfully nibble at her earlobes. While Gillian enjoyed the caress, a sudden change in the image behind them caught her eye.

  Over her other shoulder, what should have been a section of plain white painted ceiling, suddenly transformed into the hazy image of the underside of a rough wooden platform, complete with a trapdoor. Gillian blinked, looking more intently as the vision adjusted into a crisp focus. Elbowing the dean in the ribs, she whirled around to hear the added sound of drum roll that seemed to be coming from somewhere behind the wall. Holding his side as he recovered from his jab, the dean stared open mouthed alongside Gillian as the rataplan on the drum ceased and the trapdoor fell open. An unseen crowd gasped and Gillian screamed as the body of a young woman, dressed in a grey smock with her hands tied behind her back, fell through the aperture, stopping abruptly at the limit of a length of rope, tied in a noose around her neck. The invisible crowd cheered, filling the bedroom with noise as the poor woman danced and jigged as the ligature tightened. Gillian gagged, clutching both hands to her mouth at the sight of the woman’s face. Watching it change from slate grey to plum purple as the rope ripped into the woman’s skin, blocking the blood supply and stopping her breath. The poor woman’s eyes bulged in their sockets, looking bloodshot and ready to pop out of her head while her purple swollen tongue bulged cow-like out of the side of her mouth from the pressure of the tourniquet on her throat. Frozen in terror, Gillian and the dean could only stare as three more trapdoors appeared, completing a short row across the ceiling. Three more times the drums rolled, followed by another poor female soul falling through a trapdoor to their death.

  Suddenly a small group of filthy children appeared, running into view through the closed doors of the fitted wardrobes. Laughing and joking they seemed completely unaffected by the grim spectacle as they ran around the swinging corpses like a bizarre obstacle race, spinning the bodies around and poking them with sticks. One young ruffian, playing to the audience and encouraged by cheering, used his stick to lift the hem of the skirt of the first woman, exposing her soiled behind, adding to the mirth of the unseen crowd. Three of the condemned died quickly, their necks snapping instantly at the end of the rope. This offered an almost painless death and their bodies now hung lifeless. The first to fall twitched constantly, refusing to die; due to a miscalculation by the hangman giving her too short a rope for her weight and the fall was not enough to break the vertebrae in her neck. Encouraged by chants and jeers to finish her off, two of the young boys ran to her side and jumped up, wrapping their arms and legs like monkeys around the poor woman’s torso. The rope noose dug ever deeper under her chin, raising purple welts to her skin as the boys jigged up and down. As her slender neck stretched to an impossible length the thin skin split, peeling away to reveal the tight sinews and muscle beneath. Finally a loud snap signalled to all that her last seconds of life were finally over.

  The trouble was that in their excitement, the boys carried on bouncing up and down, splitting the weakened tendons apart and snapping the cartilage until to their surprise they crashed to the floor, still clutching the dead woman’s now headless torso. The whiplash from the overstretched rope catapulted her head through the air, spraying an arc of still warm blood across the bedroom wall and over the upturned heads of the laughing children before landing at Gillian’s feet. Looking down frozen to the spot in terror, she screamed again at the sight of the dead woman’s eyes literally popped out of their sockets and hanging loosely against her temples. Congealing blood continued to pour from the lacerations of the severed neck, sticking to Gillian’s stockinged feet and soaking into the deep shag of the plush white bedroom carpet. One of the children skipped right up to Gillian, passing right through the body of the astonished dean. The young girl seemed to smile at her directly then pick up the severed head and even though it weighed several pounds she easily lobbed it to the other children who proceeded to throw it around in a ghoulish blood spattered game of catch, to the cheers and whistles of the still unseen audience.

  In a flash, the gruesome tableau vivant disappeared, leaving not a trace, no more hanging bodies, filthy children, or puddles of blood. Gillian and the dean stared blankly at each other gasping for breath
. Two minutes of silence passed and Gillian finally recovered her senses, thinking of something to say. Narrowing her eyes and glaring accusingly at the dean, she asked,

  “Did you slip me anything last night?”

  Gillian held his gaze while sitting down on a stool in front of the dressing table, where only moments before, the children played, running through solid objects as if they were holograms. The dean cleared his throat and looked shamefaced. He wondered if it was the right moment for a rude joke, but the look in Gillian’s eyes made him quickly change his mind. Raising his eyebrows and scratching the back of his head, he sheepishly admitted dropping an LSD tab into her wine to ‘spice things up a bit’ as he put it. Gillian stood up fuming.

  “Don’t you ever do that to me again. I don’t know what you just witnessed, but it scared the hell out of me. I don’t think I’ll sleep soundly for a very long time. Now let’s get dressed and you can drop me off back at the university.”

  Shivering from anger and shock, Gillian sat back down, this time to settle her nerves and tried hard not to burst into tears as she checked her pale face in the mirror.

  “You’ll have to walk.”

  He whispered in reply. Gillian snapped her head around in a fresh bout of anger and ready with an acidic reply, but something changed her mind. Fuming silently, she dressed quickly, throwing all her remaining things into her open overnight bag. Storming out across the landing and down the stairs, she picked up various items of her clothing that had been hastily discarded en route to the bedroom the previous night, ending with her coat that lay in the hallway. She quickly put it on then exited via the front door without another word. The dean smiled to himself, putting their visions down to a ‘bad trip’ without realising they witnessed the same event. As the front door slammed, leaving him alone, he hastily put on a pair of brown corduroy jeans and a white polo necked jumper, he then proceeded to gather his own things before heading down the stairs, taking one last look at the empty room before turning out the light. He set the burglar alarm and walked away from the house, heading across the block paved driveway to the separate double garage which housed his brand new Jaguar car, yet another gift from a grateful very wealthy parent.