Hunters: A Trilogy

by Paul A. Rice

  Then the thing spoke, in his half-crazed dream world, Michael heard it speak.

  ‘Don’t you be interfering here now, boy, there are things here you ain’t got no truck with, you hear? None o’ your damn business! You just go back to your studies and looking after your Momma, are you hearing me, boy?’

  He didn’t recognise the accent, it sounded tinny and false, like someone trying to be posh when really they had been raised in the gutter. The mouth opened again and an enormous black tongue slid out. It reminded him of the giraffe’s tongue he had seen at the zoo when he was younger. It was nearly as long as his arm and was mostly black; it looked like a giant, over-active slug.

  The fear within the young boy became so great that this time he did scream –the noise came out like a howling giggle. It was the thought of that thing trying to be posh that made him giggle. Michael was so shocked by the sound of his own mirth that he actually did burst into manic laughter, this only made everything worse, he laughed some more and this time it was a burst of near-hysterical hilarity that came bubbling from his mouth.

  The sound of his barely-controlled madness sent dog-man, with his giraffe tongue, into a seething rage. The blackness rushed from its lips, with a low snarl, its tone turned to rust, vile words rasping like venom across those black lips.

  ‘Fukin’ funny, is it? Yore Poppa thought it was funny too, that muthafuka ain’t laughing now, is he? Yoo weren’t laughing last time either, were yoo, Michael?’

  This time there was no posh accent, pure backwoods-twang, coupled with rusty nails, was all Michael heard. It was an awful sound. The thing drooled smokey saliva at him. The boy snapped his mouth shut.

  It spoke again. ‘Yeah, ain’t sooo funny now, is it, boy? Just tell ‘em to fuk off when they comes a knocking fer yore attention. Tell ‘em to fuk off! Yoo just stay here and take care of yore Momma. If’n yoo don’t, well then, just yoo remember that I have seen the colour of yore piss-weak blood before, and I don’t mind seeing it again, yoo little pig’s prick!’ It snarled at him. ‘I am the sorrow in yore pathetic little life, I am the tears in yore Momma’s eyes. I am the one who put the cancer in her guts. Oh yeah, and I am the one who will be waiting to hold her fuking dead hand when she comes to this world – I am the one! Fuking laugh at that, yoo little muthafuka! Don’t say that I ain’t told yoo, we don’ need you here; just yoo stay where yoo are and live yore happy little life – yoo make sure yoo hear me! Do it, cunt-boy!’

  Then, Michael did scream, and this time it was a real scream. With a howl, he shot outwards from the dream, crashing to the floor of his bedroom, narrowly avoided striking his head on the bed-frame as he thumped to the floor, impact sending flashes of pain shooting up his shoulder. He lay still, shuddering from head to foot, trying to catch his breath. He was panting and spitting, determined not to have one tiny atom of the blackness in his mouth.

  Rising unsteadily to his feet, he lurched into the bathroom. Nausea overcame him and he puked into the sink, streams of dark spew flew from his lips, caught in the back of his throat and squirted up into his nose. In the darkness the vomit was black in colour, its stain standing in stark contrast to the sink’s white porcelain. Michael knew it was too late; he’d swallowed some of the black mist! He snapped the light on, peering fearfully into the sink.

  The puke was dark, dark-brown, hot-chocolate puke. He felt his knees giving way in relief. Turning the cold tap on, Michael splashed some water onto his face and washed his mouth out before taking a long drink of the icy fluid. Feeling somewhat less unsteady, he looked into the mirror and blinked, the recent fear made his eyes blaze. He leaned forward and splashed another handful of cold water onto his face.

  Keeping his eyes shut, he reached for the towel, dried his face, and without looking back at the mirror, flicked the light off and left the bathroom. Fear filled him, fear and anger. ‘Damned dream, damned black mist,’ he thought. ‘What’s this about? It was so real, that thing, man…it scared the hell out of me. Jesus, I was scared, Mum…I mean, it said some bad stuff!’

  Still shaking at those thoughts, he slid under the quilt, leaving his bedside light on. For what felt like hours he tossed and turned, images of the dream running through his mind. Then, in typical fashion, his young mind switched itself off as a deep, and thankfully dreamless, sleep fell upon him.

  He wasn’t alone in this world and would never be without help in his battles against the blackness. There were others here, centuries of family history and buckets of bad blood. Michael’s first meeting with the Demon was over and he would learn from the experience. George and the others would make sure he did. After all, it’s what Michael had been born for, born into a place where he imagined he had always been.

  3

  The Tale of Mary

  Michael’s mother never did get better, the Demon made sure she didn’t. Mainly because it had been the cause of her illness in the first place – yes, the Demon had given her a souvenir of his own, one filled with evil and despair, a black lump of a gift. When her husband had set forth for his final battle with the Dark One, Mary had no idea that she would never see her beloved Jack again – no idea about the dream that would give her more than just a headache the very next morning. It was on the night Jack died when she had taken the Demon’s gift, and the effects were still with her. They would make sure she never recovered.

  In her sleep, on that fateful night, she had seen her husband surrounded by a blue light, he shone like a beacon. In fact, the light did appear to be some sort of shield around him, a shield he was using, generating, to ward off a black mist. A mist that whirled and soared around him, it rose above him like a black eagle and then cascaded down upon him. A horrible shrieking noise accompanied its plummet. Mary Wildeman watched in silent horror as her man fell to his knees under the torrent of darkness.

  The blueness of her husband’s radiance flickered and dimmed before magnifying intensely, its brilliant beams forcing the blackness away from him once more. The power of his light blew it away like a firecracker would have exploded a bag of coal dust. Shimmering black particles flew through the surrounding, losing all semblance of their former cohesion.

  Jack collapsed and lay motionless upon his back.

  The particles of darkness rained down in a black mist, and just like the coal dust would have done, they began to settle across the ground, and across Jack. As he lay on his back, he became covered in the dust. He was completely spent, exhausted – she cried out for him. Whatever it was that he had been doing, emitting the light and fighting the mist, had emptied him. He lay spread-eagled on his back, arms flung wide and face thrown to the sky.

  The air around them was a lilac colour, Mary saw that her husband was on a high plain somewhere, so high it seemed almost halfway to the moon. He lay at the foot of a mountain, in which there seemed to be carved a door, or entranceway of some kind. She wondered: ‘Where am I? This is too real to be a dream.’ Mary had a stupid thought about having cheese and crackers with her hot chocolate before going to bed.

  Then she heard someone…or something…chuckle, the horrid noise focused her mind as she looked at her surroundings again. All thoughts of cheese and crackers leapt away from her. Mary knew they were high up; she was able to see the snow-covered peaks below the track where Jack was sprawled. His old rucksack lay open behind him; the bag was on its side, green glow pulsing from within.

  The other thing she noticed was the blood.

  There were two large splashes of crimson on the beige toecap of his left boot. Blood was seeping from his nose, she saw him smile and then cough as he tried to speak. Drawing a slow, painful breath, Jack grimaced before saying his final words to her.

  ‘I love you, Mary, sorry about this,’ he gasped. ‘You can’t win ‘em all. I guess we’ll just have to try again!’ He choked once more, and then said, ‘I’ll be okay, it’s just the way things are, take care of Mikey, he’s something else, he’s special and it’ll come for him. It’s scared of him, scared of us! It sho
uld be, because we’ll never give up, ever!’ He stretched out his arm and reached for her.

  In her sleeping world, Mary reached out for him; she opened her mouth and screamed his name. ‘Jack! Jack! Please don’t leave me, don’t give up, Jack!’

  Mary felt herself being pulled towards him and she let herself go – she should have known better. As Mary went to her husband, the Demon played its final card. With a sudden flicker, the remnants of the black dust oozed into Jack’s mouth and nose, the timing was perfect and Mary didn’t see it.

  As she pressed her dream lips to her dying husband’s mouth, the blackness was waiting for her. Mary touched him, Jack screamed and tried to force her away, she was horrified, in his delirium her husband was denying her, fighting her off! She pushed his arms away, clasped him to her and kissed him firmly on the lips, Jack cried out in anguish and she felt his teeth crush her lips, the familiar touch of him was only a fleeting moment before she felt something else, something torrid, a warm, sweaty nastiness – something evil.

  Ripping her head away, Mary tried desperately to spit the sensation out. A plume of black dust erupted from her lips, floating down to land upon her husband’s upturned face. In madness and fear she watched as the black filth slithered into Jack’s nose. His eyes flashed open, and in that instant, Mary Wildeman unwillingly looked the Demon in the eye. She saw the brilliant blue of her husband’s eyes turn a malevolent yellow. They flashed with green as Jack tried to fight the presence within, but his strength was gone. As the yellow resurfaced, the blue began to drown. Jack began to drown.

  He lurched to his feet with a howl, the yellow eyes blinking out as the blueness of their real owner returned. He spat the words out. ‘Run Mary, run!’ He choked, gasping out to her: ‘Run now, for God’s sake, woman, it may already be too late, just run! I’ll see you later, in some other place, run, Mary, RUN!’ He turned and staggered away, crashing to his knees before the rucksack.

  Jack fumbled, trembling fingers trying to fasten the bag, slivers of light slicing from within its canvas interior. Pulling the last strap tight, he slung the bag onto his shoulder, coughed once more and then straightened himself. Holding his head high, Jack Wildeman began to do some running of his own. Loping strides carried Mary’s tall husband towards the precipice, the edge of the track that fell away into a deep valley below.

  In horror, Mary realised what his intention was. ‘Jack, wait! Jack!’ Mary screamed after him but it was too late, far too late in far too many ways. Without looking back, Jack leapt into his unknown future. As he sprang forward over the edge, Mary heard the Demon scream – a long, steel scraping shriek of a noise.

  ‘Get the ship! Get ouuttt! Ohhh, Out! Get out quickly! Now-now, fly out, get ouuttt! Swinefuck-pig-dog-bastardddd, out-out…GET OUT!’

  Mary saw the black dust flying from her husband’s head, catching a last glimpse of his boot sole as he dived headlong into the abyss. The swirling powder rose above the place where Jack had been, it melded into the shape of the awful eagle, which she had seen plummeting onto her husband earlier. It swirled in upon itself and fluttered down onto the edge of the cliff. With a liquid chuckle, the substance began to suck itself together, drawing all its scattered particles back into a central mass. She watched in horror as it grew, becoming larger and larger as it did so. Mary stared in dismay as it magnified by the second.

  Soon it was as large as a man; the rippling blackness shimmered and pulsed as it tried to find some shape. The blackness didn’t really have a shape, as such, but the petrified mind of any observer would make shapes of its own. Mary saw giant lizards, flat-headed dogs, sharp-toothed dragons, and yellow-eyed ogres, the beast became all of those things and more to her. In her mind she saw absolute evil, felt herself fill with terror. Mary saw the Demon. She saw it and she ran, ran back into the very darkest corner of her fracturing mind.

  It laughed at her, and the terrible sound of its filthy words followed her fleeing horror. ‘Run, Mary, run! Run jus’ as fast as yoo can, but it ain’t gonna help yoo none, sister! I’ve been in yore mouth, and a mighty sweet little mouth it is too, lady, mighty sweet. I maybe’s gonna get me some more o’ that sweet rose! I maybeee’s gonna get some o’ yore sweet pussy next time too, Mary…sweet, sweet pussy!’ Then the Demon began to sing for her, it sang in a grating, nursery-rhyme monotone – an awful sound that pierced her inner being.

  ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary – look at how my tongue doth grow! Mary, Mary, she’s my sweet fairy!’ The rhyming stopped to allow a playground taunt to take its place. ‘Mary is my fairy, fairy-Mary. Mary Wildeman wants to sit on my cock – she wants to sit on my long, hot cock!’ Then it giggled, the sound of its pure insanity cut into her like a scalpel. ‘K – I – S – S – I – N – G, Mary and me, a-sittin’ in a tree, first comes love and den comes marriage, and den…’

  It paused, giggled once more, and said, ‘And den Mary gets fucked until she dies. Mary wants to F – U – C – K me, me-me-me!’ The voice laughed insanely. ‘You should see what I can do with my tongue, missy Mary, yoo want me to show ya? C’mon now, sister, don’t run away, let’s play! Mary, its big, Mary – really biggg!’

  The words of its final rhyme shoved Michael’s mother over the edge of her own precipice. In shattering horror, Mary Wildeman saved herself by plunging back into a fear-wracked sleep, a deep, sick, tormented sleep.

  She slept the sleep of the dead.

  The next morning she awoke with an awful headache, the worst one she had ever had. Nothing would make it go away and terrible memories of the dream plagued her. She tried ringing Jack but it was to be of no avail. That didn’t really mean anything as it was very rare, if ever, that she was able to get hold of him whilst he was at work, anyway. The only time she would ever hear from him was if he called her.

  Mary spent the morning sitting in the kitchen, nursing endless cups of tea and swallowing aspirin. At 11:15am the telephone on the kitchen window ledge did some ringing of its own, it was a very bad line and a man saying he was from Jack’s work tried to talk, the line hummed and buzzed. ‘Mrs Wildeman,’ bzzzz…crackle…‘I tried to call you but the line was,’ bzzzzzz… ‘…accident…Jack’s been…helicopter,’ bzzzz…crackle…‘Hello, hello?’

  Mary became aware of a background noise, akin to an electrical hum, but somehow tuneful. She couldn’t help but listen to it. Then the horror rose within her as she realised something, she’d heard that sound before, she knew that tune! ‘Mary, Mary, she’s my sweeeet fairy, Mary…’ She slammed the handset down and fell to her knees on the kitchen floor. She was never to answer that telephone again, ever.

  Later that day, a tall man wearing a very smart suit, came to the house. She had been waiting for him, sitting in frozen anticipation and waiting for the nightmare to become a reality. It didn’t disappoint her. The man introduced himself as someone in HR from the company that Jack worked for.

  ‘May I come in, Mrs Wildeman – it’s rather bad news I’m afraid, can we...?’ he said, nodding his head wearily toward the hallway behind her. There was no humour in those hazel eyes. Mary sensed the weight of something terrible resting upon his wide shoulders. After a few niceties, the tall man… Malcolm, he said his name was, and so did the business card he left on the coffee table… told her that he had bad news, very bad news. He said that Jack’s helicopter was believed to have crashed into the side of a cliff on some barren mountain range. They believed the accident had been in Southern Afghanistan, but weren’t absolutely sure. There were no survivors and no chance of rescuing the bodies. Reports did state the sighting of some wreckage, but it was scattered like confetti and badly burned. Access was impossible by either land or air.

  They would never be sure.

  There wasn’t a lot to say after that. He left some paper forms for her to complete, and said that she would be given copies of all the official documents once the process of tying up her husband’s affairs had been completed. Malcolm left soon afterwards – his papers untouched on the table.
Mary sat in the chair, staring at the wall, terrible thoughts stumbling through the quagmire of her mind.

  ‘What should I say to Michael? What should I say, what should I do? Oh my God, oh my Jack, my poor Jack!’ He was gone forever and the hole in her heart would never be filled. The nightmare was real, it was upon her and Mary cringed inwardly as the coldness of its cruelty spread through her mind.

  It wasn’t long afterwards that she became ill, and it wasn’t just a little cold. Mary became properly ill. The dream had broken her mind and the news of her husband’s death had broken her heart, she was nothing but a hollowed out husk. However, the lump in her stomach did its level best to fill any gaps. Endless tests confirmed the presence of a tumour, but no-one was able to completely diagnose what type of cancer it was, or even what may have caused it. It was just a little black lump and no matter what they tried, it always came back.

  The prognosis wasn’t too good, either.

  Actually, it was pretty bad, terminal, in fact.

  For nearly five years she had battled the blackness that lay inside her, the festering wound the Demon had left behind. Her fear of him, and the mocking words he had chanted in the dream, gave her the strength to carry on, but the truth was that on the inside she was nothing more than a void. The death of Jack and the sucking poison of the blackness had emptied her heart, they had desiccated her soul. Gradually, she became more and more unwell, and by the time Michael was approaching his seventeenth birthday, Mary had become completely bedridden.

  The doctors were amazed by her resilience, the size of the tumour in her stomach was by now enormous, and yet she would not allow them to operate. Despite their heartfelt pleadings, Mary refused. She knew what it was that lay on the inside of the black lump, sitting and festering within her stomach, and in some revengeful way she had decided to take it with her when she died. The thought made her smile ruefully, she remembered the thing’s panicked shriek when Jack had launched himself into space with it still trapped inside his head.