Neighbourhood Watch

by Lex Sinclair

  The third time she saw the hole was that same night after she’d clawed her way back through the tunnel onto the footpath, breathing raggedly. What she’d seen in the cave

  (continuing from her previous nightmare, like a two-part television drama they sometimes had on ITV or BBC1) had mentally scarred her for the rest of her life, depending on whether she lived for another day or for fifty years.

  The street belongs to the dead! the leader of the Acolytes of Doom told her. Then he - it - told her a very scary, spine-tingling story (not with words, because she would’ve been too young to understand - but by clear images) that had made her get out of the cave like she had a rocket stuck up her arse.

  Four monks jerked awake at exactly the same time on a hot summer night in June, out of breath, sweating profusely, wearing masks of pure fear; fear that leaves horrible flashing playbacks in one’s mind years and years later, interrupting one’s sleep, causing them to jump out of their skin for no apparent reason... hallucinating, paranoid... incurable.

  They got out of bed at the stroke of midnight, dressed in their robes and went down the concrete stairs outside, shivering violently at first from the chill seeping through their bones, teeth chattering. However, when they saw that they were not alone, each of the four monks ceased walking aimlessly in the forecourt, silently glad that they had company, yet knew - without knowing how they knew - to keep quiet, so not to wake the others and get themselves into trouble. For now they must be discreet, before the reason of them being outside the monastery edifice becomes known.

  A presence they can not see but feel, like the cold breeze brushing the blades of grass underfoot, leads them around the rear of the building towards the nearest trees at the entrance of the woods. The closer they get to the line of firs whispering in the night wind, the warmer they become. Yet not one of the monks feels the cold, nor do they feel their bodies. It’s as though they are not ambling across the field but floating on a magic carpet by an invisible force they are about to meet.

  In less than five minutes from getting out of their beds, having been fast asleep, the four monks now find themselves entering the woods, stepping over the acorns, dead leaves and pine needles. Somewhere in the heart of the woods an owl hoots, birds flutter from tree to tree overhead, squirrels dart in and out of underbrush and scarper up trunks. These sounds of nature are familiar and don’t frighten the monks in the slightest. What does unsettle them, though, is the sound of something moving all around them, closing in on them, swiftly, intentionally.

  What the something is, they don’t know. It sounds like footfalls, but because of the gloom shrouding them they cannot be sure. They regard one another anxiously, silently asking themselves what made them get up and stand out here like a group of men who’d lost their minds; men who ought to be in a mental institution before they harmed themselves or anyone else. The something that sounded as though it was getting nearer was the reason they were out here in the first place. The presence belongs to the footfalls finding its way through the woods into the opening where they await its arrival.

  The footfalls cease. The sounds of the birds flapping their wings, squirrels scurrying up and down the trunks and the owls hooting end abruptly - cut off in a blink of an eye.

  The four monks know that any moment now the something that brought them here is about to reveal itself, to stand in front of them.

  When they see the goat’s head shining brightly, white against the darkness of the environing woods, the four robbed figures automatically lose control of themselves.

  What they wanted to do, was to turn on their heel and run as fast as the wind blows on a gusty day at the seashore back to the monastery where they’d barricade themselves behind closed doors, out of harms way, which is certainly what is in store for them if they stay where they are currently at.

  Instead the terror has paralysed them.

  The man-shaped figure wearing a goat’s head and scarlet shiny eyes, piercing the darkness have reached into the monks’ glassy orbs and seized them, preventing them from being permitted to move until it is finished with them. Then it goes on to explain what it wants them to do. In return it will offer them a life that would never end (not spiritually, but in the physical manner they have become accustomed to), for it is God’s adversary. A soul catcher of brilliant men, whom don’t truly believe in the word of God in the scripture, but have nothing else to worship which would reward them for every deed.

  The four young men, who have gradually lost their faith, surrendering themselves so soon in their lives to the Almighty Father, listen intently to the entity as it speaks to them in a strong, confident voice. A voice of a leader they can see with their very own eyes, listen to with their very own ears, hear word-for-word what their Lord wants them to do, specifically, as opposed to reading tomes which they cannot relate to, like they have been doing for three years now, without the slightest comprehension.

  What it wants mortifies the men at first. But then the thing wearing the goat’s head informs them that without great sacrifices there can be no great rewards. This makes sense to the men, although if you’d asked one of the four men that night to explain it to you they wouldn’t be able to. Their robes flap around as the wind picks up. Their winces of revulsion turn to sneers of malice.

  At hearing the thing with the goat’s head, staring at them with those piercing red eyes, calling out their Christian names, one by one, they go forward, reach out their right arm, turn their hand so that the palm is facing upright and allow their new leader to break their skin with its pointy-sharp fingernails and make the sign of the pagan ritual in blood. Initially, each and every one of the monks flinched in pain, attempting to withdraw their cut hands from the thing with the goat’s head - for a second regretting their decision to allow this terrifying creature to do such a thing to them. But once the long fingernail sinks deep into their flesh and begins marking them with the symbol, their grimaces turn to smiles; smiles that can only be identified with those who are joyful and know no pain or suffering, only happiness.

  The thing with the goat’s head steps back away from them when this has been accomplished, reminding them now that their souls are no longer in their possessions, as they have exchanged them for an eternal life in the physical form. The type of eternal life most humans hope for when they are about to die and start contemplating Heaven and Hell, and whether or not that either actually exist. Or if they will see their old friends; see them like they were when they were alive.

  A real eternal life, the thing with the goat’s head called it.

  Something tangible. It also reminds them of the promise they made... and that if they do not make a great sacrifice, then their souls will be destroyed, destroying them physically. Because without the spirit the body simply becomes a rotting shell... nothing more.

  It was then, watching the traffic-light red eyes slink back into woods, finally swallowed up by the shroud of darkness of the night, that they realise what they have given up.

  The thing with the goat’s head has taken their spirits and promised them eternal life. Nevertheless, if they broke their promise then they will lose their lives and souls to the master of Evil. It was cunning, ruthless, not telling them that it could destroy them as easy as they squashed grapes, until after it had sunk its poisonous fingernail into their flesh, catching their soul, while trickles of blood ran down through their fingers and dappled the ground on which they’d stood.

  The four monks had no choice now but to do what they’d promised and only hope that the thing with the goat’s head kept its end of the bargain.

  They returned to the monastery, not speaking to each other about what they’d witnessed. What they’d promised to do for the sake of themselves. They knew once the deed was done, the thing with the goat’s head would return after they fled the monastery and found a temporary hiding place from the townsfolk who were certain to be thirsty for
their blood.

  Amazingly, the four men dressed as monks fell into a dreamless slumber right away. They awoke in the morning, thinking that perhaps last night’s events were nothing but a dream. Yet when they sat around the breakfast table and saw the other three brothers, looking at one another with the same expressions, it became quite clear in the light of day that they hadn’t imagined any of it.

  The four men gathered outside on a stone bench in the morning sunlight shining on their pallid faces, cold in spite of the warmth. They discussed last night’s events, wondering why they had got up out of bed when the other brothers had stayed fast asleep, unaware as to what was going on outside across the field by the fringe of the woods.

  The tallest brother rose to his feet. They all turned to him, immediately paying strict attention to him, because even though they didn’t have someone whom they looked up to, the tallest monk always got those around him to listen, like he did right then.

  He told them that the sacrifice had to be so appalling that it would satisfy the thing with the goat’s head, gaining respect and approval, thus allowing them to receive their deserved reward. Furthermore, they had to choose a victim that everyone was fond of; someone who was incredibly affable, magnanimous and forgiving; someone who truly believed in Jesus Christ the Lord Saviour; someone who believed the Almighty Father, creator of Heaven and Earth.

  The name and face that came to their minds was, of course, Brother John. Brother John was fifteen years their senior and had always been a faithful friend to each and every one of them. He would leave his door open for anyone so they could share their problems; unload the burden upon their shoulders, to him.

  Having decided who the victim of the atrocity they were about to commit should be, the four brothers waited for darkness to descend and the other brothers to retire to their rooms for the evening... alone.

  Then, as a group, they stood outside Brother John’s door and rapped on the wood. The older man was evidently surprised to see, not one, but four residents outside his door. Nonetheless, being the charitable and congenial man he was, he gently inquired their unexpected late night call.

  They closed the door behind them, and before Brother John was given a full explanation, their new leader slung an arm over the shorter, older man, driving his knee into the small of his back, squeezing as hard as he possibly could around his neck, choking Brother John, who’d gone blue in the face. Veins surfaced around his temples and across his wrinkly brow, pulsing maddeningly.

  The four monks assailed the older man, punching and kicking at his abdomen while the leader continued to choke the life right out of him.

  For a split second, Brother John pulled the arm free of his neck and grunted, trying to shout at the top of his voice, but was unable to. By the time the others battered him and he lost his strength, the leader of the group (later to be called the Acolytes of Doom) got his arm back around the neck, clasping the hands together in an unbreakable bond, once again cutting off the air supply to Brother John, who knew that this time there would be no chance to escape his attackers.

  Brother John’s arms flopped to the concrete flooring, lifeless, less than a minute later as the last of the breath left his crumpled form in a heap. Satisfied, the leader, removed his stranglehold, rolled over onto his knees, held out his hand and took the sharp razor blade, glinting in the moonlight through the window and began the stomach-churning task of digging the blade into the wrinkly flesh around the temples. Blood spurted from the severed veins that had seconds ago been pulsing frantically. Yet, unperturbed, the leader of the Acolytes of Doom continued tearing the flesh open in a trancelike state, with steady hands of an experienced card player, not giving any indication what cards he had hidden from his opponents.

  It was due to their inhuman calmness that allowed them to accomplish what they came to do that fateful night to Brother John. Their uncanny behaviour was also the only reason that they could all stand there, watching as - bit by bit - the older man’s face was cut away from the bloody pulp beneath, without vomiting, or without being at all aghast. The whole face of Brother John hung like a balaclava that refused to embrace the contours of his head, where it had been moments earlier.

  The leader of the satanic group put the razor blade (now coated in a crimson mess) down on the concrete, gripped the top corners of the face and peeled it off the kind- hearted human being, who had always been a loyal friend to each and every one of them, as though they were actually blood-related.

  The four monks tied a thick length of rope around the concrete pillar in the room holding the ceiling up and tied a noose around the neck of the monk that no longer had a face and were about to pick him up off the floor when he started thrashing about, kicking and punching wildly at anything and everything he could feel, in a last attempt to fight off his attackers. Unfortunately for Brother John, his flailing around on the floor was in vain in spite of his best efforts. The four men each held a thrashing limb, carried him over to the window and, without hesitation, hurled him over the ledge.

  Brother John’s head smacked the stonework, like a coconut falling from a palm tree, cracking the back of the cranium. It seemed to take for ever until the older man ceased kicking and scratching at the coiled rope - turning his head a beetroot colour - to sag for the second time that night. However, this time the monk was not unconscious - he was dead.

  The killing of Brother John was relatively easy. What they did find difficult was hauling the cadaver down the concrete stairs to the outside, where they knocked nails - as quietly as they could - through the victim’s ankles and one through the forehead and into the throat, stepping backwards watching the droplets of blood dapple the earth beneath, the eight foot crucifix jutting out of the mound as a symbol of the monastery’s beliefs; beliefs that the four men - who had committed an awful, sickening act that night - once believed in... when they still had possession of their own souls.

  ***

  Jake was sitting ramrod-straight in the wooden chair staring out through the window in Joe’s attic. He volunteered first to keep a watch on the street below. He was also surprisingly vigilant, too.

  Joe and Hugh had decided to keep him company when he’d mentioned that it was as exciting as watching paint dry, due to the fact that the only thing that had happened in the last hour was a Mars bar wrapper flying about aimlessly in the gust of wind.

  ‘Don’t you think we’re being a little paranoid?’ Jake asked, not taking his eyes off the street.

  Joe knew his neighbour didn’t really think that was the case. ‘Do you?’

  Jake shook his head. ‘I wish I could say yes - but I can’t. Although, I’m not sure if I’m gonna believe some tale about how our neighbourhood is built on top of some evil burial ground, either.’

  ‘Maybe whoever this psycho is,’ Hugh said, ‘believes it, though: hence the reason why he’s killing residents.’

  ‘I just keep thinking about Martha’s dog... and the message on the wall in the poor mutt’s blood,’ Joe said. ‘Next time that could be you or me, or anyone on this street.

  Also, how does this intruder get into houses undetected, even though they are locked? Does this individual have a master key or somethin’?’

  ‘Sure as hell is some scary shit going on whatever the case,’ Jake said. Then he picked up the binoculars off the table and peered through them. ‘I feel like James Stewart in that Alfred Hitchcock film. What’s it called?’

  ‘Rear Window,’ Hugh replied, remembering that classic film well.

  ‘Yeah... that’s it. Rear Window!’

  ‘If you’re James Stewart that must make Emma, Grace Kelly, right?’

  Jake laughed at that. ‘All I need to do now is break a leg and I’ll be fit for the role.’

  Joe took a sip of his Diet Coke, thinking about what Inspector Sark said about having a letter with his name on it at the crime scene wher
e his partner had been brutally murdered, only for the writing to disappear as soon as he gave it to the chief - the main reason why he’d been taken off the case and replaced with another detective and a criminal profiler. If the intruder appeared on their street, would they see him? And if so, would they be capable of catching him?

  His thoughts also returned to what the clairvoyant - shocked and distressed or not - had said about the four hooded figures that had risen from the dead; not human, but supernatural beings. If they had risen from the dead once. Then they’d be able to do so again.

  How could you kill something that was already dead?

  ***

  Sherri Douglas sat on the floor in front of the crackling fire nursing her steaming mug of hot tea, not sure what to say in an attempt to cheer Martha up. Yet, she too seemed only in the living room physically... not at all mentally.

  She listened to the recollection of the nightmare not knowing what to make of it. None of it made an iota of sense. Homer’s brutal, vile murder could have meant nothing more than someone cruel person satisfying their wicked compulsion. However, they both were totally aware that there was something far greater, far more sinister going on in the suburbs than anyone apparently cared to admit.

  The neighbours had shot down their theories about the four dead devil-worshippers being the perpetrators of the inexplicable deaths and unexplainable disappearances, without any consideration. And yet not one of them could give a plausible explanation. Instead they insisted it was a serial killer lurking on their street, waiting for an opportunity to strike, paying no heed to the fact that at every murder scene there was not a shred of evidence to give the authorities any notion as to who the perpetrator might be.

  ‘They are all around us... walking unseen by those who are blind to anything that’s not human,’ Martha said, breaking the silence.

  To anyone else who might have heard this random comment, the old lady would sound like a crazy person babbling incoherently, the way crazy people do before they’re either taken to a care home or a mental institution. But to Sherri, she sounded perfectly sane. In fact, Martha appeared to be the only one to face the fact that there might be something supernatural behind all of this madness; something so evil that it could bring a whole neighbourhood to its knees in a sign of defeat.