by Lex Sinclair
Joe felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand to attention. Jake looked as though he’d seen a ghost.
Once they told Hugh all about what happened to Joe and Michael and Sherri, Hugh contemplated everything.
‘There was definitely a power cut. There’s no doubt about that. But if you’re TV set came back on by itself, then that power cut was caused by them.’
‘What’re we gonna do?’
‘After last night, I’m not all that gutted about winding up in here for a couple of nights. At least here I’m safe. Know what I mean?’
Jake nodded. ‘I know exactly what you mean. But where do we go when - if - we decide to leave our homes. The only way we can get enough money for another property is if we sell our homes. That alone would take years. You know how difficult selling and buying a house is, especially these days. It’s like a never-ending process. And when it does happen, it’s only luck and good timing.’
Hugh regarded Joe. ‘Did you see anyone lurking around outside or entering my home last night?’
Joe shook his head. ‘I went downstairs, and that’s when I learned there was no electricity. Then all that weird shit started happening, scaring me half to death. Sorry.’
‘And Michael saw someone going past his window?’ Hugh said, frowning.
‘Yeah.’
‘And they know our secrets, too, by the sounds of things,’ he added. Hugh fell silent, staring at his lap, contemplating. ‘Jesus Christ.’
***
Corrie was the only resident who hadn’t attended the meetings, concerning her frightened neighbours. Had they involved her and asked her the same questions (not that it would have helped their cause, much) they would have learned a lot more about the mysterious shape-shifters, given eternal life in exchange for their evil deeds by the devil himself. Or some kind of entity that represented Satan.
Corrie stood at the top of the stairs, having come out of her bedroom, her intuition informing her that there was someone else in the house with her - and that someone was not her mother.
When she saw the thing with the goat’s head staring at her with its blazing red eyes, the little girl’s body shook as though she were having a seizure. Her eyes bulged. The whites casting a dim reddish reflection. The Barbie doll she’d been holding fell from her grasp onto the top step. Then a cacophony of shrieking animals penetrated her ears, along with a background sound of incomprehensible chanting and hissing. The sounds rushed at her, threatening to spin her head until it became separated from the body.
In her sheer terror, she thought she saw the thing with the goat’s head put a foot on the first step and begin its climb to where she was standing. However, she couldn’t tell any more what was real and what wasn’t. The nerve-shattering terror was real, though. It was quickly devouring her sanity like a ravenous beast, feasting on succulent flesh, being deprived of meat it sought for so long.
The cacophony of shrieking animals stopped abruptly and was replaced by the eerie, dark, moody, ritual chanting that of a language that does not exist in this world, but nonetheless, undoubtedly promised an evil sacrifice soon to take place.
The hideous man-creature ascending the staircase, soundlessly, carried the staff, with the silver skull breathing incense out of its open mouth. It was gaining on the little girl, shaking with a fear that rattled her bones, causing tears to escape her protuberant eyes and chase each other down her unblemished cheeks. The colour drained from Corrie’s face as though someone had stabbed her with the world’s largest syringe and began sucking her dry.
The thing with the goat’s head was nearing the top of the stairs when it heard a distinct thud on the landing. It looked in ahead and to its wicked pleasure and satisfaction, the little girl had collapsed, passing out; the shock too great to withstand any longer. It reached down when it got to the last step, and was about to pick her up when a key turned in the front door.
***
Naomi left Martha’s with Joe, (he and Jake had returned an hour later, having informed the group that Hugh was conscious and not doing too badly, considering what had happened) after their fruitless discussion about the “shape-shifters” (that was their new name) seemed to be going on for ever without any sign of a solution. Moreover, Naomi wanted to get home because she didn’t like leaving her young daughter all alone, while she listened to her neighbours’ ghost stories. She felt bad for abandoning Corrie for something, which quite frankly had gone way over her head.
‘You’ve been quiet lately? Are you all right?’
Joe looked up from the cracked pavement he was stepping on. ‘Yeah. Well, apart from last night’s incident.’
‘You must’ve been frightened?’ Naomi said. And to Joe, she didn’t sound the slightest bit concerned. Why would she? They were only neighbours, after all. If it hadn’t been for the inexplicable events that had befallen them, they wouldn’t be getting together to have a chat like they had been doing. Apart from Jake, Michael and Hugh, Joe scarcely spoke to anyone else. It wasn’t like years ago when you could leave your front door open so you could walk down the street, knowing without having to ask, that your neighbours’ would keep an eye on your property for you. These days it was most likely the last person you expected (like your neighbours) who’d rob you blind and think nothing of it.
‘Yeah, I was,’ Joe replied, consciously opting not to elaborate.
‘It’s just you seem not so talkative to me, that’s all.’
Joe shrugged. ‘What do you want me to say?’ Even though he’d never truly admit it - at least not to Naomi - he was still upset by seeing her going out with another man the other day.
‘Oh. I just thought we were friends.’ Naomi sounded offended.
‘I don’t know you, Naomi. And you don’t know me, either.’
Although Naomi was taken aback by what he was saying and the tone of voice he was saying it in, it was then that she realised that Joe had seen her with Brian and Corrie the other day. Of course he would’ve, she told herself. He’d been watching the street assiduously ever since Homer was brutally murdered and the haunting message was left on Martha’s kitchen walls in blood smears.
She didn’t know what to say - or if there was anything to say - that would make Joe feel better. Because if she was being truthful to herself, she didn’t know if she still had feelings for Brian. And if she did, would it be wise of her to get back together with him for Corrie’s sake. Or if she ought to just be friends with Brian and allow him to see Corrie on weekends and look for someone else to have a relationship with.
These were big decisions to make. Not something she could decide one morning at the breakfast table willy-nilly. She’d have to weigh up the pros and cons of everything before she made her ultimate decision. But now it looked as though Joe wasn’t interested in her. And who could blame him? Like he said, he didn’t know her, and she didn’t really know him. Nevertheless, what she did know of him, she liked. She liked him a lot, too.
‘No, I guess not,’ she said, sounding sullen.
‘Goodnight, Naomi.’
‘Yeah. Goodnight, Joe.’ She watched him cross the road to his house, a profound sadness sinking her heart to a dull beat. Then she turned and slotted the key into the hole, only to find that the door was unlocked.
Had she locked it? Yes, definitely. She always did when she was going outside, especially if Corrie was staying indoors. Well, there was a first time for everything. She knew Corrie wouldn’t step out of the house even if the front door wasn’t locked, but she still found it rather perplexing, nonetheless.
She opened the door, closed it behind her, turned around, and something in her peripheral vision at the top of the staircase caught her immediate attention. The whole interior of the house zoomed in around her like a special effect in the movies.
At the top of the stairs, Corrie was sprawled, frothy spit
dribbling out of her moist lips across her cheek, creating a huge, white half smile. Her eyes fluttered beneath the closed lids; her hands twitched every few seconds.
Naomi didn’t remember hurrying up the stairs - but here she was anyway, standing over her daughter (just the same as the thing with the goat’s head had done), heart slamming against her ribcage; scalp crawling with itchiness, as she tried to stay in control of her confused, hysterical thoughts.
She lifted the lifeless head of her daughter off the floor, shouting, ‘CORRIE! CORRIE! CORRIE, WAKE UP FOR GOD’S SAKE!’
Corrie, in spite of being dazed and faraway, said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Daddy’s dead!’ The strain of uttering those two words was too great for someone so young and fragile. Corrie let the arms of darkness embrace her. However, before it did she managed to lift her right arm and point in the direction of the bathroom.
The sudden realisation of what had happened turned Naomi to stone for a few moments. She remained on her haunches with her little girl, shaking her head slowly back and forth, hardly believing what had happened. It was her fault! All her fault, nobody else’s. She had allowed that animal into their home after all these years, believing his cock-and-bull-story about how he’d been rehabilitated in the years he’d not been in contact with them. How he’d done a lot of growing up and realised the terrible things he’d done to them both, only to coax his way into their home by arriving announced when she wasn’t present; getting Corrie to open the door, so he could attack her with his indelible rage.
Daddy’s dead!
Another thought broke to the front of the pack. Suddenly, there seemed more to this than she’d first thought. Did Corrie know exactly what she was saying? Or was she babbling in her conscious-to-unconscious state? Was there a dead body in the bathroom? Had Corrie somehow managed to kill her maniacal father, and then collapsed, understanding with full awareness what she’d done? Or was there something much more to what she’d said?
The only way Naomi was going to find out, was if she got up off her knees and went to take a look herself. Of course, she was dreading doing such a thing. But, like Joe and the other men had done earlier - there were some things that couldn’t be ignored, regardless of how scared one might be of discovering something ghastly and repulsive.
Naomi unfolded her aching legs. She had no idea how long she’d been kneeling. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but the way the cramp stabbed and itched maddeningly in her feet, it felt like two hours. Using the wall as a support, the single-mother edged down the short corridor to the bathroom at the rear of the first floor, pushed the door open with her splayed fingertips, took a deep breath and entered the bathroom.
Clean towels hung over the handrails. Both bath and sink were spotless. Toilet seat was up, also clean. Nothing on the walls or the tiled floor or the Persian rug.
Nope. Nothing wrong here.
She was about to leave the bathroom, slightly relieved that there was no blood and guts anywhere in sight; no dead body or anything else out of place for that matter, when a high-pitched screaming jolted her. Her knees buckled and she smacked the tiles with vicious crack. Naomi grimaced, clutching her kneecaps, gritting her teeth and fighting the urge to cry out herself. The bones popped as she straightened her legs for the second time in less than a few minutes. Then she hobbled to the window and peered through the parted curtains into the darkness.
What she saw made her scream. Amazingly, she managed to stay on her unstable legs, gripping the window sill with all her diminishing strength, seeing the human blowtorch embedded to what looked like a long plank of wood. Yet as she looked closer at the awful sight, she saw that the lively flames engulfing the wailing figure was actually nailed to a cross. A symbol of the sacrifice the Lord Jesus Christ made, according to the Holy Bible.
The howling mortal fireball was Brian.
Corrie had been right all along. Her father was dead... or as good as.
In spite of the obvious, Naomi darted down the staircase; the pain in her knees hurting her, but nowhere near as significant or as excruciating as her husband’s, whose eyelids were being seared; the shiny liquid orbs behind them exploding in white mucus, drying instantly on the boiling flesh. Strips of dead skin flaying off the bone like rotting wallpaper, disintegrating into spitting embers... tiny sparklers in the gloom.
Naomi sprinted into the kitchen threw the cupboard door under the washing basin open, wrenched the large orange bucket out from the back, mindless to the toiletries crashing to the floor, spilling their contents on the tiles. She turned the cold water tap on... turning and turning it until the water pelted the bottom of the bucket in its relentless gush, screaming and shouting for it to fill up quickly; subconsciously aware that her feeble attempts to save her husband from certain death were unfortunately, in vain.
Once the bucket was filled to the rim, she flung the back door open and darted outside, choking on the burning fumes, dense black smoke stinging her eyes before she even got close enough to hurl the cold water.
She stood facing her dying husband, who was no longer screaming - or making any other noises for that matter - and emptied the bucket, abating the licking, hungry flames. Then she had to shield her eyes as red sparks flew towards her as the fire hissed its disapproval of her hindering its devouring progress of the dead man’s ruined flesh.
Naomi did this three times, until, at long last the flames died and all that was left was a crispy, blackened carcass, head tucked into the chest, pinned to the cross by the nails inserted in the wrists and ankles.
Tears flooding her vision, Naomi tentatively moved closer to the shell that had given her, her one and only child. She reached out to him with a trembling hand, mouth hanging open, aghast, shaking like tree in a strong wind.
‘Brian...’ she cried. ‘Brian! BRIAN! ANSWER ME!’ Then her overwhelming emotions became too great and overtook her, wracking her shoulders, spilling a rain of tears down her face. She collapsed to her knees, defeated by the inevitable fatality that had befallen Brian, mercifully; for had he survived, the pain would have been beyond comprehension for a mortal to put into words. Furthermore, he would have died, anyway... only it would take a lot longer.
The smoke clung to her pale cheeks in a cloud of vast blackness, choking her, wafting down her throat, clogging her lungs with the acrid scent of burnt flesh of another human being.
***
The neighbours burst out of their homes with terrified looks on their faces, hearing the spine-tingling screams of someone in the throes of a death, unimaginable. Nevertheless, they hurried to the god-awful sound, which of course was emanating from Naomi’s back yard, frightened at what ungodly sight awaited them.
Jake, Emma, Sherri and Martha arrived at scene of horror, stopping in their tracks when they saw the charred corpse nailed to a cross jutting from the ground.
A few moments of cruel realisation passed. Then, tentatively, Jake rounded the elevated corpse to see who it was, praying that it wasn’t who he guessed it might be. Please God, no. Without him we’re fucked! But, as though he conjured him from imagination, they all heard pounding footsteps of someone running and whirled around to see (much to Jake’s relief) that it was Joe, followed by Michael.
Joe approached Jake; his pace slow and unsteady as he cast his eyes on the victim of a burned crucifixion. He swatted away the swirling black fumes, gestured to Jake and
Michael that they needed to push through the coiling smoke to get Naomi up off the ground and away from here before she choked to death or suffered a heart attack. They nodded in unison, then they followed Joe towards the kneeling form engulfed by the acrid vapour, billowing heavenward.
‘Naomi,’ Joe said, loud and clear, so she could hear him in the midst of her sorrow. ‘It’s me, Joe. We’re gonna get you from here, cause the smoke isn’t doing our lungs any favours, all right? The last thing we could do
with now is coming down with a coughing fit.’ He moved closer to her and rested his hand atop her shoulder.
She gazed up at him; only the tear-tracks glistening on her face were free of soot. ‘They killed him!’ she cried.
Joe, nor anyone else, had an answer for that to make things better. ‘Yeah... they did. I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t left you, maybe he’d still be alive.’
Naomi shook her head. ‘Are you fucking real? He was burned like we burn pieces of meat for our dinner. How in God’s name could you have prevented it from happening?’
Everyone was taken aback by the grief-stricken woman’s profanities, but said nothing. They didn’t expect her to be her old-self after seeing her husband perish in one of the most horrible fashions. Who would?
‘I don’t know, Naomi,’ Joe said. ‘I don’t suppose I could’ve done anything, but I’ll never know one way or the other now, will I? What I do know, though, is that we’ve got to get you away from here.’
‘I can’t leave Corrie alone... She tried to warn me!’
‘Okay. Where is Corrie?’
‘In the house. She tried to warn me,’ she repeated.
Joe glanced over his shoulder, catching Emma’s eye, and said, ‘Could you go and get Corrie and bring her over to my house. Please.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ She saw that the back door was ajar and entered the house to find the adorable girl, everyone on Willet Close liked.
Joe turned back to Naomi. ‘Come with me back to my place. Corrie will be there. You’ll need one another. Come on.’
‘What about Brian?’ she wept.
Joe closed his eyes. There wasn’t a correct response for a question like that. Not even if he was an experienced psychologist would he be able to find a suitable answer, although he tried. ‘Brian’s in a better place, watching over us now.’