by Lex Sinclair
Martha realised that she wasn’t actually in the hospital as a physical presence. Nevertheless, the mere thought of laying eyes on her affable neighbour made her smile inwardly. She loved Hugh Green (not in a sexual way). He was always cordial to everyone he met, regardless of whether or not they were a decent person themselves. Furthermore, he always stopped to make pleasant chat: like what a beautiful day it was if the sun was out. Or asking her if she wanted anything while he was in town. It also pained her to see him getting about with that slight limping gait, because of some near-fatal road accident when he was a young man, cruelly robbing him of his youth and his health.
A sign on the wall kindly asked for visitors to apply cleansing cream to their hands to kill any germs they might be carrying for the sake of the patients. Yet, much to Martha’s amazement, she carried on without even giving it a second passing look. She was appalled; although, she did remind herself once again she was not here as a physical presence, so it didn’t matter one iota if she put hand cream on or not.
A door leading to a reception room was closed. Martha peered through the glass panel at an older nurse than the one in the corridor, seated behind a reception desk, writing something down on a sheet of paper. The surveillance camera pointing downwards directly at her so that anyone standing where she was now would be seen on the monitors hidden behind the counter on the desk beyond the door. In spite of the fact that she was facing the lens of the camera, the green light on the wall above the device did not blink, and therefore the nurse didn’t hear the beep to inform her someone was waiting for access into the reception area of the ICU. She tried to shout out to the nurse, but reminded herself that she was only seeing what she was seeing through someone else’s eyes and not her own.
The door didn’t open; neither did the nurse look up to see her standing there (after all how could she?). Instead she felt herself floating through the gap between the door and the glossy linoleum. She was so close to the ground for a couple of seconds that she could see old scuff marks, years old, from trainers that had crossed this part of the hospital. Then she was facing upright again, giving the nurse nothing more than a fleeting glance before facing another door and squeezing through the sliver of a gap, until she found herself in the Intensive Care Unit, at long last.
This was quite an extraordinary vision she was having - nothing like the visions she’d had when she was reading people’s palms, seeing their foreseeable futures mapped out in front of her as clear as an azure sky on a summer day. This wasn’t just something she was seeing; this was something she was feeling, too. Never before had she been able to float through buildings, as though she were present in person... or as an apparition. This was a whole new, unnerving experience for the old lady, who believed that her clairvoyant days were long gone, dissipated with her youth.
Floating by the beds, she saw with great horror, the condition of the patients attached to monitors reading their heart rate, IV drips, and lots of tubes protruding from their bodies like snakes coiled around them, as they breathed through their apparatus, their chests rising and falling slowly, yet emitting long raspy breaths. They were the sounds of the frail and, in some cases, the dying.
She found herself towering over Hugh, who to her relief looked a lot better than the other patients occupying the dim room. The windowpanes behind the bed were opaque against the pitch blackness of night. What Martha saw in the glass - that reflected the room in a facsimile - made her gasp and her heart surge into her throat.
In the room, the old lady did not see a reflection of herself; instead she saw the four hooded figures standing at the foot of the bed (like they’d done when Hugh was sleeping in his own bed, yesterday). They were invisible to the nurses. That was the sole reason the nurse hadn’t seen her, or the creatures of the night. The shape-shifters moved through the corridors as ghosts, so they wouldn’t attract unwanted attention. But now, Martha could see them as clearly as any other living, breathing entity in the room. They waited for the nurse on the night shift, checking the patients’ records, making sure they were resting as comfortable in their pain and discomfort before heading outside to talk to her colleague at the ICU reception desk.
Now they were alone the hooded figures materialised into their human forms. That is why they’d killed all the others, Martha thought. Because then they could appear as a physical presence as well as an apparition. The human forms were shrouded in their long black robes, faces hidden by the hoods. They edged closer to Hugh, who eased his eyes open, sensing their foreboding presence. His eyes bulged (the lazy one twitching maddeningly). His mouth stretched open, gaping. The leader - or the one whom believed to be the leader - of the Acolytes clamped a hand over Hugh’s mouth, cutting off his scream; then he took out a dagger from his pocket. The blade glinted under the fluorescents. He gripped the silver handle depicting a serpent wrapping itself around a goat’s head, and drove the razor sharp weapon into Hugh’s scrawny chest. A sick, squelching and then a crack of bone as the blade broke through the skin and pierced Hugh’s thudding heart.
Martha reeled. Nausea and vertigo assailed her stomach and head. The once unyielding floor she stood upon now became a wave, testing her balance. Bile burned her throat like fire, and a volcanic heat rose from her leathery neck reddening her cheeks. Yet, even if she somehow overcame the normal human reaction to something ghastly and repulsive, she was unable to stop them, because what she was feeling and seeing was only real at a great distance from the hospital.
When she dared to look again, Hugh’s chest had been ripped open. Bones protecting the vital organs had been viciously snapped. Crimson blood - the colour of black - oozed out of the cavity the hooded figures created... and with a remorseless tug the pulsating heart was pried from the ventricles, which decorated the alabaster walls and windowpanes in arterial spray before flopping back inside the cavity in the old man’s chest resembling a broken fire hose.
***
Everyone in the living room leapt backwards when Martha vomited unexpectedly on the rug by the hearth, clutching her chest as it worked convulsively, disposing her recent meal in dissected chunks. Her breath came in harsh gasps. Her lugs burned after the sick had rushed into her windpipe at roughly the same speed as an express train. She concentrated wholly on getting her respiration back to normal. Then she raised her pale, haggard face and gazed at Corrie, who had her hands bunched up into fists, gritting her teeth.
‘Hugh’s dead!’ Corrie announced.
Joe shuddered involuntarily. The words the child uttered pinched his heart. Had he misheard what the little girl had said? No. He only wished he’d misheard her. Unfortunately, he heard her loud and clear, of that there was no doubt in his mind. In spite of believing that Corrie was speaking the truth, he looked at Martha for confirmation, hoping, praying, she’d say to Corrie and the rest of them that they weren’t positive that that was true.
Martha met his eyes. Then she nodded solemnly.
The ex-world middleweight champion exhaled deeply. In the spiritual sense of the meaning, his heart had been broken. Poor old Hugh, whom he thought he, Jake and
Michael had saved, had died. To make matters worse, he knew that that lovely old gentleman had not died peacefully; on the contrary. Hugh had died in excruciating pain. His body had been desecrated; left to be discovered by the night shift nurse, who would come back from her short break, screaming so loud that her shrieks would reverberate down every corridor on every floor, through every niche, so everyone inside the edifice heart’s jolted. Later she’d be taken home by a friend or a family member, shocked into silence, shaking uncontrollably, rushing to the bathroom to regurgitate the Mars bar she’d purchased at the vending machine; aware that she’d never be quite the same after what she’d seen, nor would the other nurses and doctors, whom had seen all kinds of gruesome things in their line of work... but nothing so horrifying.
‘They killed him,’ Joe said in a distan
t voice.
‘They’re gonna kill us all!’ Sherri cried. ‘There’s no escaping them. You were right, Joe. They’ll come after us even if we do leave. We could go to the furthest destination from where we are right now and they’d still find us, and kill us. Even if we apologised and repented our sins - they wouldn’t show us any compassion or forgiveness -’
‘- because they are blasphemous. They do the opposite to God’s will, out of spite. They already know we didn’t build houses on top of their burial ground and live here, knowing that the ground we lived on was unholy. They don’t care. They’re also pissed off because some of the residents of Thorburn Close lived to tell the tale. They survived, and were taken into the Witness Protection Program. That’s why they cut the connection when I was talking to Sark earlier on. Because they knew the same would happen to us.’
Corrie slipped out of her mother’s tight grasp, sat upright. ‘In my dream they showed me where they were taken by the thing with the goat’s head.’
Martha wiped a drool of sick from the side of her mouth, smelling and tasty it. She’d heard what Corrie had said, but at that moment she was battling the dizziness in her head, after the girl had shown her how Hugh had died. She needed assistance getting up. With the help of Sherri and Emma, Martha righted herself, leaned on the mantelpiece above the hearth, removed her spectacles and squeezed her eyes shut, keeping her head tucked into her chest.
‘Hugh had his heart ripped out of his chest. It was still beating and dripping blood when that creature had it in his hand and held it up to the light, like a sacred trophy.’ She pivoted, and then moved unsteadily towards the kitchen. ‘As long as you’re staying in my house, I don’t want any more talk about those wretched things. I’ve had enough nasty shocks tonight to last a lifetime; any more and I’ll be dead, too.’
Corrie wanted to protest against the old woman’s wishes, but remained silent.
The clock struck 1:00a.m.
***
Sark had tried several times to phone Joe Camber back, but all he got was a dead line, which shouted OMINOUS! at him. In spite of the heat from the radiator he was sitting close to, an icy shiver traced his back. His reliable intuition alerted him that something was very wrong in Willet Close, where the power line had been disconnected, abruptly. Joe had been on the verge of going into detail about the occurrences, when they were cut off. Furthermore, the letter which he’d received (only for the writing to vanish as soon as he handed it to his superintendent), and the circumstances involving the deaths of the Sheldons’ and his partner Reeves seemed to him to be too much of a coincidence to ignore.
What clarified it for Inspector Sark was when he dialled his superintendent’s number - getting an answer almost straight away - and told him that, even though he was no longer part of the investigation, there might be something untoward going on according to his friend who’d phoned him. (He’d never be as presumptuous as to say he and Joe Camber were friends, as such. However, saying that word and explaining that Joe hinted something ominous was going on, and the fear in his friend’s voice, got his superintendent to pay attention.) What Sark didn’t know, though, was that the police were no longer directly involved. It was now a special military operation. Nevertheless, he still accurately believed that the forces of evil behind these atrocity’s were beyond anything even remotely human; something perhaps unstoppable.
Whatever the case, he’d done all he could to help the residents of Willet Close. In fact, he was surprised that his superintendent had even listened, without interrupting him in mid-sentence like he did on the day his partner had been discovered brutally murdered. And to highlight the weirdness - which on a scale of one to ten would score a fifteen - at every single crime scene involving the case, there had not been a single fingerprint, shoeprint, or DNA for them to trace their killer.
Inspector Sark hadn’t lost his mind. He wasn’t going crazy. Yes, he was hurt and knocked for six at the sudden death of his partner. But he hadn’t imagined those words on that sheet of paper inside the envelope with his name printed on it that magically disappeared as soon as it left his hands.
What frightened Detective Inspector Sark was the warning he’d read. Would there be serious, dire ramifications for making that call to his superintendent, who then forwarded the call to the military special ops? Unbeknownst to Sark the military were, at this precise moment heading towards the suburbs, ready to cordon off Willet Close from the rest of society.
Outside a full moon shone brightly. A hunter’s moon.
***
Joe woke up, disorientated. The unfamiliar surroundings were nothing like his bedroom. Then as the fog of sleep evaporated from his head and consciousness flooded back, he relaxed, knowing where he was. Where they all were. Thank God, they were all safe and sound.
Martha was upstairs occupying the spare bed, while Corrie and Naomi took the double bed. In the living room where Joe was the first to wake, he scanned the others: Michael slept on the floor, his head propped up by a light blue pillow. Jake and Emma were fast asleep on the sofa-bed, and Sherri’s head sloped to one side of the recliner, snoring.
He consulted his wristwatch and was visibly surprised - not to mention grateful - at seeing it was ten minutes past eight o’clock. It made sense they’d all succumb to a deep slumber after being wide awake, sleeping fitfully the last couple of nights, and having their nerves shredded by the catastrophic events that had befallen them recently.
Ever since Joe had moved into the peaceful-looking suburbs, there had been inexplicable goings-on. Mysterious and gruesome deaths, relating to this area and on-going investigation. He kept thinking back to last night; only now recalling what Inspector Sark had told him about his discreet warning from the Acolytes of Doom, advising him not to pry into matters that didn’t concern him.
Maybe he shouldn’t have phoned Inspector Sark. Maybe it was a good thing they’d been cut off before he tried to explain everything that had happened, Joe thought, squinting at the sliver of sunlight slanting through the aperture in the closed curtains.
As quietly as he could, he stood up, stretched his arms and legs, stifled a yawn, then crossed the room to where the sun slipped through, feeling safer now that it was broad daylight. That feeling turned to cold dread at what he saw beyond the picture window outside.
Part Three
“The consolation of imaginary things is not imaginary consolation”
Roger Scruton
16.
The special military operation had arrived before dawn and set up a temporary barricade, blocking off Willet Close from the main road and the outside world. Two military vehicles were also parked diagonally across the road. Soldiers stood steadfast, armed with assault rifles and a cold, thousand-yard stare that even Joe Camber - master of stare-downs with his opponents before the fights - was intimidated by the young fierce-looking men.
General Straub stood in the centre of the road dressed in his camouflaged jacket and khaki bottoms; his steel toe-cap boots laced and polished with a sheen that reflected the early morning sunlight. He chewed a toothpick and wore his mirror sunglasses, scanning the small cul-de-sac, thinking how nice it would be for him to live in a place like this when he got closer to retiring. He was fifty-two. His short, closely-shaven head made him look ten years younger, emphasising his rugged features. Basically, Straub wasn’t the type of guy you’d like to pass in a dark alleyway, or anywhere else for that matter. He always wore a firm expression, as if he were constantly irate and miserable.
Nevertheless, that was how he looked. He’d learned many years ago to never express his inner emotions; to where a poker face at all times, so as not to allow his enemy any psychological advantage. This was especially imperative when they didn’t know anything about the enemy. And from what he’d been told about the on-going investigation from the CID was that the perpetrators were meticulous in their work.
Last night they had somehow - miraculously - found their way into Neath and Port Talbot General Hospital, arrived at the ICU and murdered a recovering patient in a very disturbing fashion. Even Straub had been repulsed by the crime scene photographs of the man’s dead body (which took some doing, considering the conflicts he’d been involved in over the years) - what was left of it.
It was the same group who’d killed Inspector Reeves and the others. Once again they had stolen the heart from the cadaver. And according to the medical examiner’s early reports, the victim had still been alive when his ribs had been snapped apart. But what had been the deciding factor that this was no ordinary homicide case, was the fact someone had wandered through the hospital and not been caught on film by one of the numerous security cameras high above on the walls, monitoring every single corridor; nor were they seen by any of the doctors and nurses on duty. No one had seen anyone suspicious lurking about in the vicinity between midnight and one o’clock. Police investigators had studied all the videotapes for last night of every angle, and questioned the security guard who’d been viewing the monitors all night.
However, the tape recording the camera angle of the entrance to the ICU when watched back, shimmered. The picture became jumpy and distorted (Incidentally, there was nothing wrong with the tape inside the cassette; nor the recorder.). An electric snowstorm clouded the screen, and when the investigators leaned forward, studying every inch of the tube, they could just make out black wavering shadows floating past. Then, as if nothing inexplicable had happened, the shadows disappeared, the electric snowstorm ceased, and once again the picture became clear as the blue cloudless sky outside. Since the first viewing, officers of all ranks had watched the tape, being told to get close to the screen and not blink, keeping an eye out for the shadows.
They all saw the shadows.