by Lex Sinclair
‘Come to papa,’ it hissed, and squeezed her closer. Only when it did this, Corrie intelligently raised her knee as she was jerked forward, driving her kneecap right into the thing’s groin. It grunted... and its fierce grip loosened, but refused to let her go. Nevertheless, Corrie seized her last opportunity of escape, and punched and kicked frantically, wildly striking the thing with the goat’s head in the face, bashing her tiny wrists on its snout. They both yelled out simultaneously when both the wrist and the bone of the creature snapped.
Corrie stepped back, avoiding the thing with the goat’s head’s grasp for her leg and booted it as hard as she could in the face. This time the creature recoiled, clutching its masked face, oozing blood from its snout, trickling down in rivulets before dropping off, disappearing in the swirling fog enveloping them.
‘You little bitch!’ it croaked, floating back, enshrouded by the grey mist.
‘You deserved it!’ Corrie retaliated.
‘Your father screamed like a little girl; cried like a baby; pissed his pants like a schoolboy. We will make him suffer his death for an eternity, replaying it over and over and over again. And when we kill you, Corrie. We’ll make you watch it over and over and over again.’
Although the little girl was terrified out of her wits, she stood shaking on the spot, facing the evil entity, holding her ground; refusing to back up and show the thing with the goat’s head how afraid she was.
But in a blink of an eye, all that she could see in front of her was the swirling mist... then the haze... then the dark... and finally the light.
***
Martha’s red-rimmed eyes were sore. She’d cried throughout the whole funeral service, in spite of willing herself to get a grip. It was the sight of the coffin at the front of the church that had caused the flow of tears. Hugh is actually lying in there... in the dark... alone... away from his friends and neighbours. Thinking that made her want to open the lid and beg God to resurrect him, like He had done with Jesus Christ; like the thing with the goat’s head had done with its disciples, who were in debt to the keeper of their souls.
She poured steaming water from the kettle into her mug, welcoming the hot vapour rising into her wrinkled face, warming her. She added milk, gave herself three teaspoons of sugar, stirred, then picked the mug up by the handle and ambled into the living room where she lowered herself into her recliner. Her whole body felt leaden with the weight of the world. Yet it wasn’t the weight of the world that was the reason her body ached; it was the shudders of her body as she wept all morning for the sudden loss of her dear friend.
The old lady decided to close her heavy-lidded eyes. So what if she fell to sleep during the day, and didn’t sleep in the night. She wasn’t sleeping anyway, so it didn’t make an iota of a difference. It would do her good to catch up on some shut-eye. She was far too old to be wide awake in the dead of night, worrying. Those days were long gone, she told herself. All she wanted now was to live out the rest of her life in relative peace and harmony.
Lately, it had been one dreadful ordeal after the other. Now, all she wanted to do was go to sleep and not wake up for a very long time. Furthermore, when she did wake from her deep sleep, she wanted everything to return to normal. No more being haunted by violent dreams and creatures of the night; or graphic images of neighbours and friends dying in the most gruesome ways. Yet when Martha closed her eyes, she saw another violent vivid image of a victim to this madness that had been buried in their town over a hundred years ago and now relished their second lives, seeking vengeance.
In her vision, she saw the military man in his fatigues, arriving at his base, somewhere in the wilderness. He got out of the vehicle once it came to a halt on the gravel driveway outside his gazebo and strode inside, fuming at the asinine government for ruining a perfectly good special ops by permitting the media to film Willet Close while they were there, ready to pounce on the perpetrators. And instead of owning up to their moronic error, they’d been paid their usual rate for just being present and keeping guard. If that’s all they wanted, they should’ve hired their own men, he thought. Why waste their time doing something the regular army could do?
No, the government had expected there to be big trouble - but had deterred the cult group to stay away, until the media and military made their departure.
He marched across the temporary living quarters to the drinks’ cabinet and took a small shot glass off the top shelf, then he poured himself a Scotch, hoping that it would abate his anger and frustration.
Because of his superiors, he and his platoon had been made to look like idiots: idiots, who had done nothing, besides stand around like statue’s, doing sod all. Sure, while they were there no one had died or had been harmed in any way, but what good was that to the next victim of this group of killers, who ripped the hearts out of their victims, drained the blood from their victims, and/or skinned them alive?
He drained the Scotch, which slid down the back of his throat leaving a burning sensation in its wake. General Straub was waiting for his discharge papers so he could leave for home. Not once in his whole career had he been made to feel like a loser. This was a pivotal moment in his military career. He knew now that he had to get out of the military before it was too late. He had enough savings to live on. Straub had worked from his early twenties to his early fifties, and not once in that time had he been on a holiday abroad. Of course, he’d seen a lot of the world that not many people would get to see in their lifetime, but that was when he was on a mission. Hardly a holiday. Being shot at by the adversary was no one’s idea of fun, unless they had a few screws loose.
However, he had wanted to leave with a perfect record. He wanted to drive off into the sunset with his head held high, and had it not been for this pointless objective set by the government executives, who had never been in a war situation, he would have been able to achieve his goal. Although, Straub did remind himself that he ought to be grateful in some respects that he was leaving the military still alive and in good health. Which is a lot more than what he’d seen befall many of his comrades over the years, who had been flown home in body bags; some of them hard to recognise because they’d been disfigured and brutalised by the effects of remorseless conflict.
On his wall was a poster of sunny Florida. The white beach and the vast blue sea, glittering under the radiant sun. Ah, bliss! ‘Almost there. Almost there.’
General Straub poured himself another Scotch, raised his glass to the poster, envisioning himself relaxing on that very white beach under the resplendent sun rays, lathered in suntan lotion, his pale skin turning gradually into an unsullied, vibrant tan.
General Straub quietly sat there, forgetting his troubles that had plagued him for more than a week, visualising himself sitting on a jumbo jet being served by a beautiful blonde air hostess, whose body aroma was a coconut body spray and shampoo wafting up his nose, obliterating all the horrible memories of his dead friends, who’d been torn in half by a fusillade of bullets fired by the enemy slicing through their flesh and bone like knife through warm butter, spattering hot crimson blood all over him as he ducked for cover, squeezing his eyes shut against the vapour of dust and cordite, choking him. He could sit in his chair, put headphones on and listen to classical music, (not that heavy rock shit they listened to when they were being flown into the war zone) and close his eyes and dream peacefully. The sounds of the sea waves crashing against the shore washing out the screams of his comrades as grenades exploded around them and bullets cut through them, killing them instantly; then tossing them aside like rotten rags.
The tranquillity of the sun, clean air and bikini-clad women, who looked like supermodels drowning out the terrors he’d seen threatening to break down his defence and infect his sanity, like a malignant virus... until there was nothing left.
He smiled at that thought.
Then the smiled crumbled when a deep, guttural
voice echoed in his head.
But unlike the other occasions when the voice entered the minds of those involved with the goings-on relating to Thorburn and Willet Close, the voice didn’t speak. The thing with the goat’s head knew that General Straub was tough son-of-a-bitch. It would take a lot more than a cunning voice to persuade him to do something out of the ordinary, merely by telling him it was his best option, like it had done with Michael. Instead, what General Straub saw in his mind was clearer than any of his vivid memories or nightmares of his service with the military.
Pellet-size raindrops were firing out of the battleship-grey clouds overhead, as though the heavens were also against their mission, as they made their way through the stream that was waist-high. Gunfire cracked the air, and then bullets from an unseen target whizzed past his head by inches. He didn’t actually see the bullets as such; however he felt the air around him being ripped as the fusillade cut through his comrades, spraying hot arterial blood all over him. Any second now, he thought, I’m gonna die. But unlike in reality, when this incident had taken place for real, he made his way through the waist-high stream, using the dead bodies as a shield from the gunfire, threatening to take his life like the rest of his platoon. (Five years ago when he was living through this present nightmare, Straub had feigned death, threw himself back under the murky water and swam to safety. Then, miraculously returned to base, bleeding from the ear where a bullet had nipped him.) But the image presented in his mind’s eye now showed him protecting his life with a body of the fallen, and firing back, blindly, amazingly having great success. The enemy screamed out as he fired with intuitive accuracy, until he was the last man standing.
Satisfied, he was in fact safe - or safer, at least - Straub let go of the corpse leaking dark blood from the countless bullets that had torn through flesh and bone, offered a quick, silent prayer, and then darted into the undergrowth, not wanting to stay around to be discovered.
He chanced a glance over his shoulder as he swatted overarching branches out of his face, crouching down to avoid being spotted. The brambles he didn’t see in his haste drew blood, but adrenaline was pumping around his system so fast - his heart drumming - he didn’t feel a thing.
His escape came to an abrupt halt when a rock jutting from the earth tripped him up, catapulting him into the air before gravity seized him and yanked him back down with an unforgiving bone-breaking thud.
Straub grunted. He could actually feel the impact!
This didn’t happen, his mind argued.
He landed face first in wet, soggy soil, which clung to his camouflaged-painted face. The earth tried to suck him into the ground, swallowing him whole, but he gripped a root and managed to pull himself out of nature’s grasp. He stumbled to his feet; spun around, staring in all directions, disorientated, perplexed, because now the jungle that enclosed him looked different. He couldn’t tell where he’d run from, or where he was running to. He told himself to remain calm; if he panicked it would make the situation worse. The tumult in his stomach caused him to hold his hips and go down on one knee, like a wounded boxer, as a stitch attacked his midsection, due to the frantic sprinting.
He wiped his dirty hands on his fatigues, studied his surroundings, wondering why it was so quiet. Surely there had to be a bird chirping in the trees somewhere in the vicinity, or a squirrel, or any type of woodland creature nearby - but there wasn’t. That was what unnerved the experienced military leader.
He whirled around at the sound of a twig snapping, breaking the eerie silence.
What he saw before him made him gasp and recoil, struggling to stay upright on his spaghetti legs. He’d seen things that would make some of the meanest, toughest men in the whole world puke - but what he saw in front of him was something that could only be described as a hideous monster.
A monster grasping a staff with a goat’s head made out of pure gold, exhaling a red mist into the air. The monster had a goat’s head and the shape of a magnificent human being. Tall, broad, dominant, wearing a horrible sneer that looked unnatural; and because of its unnaturalness, it sent icicles of terror through General Straub’s bones. This was a new sensation; something Straub had never experienced in his entire life. This was what made some of the younger comrades lose control of themselves in a real life battle situation. It made them do stupid things like flee blindly in the direction of a minefield, only for the rest of the platoon to find them a couple of hours later blown to bits, scattered in parts, their features obliterated into a bloody pulp.
Yet, General Straub couldn’t turn and run if he wanted to. The creature’s blazing red eyes kept him standing motionless, unarmed, vulnerable, and incapable of defending himself, pending the ghastly creature to decide his future. The red vapour drifted across the land between them, wafting up Straub’s nostrils, ascending into his brain, into his thoughts, poisoning his conscience and reason.
General Straub had witnessed and experienced this entire episode, while sitting in his comfy chair, a short glass in his taut grip, seeing something lucid in his mind’s eye that wasn’t really there.
He got up from his chair, picked up his Colt. 45 he’d left on the drinks’ cabinet, clicked the safety switch off, pressed the muzzle of his sidearm against his head, inhaled and exhaled one last time... then did what had been asked of him.
Here I come, sunny Florida!
The colours of life (including those of sunny Florida) faded from his vision, until the perpetual darkness shrouded him evermore.
***
Martha would never deduce that General Straub was a good or a bad man. After all, he had killed both in self-defence and savagely - she didn’t know what to make of that.
Nevertheless, her conscience was clear; therefore she knew that what had happened to the military leader was utterly inequitable. What put her in a morose state, having witnessed his demise, was the fact that the poor man only ever had one wish: To retire in peace and live the rest of his life in Florida, where, according to General Straub, the sun always shined.
The old lady wasn’t certain she believed in God any more; not after the terrible incidents that had taken place in her humble home, although she did say a prayer for General Straub, along with Hugh Green and all the other victims of this inexplicable atrocity that the authorities were never going to solve, and sent shock waves through their town.
***
Darkness descended. Rolling, massive clouds obscured the galactic sky, shrouding Willet Close in a blackness that matched the residents’ moods.
The group was evidently smaller.
Jake, Emma, Corrie, Joe, Naomi and Sherri Douglas absorbed the information, regarding Michael’s and General Straub’s untimely deaths.
‘So, whad’ya think we should do?’ Sherri asked.
‘No more sitting around like ducks sailing past on a canal, waiting to be picked off one by one,’ Joe said, raising his voice, going red in the face with increasing anger; veins protruding on his neck like cords. ‘We’ve got to do something!’
‘Such as?’ Emma wanted to know.
Joe faced Corrie. ‘If you know where they are hiding, then you need to show me.’
Jake swallowed with some difficulty. ‘If we go to their lair, they’ll kill us all!’
‘They’re doing that now, aren’t they?’
Jake had no response to that, so he closed his mouth and held his wife’s hand.
‘We’ve got to confront this madness head on, or we’ll all die. We can stay here, lock our doors, say our prayers before turning off the lights at night - but that doesn’t seem to be stopping them, does it? Far from it, if anything. They’re getting stronger with each kill. They can poison our minds, like what they did to Michael and that General. They can get through hospitals, unnoticed by the high security systems and go unseen by medical staff. In time they will get to us all, and rip our hearts out of our ches
ts.’
Naomi clapped her hands over Corrie’s ears, but her daughter shrugged her away. She needed to hear this, too.
‘By the time the authorities find us, we’ll all be stacked into a neat pile attracting flies, decomposing, until we’re nothing more than shells.
‘Also, if we contact the police, that’ll mean more unnecessary fatalities: thus our only other rational option is to confront this evil head on, once and for all... If no one wants any part of this, I’m not going to force you. This isn’t an obligation, just as the Neighbourhood Watch scheme wasn’t an obligation. Everyone’s got a right to decide what they want to do. But whatever you do decide - I’m still going to their lair, even if it means I die, which inevitably is what’ll happen to us all, anyway, whether we face up to the facts or not.’
After a brief pause, Martha said: ‘Joe’s got a point. That doesn’t mean that I concur with him wholeheartedly, mind.’
‘No!’ Emma shouted. ‘That’s just as bad as killing ourselves to end this quickly - we’d be walking into a death trap, don’t you see?’
‘Where we live is already a death trap,’ Joe countered. ‘We’re living on top of devil-worshipper’s burial ground. I ask you, how much more of a death trap can there be, huh?’
Emma crossed the living room to the window and stared outside.
‘What’re you gonna do when you find their lair and confront them head-on?’ Naomi asked.
‘I don’t know. What I am going to do, though, is ask them what we can do to save ourselves. I don’t actually think us all leaving this place will save us, as I’ve said before. They want vengeance for what happened to them - and as we’re living right above them, we’re the ones who are going to inevitably suffer the dire consequences.