by Lex Sinclair
‘However, if the Acolytes of Doom do worship the thing with the goat’s head, like Corrie, Martha and Sherri suggested, then I’d like to challenge that hideous creature with an equal opportunity, to allow at least some of us to survive this ordeal.’
Sherri contorted her face. ‘Challenge him? What do you mean by that?’
Joe hesitated telling them what he’d being contemplating since Hugh’s gruesome death. ‘I mean challenge the thing with the goat’s head to a duel.’
Suddenly the room seemed to zoom in on him, as everyone snapped their heads in his direction, staring at him, incredulous at what he’d just suggested.
‘A duel?’ Jake cried. ‘Are you out of you’re fuckin’ mind?’ He glanced at Naomi and Corrie, raised his hand, and said, ‘Sorry, Corrie. Bad word.’
Joe didn’t look at anyone. Instead he stared straight ahead at the artificial fireplace. ‘No. In fact, I’ve never had such a clear thought for some time.’
Jake uttered a mock laugh.
‘There’s a reason why I arrived here when I did. There’s a specific reason why I didn’t pack up my belongings and move out when I had the chance, even though that’s precisely what I wanted to do. The reason is: I am the one who must confront this creature, who has turned good, religious men into his followers. Creatures of the night.
Shape-shifters. Call them what you will, but when it comes right down to it, their murderers; evil-doers, who show no remorse, because this thing has contaminated their souls. It’ll do the same to us.
‘It spoke through Corrie and told us. It said it’ll tear our souls apart. And that’s exactly what it’ll do, if we let it.’
‘That’s why we have to confront evil head-on,’ Corrie added.
19.
Joe sat in his chair, gazing down through his night vision binoculars at the quiet street below, surprisingly calm, considering what the residents of Willet Close had finally decided to do.
A police patrol car took a turn down their quiet street; its siren off, as it crawled to the end of the cul-de-sac, slowly turned around and drove at no more than ten miles per hour back the way it’d come.
Police can’t help us now. And that much was at least true. No one could help them. They were all alone to face this bone-chilling predicament. Joe realised that now more than ever. There was no use phoning Inspector Sark or anyone else for that matter; not unless he wanted to be the reason someone else died, when it wasn’t necessary.
Tomorrow night when he and the others went to the Acolytes of Doom lair - providing they could find access - might be the last night of their lives. They had no idea what to expect when they entered the cave, or what would happen. Was it a case of fighting to the death? Or could they negotiate? Joe very much doubted the latter notion would be of any use: hence why he’d mentioned he’d face the malevolent entity in a duel, where the winner was the only one still breathing.
Outside tiny specks of rain cascaded down from the murky skies in undulating sheets, and soon the pavement and individual lawns were slick with damp.
Joe put his night vision binoculars down on the small round wooden table, leaned back in his chair, stretching his limbs out away from his torso and let out a loud yawn. His anatomy was exhausted, but his mind was buzzing with numerous thoughts circling his head. He caressed his brow, closed his eyes and saw blue forked lightening in his retinas, a warning that he must succumb to sleep soon.
With great exertion, Joe heaved himself up from where he’d been positioned, padded to the metallic stepladder leading onto the landing below, descended cautiously, holding onto the sides until his feet touched the ground beneath. Then he made his way into the bathroom, flicked the light switch, covered the drain hole with the plug, turned the hot water tap on and watched hot water gush out, filling the porcelain tub. He added his bath soak, fastened the cap back on, put it back in the pot where he kept his other toiletries, got undressed and climbed into the bath, slipping under the bubbly, steaming water until it was up to his chin and only his head was above the surface. The heat from the hot water soothed his aches and pains; although, his mind still buzzed like an angry bee trapped inside a glass jar, bashing itself against the glass, desperately trying to get out, in vain.
Nevertheless, at that precise moment, Joe couldn’t care less if the shape-shifters decided to enter his home and assail him. He was so tired, he’d gone past caring. That was when you knew someone had really endured misery and suffering, Joe thought, when they would quite happily stand in front of their enemy and permit them to do as they pleased; not panic-stricken, or fearful, because they’d gone through those emotions a million times before.
As though he’d conjured this scenario from thought alone, the ex-undisputed middleweight champion of the world heard the creak of one of the steps on the stairs groaning under the weight of something or someone ascending them, doing their utmost to remain undetected.
‘I’m in here!’ Joe called out, surprising himself with his lack of trepidation.
There was no sound, besides the annoying and incessant... drip... drip... drip of drops escaping the hot water tap and plopping into the water at his feet. It was deafening in contrast to the sudden silence that crept into the bathroom, destroying the peaceful ambience. In spite of this, Joe remained where he was. He wasn’t frozen with fear, like he and his neighbours had been on all the other occasions, when an evil entity lurked close by, threatening to take their lives.
‘Hey! You, on the stairs, I said - I’m in here!’
Come on! Here I am. Come get me, you evil shits! Too frightened to fight me one on one like men, but you will attack when someone’s at their most vulnerable.
‘If you’ve come here to kill me - I’m in HERE!’ Joe yelled.
The footfalls crept up the stairs, and still Joe stayed where he was. He knew by doing this, showing his bravado, he was apt to being at their mercy, yet he didn’t care any more. He really didn’t. He hated being afraid. It was something Joe Camber never felt; or if he did, it was only a temporary sensation. He wanted to show these creatures of the night that, yes they could kill him, but by God they were not going to intimidate him any more; nor were they going to make him beg for his life.
A black mist floated under the gap between the linoleum and the landing on the other side of the closed door. The mist floated in four separate drifts; then standing alongside each other took shape, forming into amorphous shadows shimmering under the yellow glow of light overhead; then into silhouettes, and finally into physical forms, shrouded in long black robes tied around their waists with rope, hoods concealing their features.
The tallest of the Acolytes of Doom (the one who was their leader) stepped forward out of line and removed a white envelope from its robe pocket and offered it to Joe.
Joe was trembling, but not with fear; instead he was trembling because of the intrusion into his home, into his bathroom where he was soaking naked as the day he was born in the tub.
‘What do you want?’
He flinched when he got a verbal response. ‘The letter explains all,’ said the Acolyte with a coarse voice, as though he was recovering from having his tonsils out recently.
Rather than taking the white envelope, Joe sat up, stared at the shape, dressed in a long black robe and asked, ‘Is this the eternal life you dreamed of when you sacrificed yourselves?’
The silence seemed to travel through time before the leader of the Acolytes tilted his head to one side. There was no question that it had heard what Joe had said, although it refused to answer.
‘You could have had eternal life and not been in debt to anyone. Your true leader uses you to act out his sinful wishes. He uses you to destroy everything that is good and holy - just like he destroyed you, a hundred years ago. Once upon a time you were holy, worthy, and useful to this world... now you are like dry rot; that’s all you are to your leader. Now you
are nothing more than his messengers.’ Joe reached out with dripping hand, dappling the bathroom floor with water and took the envelope out of the pale, liver-spotted hand.
He gazed at the acolyte standing before him.
‘When the body you currently occupy, and the heart inside your chest stops beating, you’ll start to rot again, like you did many years ago. When your true leader sees this, he’ll get rid of you, just like you got rid of my friends and neighbours and many other innocent people, too.’
The acolyte didn’t move or show any indication if what Joe was saying had any affect on him. But Joe knew that he was listening.
‘The thing with the goat’s head is a liar! He tricked you into acting out against the one you worshipped, tempting you by offering your deepest desires. And now there’s no turning back, so you believe. But there is. Stand against the one who has told filthy, rotten lies and do what’s right. If you refuse to worship the thing with the goat’s head when it matters most, and learn to love and not hate, then the Redeemer will forgive you... Remember the thing with the goat’s head has possession of your soul, but he cannot use it. It’s yours for now and for ever. God’s gift to every living creature He made... It’s up to you to do what’s right - to walk into your destiny.’
The acolyte pulled the hood concealing its head back and looked at Joe, who shivered involuntarily at the sight before him.
‘If we go against him, our souls will perish.’
‘You souls have already perished. But you can step out of the dark and into the light by truly sacrificing yourself for the greater good. Remember, God sees everything. Only through his son Jesus Christ, our Saviour, can He offer eternal life.’
‘But if we have no soul, how can we live for ever?’
It was a good question, yet incredibly, Joe had all the answers. ‘You can’t. But your spirit; your courage against the demon will live on...’
The acolyte retraced its steps back into line with the other creatures of the night. As one they turned to face the bathroom door and faded into silhouettes, then into amorphous shapes, and finally into a black mist, drifting under the gap between the closed door, disappearing from Joe’s vision.
He didn’t know where the words he’d spoken had come from, or if they would make any difference in the outcome tomorrow night. All he could do was try his best... and if his best wasn’t good enough, then at least he could rest his hand on his heart and say he tried - which was more than most people could claim to doing.
The water in the tub was cold, and his whole body was pebbled in goosebumps. He placed the white envelope on the window sill, pulled the plug out of the drain hole and listened to the gurgling of water being sucked out of the tub, retreating from his chin down his chest and past his waist. Then he stood up, gripped a black woolly towel from the radiator rack, wrapped it around him, stepped over the side onto the rug and dried himself down, seeing that the mirror above the sink was steamed with condensation, obscuring his reflection.
Once he was dry, Joe folded the towel, put it back on the radiator rack, slipped into his pyjama bottoms and long-sleeved shirt, ruffled his wet hair, brushed his teeth, wiped the condensation off the mirror and studied his reflection.
It was hard to believe that he had just talked with a shape-shifter, doing the work of the thing with the goat’s head... although what was even more staggering than that was he’d managed to get one of the acolytes’ to talk. It was quite extraordinary, because he knew nothing about religion, or what God wanted. He’d never been to church in his whole life, unless it was for a funeral, wedding or a baptism. He’d never been there to pray or to ask forgiveness for his sins. God knows he - like everyone else - had a long list of them. How on earth did he know what God desired? Yet, he’d sat there in the porcelain tub speaking, convincing this evil entity to take the righteous path, even though it meant giving up its immortality for the greater good. For all Joe knew, God couldn’t give toss about what happened at Willet Close or to its residents.
He doubted that was true. Yet, he didn’t know for certain. How could he?
Shaking his head at what he’d done, wondering where he’d conjured all that God-talk, he pivoted, bent down, picked up his dirty clothes and dropped them into the linen hamper, unfastened the lock... stopped in his tracks, remembering something imperative. Then he crossed the room, grabbed the white envelop off the window sill - albeit unenthusiastically - and stepped out of the bathroom.
He turned the white envelope over in his hands, pondering on how to take the next course of action. He really considered taking this white envelope outside and setting light to it, watching it burn to charcoal, smelling the smoke and staring as the flayed bits came apart and dissipated into the air. Maybe that was his best option, or maybe to do something like that would be at his own peril. But if he was going to face the thing with goat’s head and look at the creature directly into those blazing eyes, then what did he have to be afraid of?
Curiosity: a natural human instinct, was the only reason he kept hold of the white envelope, and eventually opened it, pulled out the white sheet of paper and read the neat, eloquent handwriting...
Joe,
As you are aware - the street belongs to the dead! You and your fellow residents were warned time and time again to leave the burial ground, where we were dumped like leftover meat many years ago.
Had you and your friends taken heed of our advice, you’d not be in the predicament you now find yourselves in. However, we believe one learns from their biggest mistakes better than any other in their lifetime.
The burrow in the bank, alongside the Neath Canal has been widened for you to bring yourself to us; although I must say that your decision will not make the slightest difference in the outcome. Yet it will make our task a lot easier.
You’re challenge to our true leader (the one that resurrected us) has been accepted. Here, I should wish you the very best of luck. But I don’t see the point in giving you or any of your other friends false hope. You have no chance of defeating the demon. Unlike you He is immortal, so I really don’t see the point in your duel - but as I have already mentioned your challenge has been accepted, with alacrity.
There are many surprises for you and your friends to discover down here... with us. We hope you find as much pleasure from these surprises as we do.
Yours Sincerely,
The Acolytes of Doom.
P.S. You’re out of your mind, if you think you can defeat us!
Joe read the letter twice before folding the sheet of paper in half, scrunching it up into a ball in his clenched fist. He knew that whatever he did - or didn’t do - was a no-win situation, so really it didn’t matter whether he chose to go down into their lair.
Standing at the top of the staircase, he wondered if there really was a place like heaven, where good people went when they died. Did he actually believe that they’d all be brought together in harmony when their lives in this mortal existence was over? He’d never asked himself these questions before. Sure, he’d thanked God when he won the world middleweight championship of the world, and when he unified the belts, too. But he never sat down with the Holy Bible in his lap and read avidly, believing every word from the first page to the last. He couldn’t tell the difference between the Old Testament or the New Testament. And yet, tonight, when confronted by the Acolytes of Doom, he’d confronted their motives; their actions, and even had the audacity to tell them to do what’s right.
When he unclenched his fist and unravelled the sheet of paper, the words, of course, had vanished.
***
Corrie stood transfixed, as the thing with the goat’s head began to climb the staircase; red eyes blazing fury and terror into her soul. Its slow, mechanical steps made what the little girl was witnessing all the more terrible, standing there, alone, dressed in her pyjamas, clutching her Donald Duck cuddly toy close t
o her, eyes huge, shiny as orbs, reflecting the incandescent red light from the creature’s piercing eyes, growing closer and closer with each step.
She’d done everything in her power to wake her mum from her slumber; yelling; shaking her; lifting her eyelids up. But Naomi remained fast asleep, unable to wake, even if she wanted to. Her sleep had taken her into a chasm of pitch blackness.
Now, Corrie was all alone, unarmed, unprotected against the evil entity reaching the top of the stairs, where she stood, quivering uncontrollably.
The creature held a staff with a gold goat’s head - like his own - breathing a green vapour in her direction. Corrie covered her mouth and nose, protecting herself from inhaling any of the toxic gases that would do something irrevocable to her, which would most likely end her life right there and then.
As though lifting her leg out of concrete, the little girl staggered backwards, pivoted and ran down the hallway to the bathroom door. She chanced a quick glance over her shoulder and saw the thing with the goat’s head standing where she’d been moments ago, grinning broadly at her, amused by her feeble attempts to escape its clutches.
Corrie whimpered, seeing how close the creature was, ran into the side wall, not looking where she was going and lost her balance. She landed with a teeth-chattering thud on the floor, leapt back to her feet in the next moment, still feeling the impact rattling her bones and seized the brass knob on the bathroom door, fumbling to get it open. Unfortunately, her hands were clammy and slipping. By the time she eventually got it open, a massive hand clapped her shoulder, instantly bringing her to her knees with an overwhelming pain that numbed her from head-to-toe, paralysing her from a touch, colder than ice.
A deep, guttural laugh boomed through the house, reverberating into the child’s ears, bursting her eardrums. Corrie screamed in agony, clapped both hands to her ears and fell forward on her knees bumping her head on the floor. The pain shot through her skull on either side, as if someone had inserted two needles into her ears.