Neighbourhood Watch

by Lex Sinclair

  Gnashing her teeth; contorting her cherubic features, she squinted and saw only the blazing red eyes, like taillights amidst the darkness. Then she felt herself floating up off the floor and into the air; overhead the ceiling floated by, then the light directly above the staircase became higher and higher, as she floated down the staircase. The breeze outside felt like silk caressing her skin, and for a moment Corrie liked the sensation, was more than happy to be leaving her familiar home. Then she remembered who - or what, rather - was carrying her. She wasn’t floating at all. She was being carried to the thing with the goat’s head’s lair.

  Hell on Earth...

  ‘Where’re we going?’ Corrie blurted.

  ‘Someplace dark; someplace warm,’ said a hoarse, faraway voice.

  ‘You killed my daddy!’

  The creature holding the little girl across its monstrous arms, like it was carrying kindling from the back yard into the house, said: ‘Your father is alive...’

  Corrie’s heart skipped a beat...

  Had Joe been awake and sitting in his chair peering out the attic window at that moment, he would have seen the thing with the goat’s head carrying Corrie through a trail between the bushes at the far end of the cul-de-sac - which swallowed them - just like it had done with Michael Gibson half an hour earlier.

  ***

  Martha stirred awake. Her head was pounding. She’d seen something in her dream, but now that she was awake, she couldn’t recall what it was that had caused the pain in her head. All she knew was that it was something awful.

  Pulling the covers off her frail form, the elderly lady swung her feet out and slid them into her slippers, wrapped herself up in her nightgown and went downstairs to the kitchen for some Paracetemol (there was no way she was going to sleep in her condition, if she didn’t take anything).

  She flicked the kitchen light on and was momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the brightness, and then realised another reason why her vision was blurry - she’d forgotten her glasses. Her eyesight required glasses at all times, unless she wanted everything in front of her to be a blur. (Lately, that wasn’t such a bad idea, after all the horrible things she’d seen.)

  By using her memory, she crossed the kitchen to the timber cabinet, opened the bottom drawer, squinting for the box of Paracetemol tablets she’d purchased a couple of weeks ago in Boots, along with her Cod Liver Oil capsules. Because her eyes were deteriorating, headaches were also a lot more frequent now she was getting on. She couldn’t recall a week when she hadn’t required a couple of Paracetemol tablets to ease the pain - but this constant thudding in her brain wasn’t your usual headache. It felt as though her heart had climbed into her cranium and pounded like it was being put through a vigorous exercise programme. She made out the blue and white box that was the one she kept her Paracetemol tablets, opened it and pulled out the tray of tablets, popped two into her mouth and washed them down with a cold glass of water, returned the box to the drawer, flicked the light-switch off again and ambled out of the room.

  The old lady padded through the dark living room on her way back upstairs - and had she’d been wearing her trusty glasses, she would have froze at the sight of four silhouetted figures following her progress, never taking their gaze off her for a second.

  Martha groaned as she held onto the banister and half-walked, half-hauled herself to the first floor and into her bedroom. Her head was till threatening to explode; pulsing maddeningly at something which had disturbed her immensely and had broken her sleep. Nevertheless, as she lay on her back, her head propped up by pillows, closing her heavy-lidded eyes, she felt assured that at least now she’d done something about it, and once the pounding ceased, she’d be able to return to the land of sleep, where nothing in the world mattered.

  Meanwhile, downstairs, standing silently in her living room, the Acolytes of Doom removed their hoods concealing their pallid features and touched their faces with their fingertips. The flesh under the eyes was a purple hue, a sign of strain. Their hands were also a mauve shade; skin peeling apart, shedding more and more layers beneath their robes.

  It suddenly became apparent, that what Joe was talking about was coming true. The more residents who died, the stronger the thing with the goat’s head became; the stronger it became, the less it needed them. Furthermore, not all the victims of this atrocity had anything to do with residing on their burial ground. General Straub and Detective Inspector Reeves had nothing to do with desecrating their burial ground or showing disrespect to the dead.

  The thing with the goat’s head was a selfish, supercilious creature, using them to do its dirty work. Also, this wasn’t being alive in the real sense: this was merely existing... because they were too afraid of dying.

  The leader of the acolytes was Brother John (or had been). He had given Joe the letter. And although a lot of what was put on the sheet of paper was true, he didn’t want to believe it. There was now a part of him that wanted Joe to defeat the evil entity that had tempted them; who’d taken them down the unrighteous path, contaminating their souls, using their trepidation to commit crimes, sins, they’d never have even thought of doing before they’d met the creature that fateful night on the fringe of the woods a hundred years ago.

  They were ordered to come here tonight by the thing with goat’s head to commit another murder, and then drag the old lady’s carcass to their lair. However, now they were here, not one of them had moved an inch when Martha had awoken at the midnight hour.

  The midnight hour belongs to the dead!

  ***

  The shrill ringing of the alarm clock snapped Naomi out of the deepest sleep she’d ever had. Her conscious was buried in an ocean of nothingness as it swam towards a surface that seemed to elude her with each stroke.

  Finally, an arm reached out from under the covers and flicked the off switch. Naomi opened her eyes with difficulty, like someone had closed them shut using Sellotape. The alarm clock informed her it was five minutes past eleven o’clock, and that she’d slept more than she’d intended to. Then she sat bolt upright realising in that moment it was Monday - and Corrie was already two hours late for school. Shit. She’d have to phone in and tell the headmistress that Corrie had a bad stomach or something, and that she’d be present tomorrow. In fact, Corrie was more than likely wide awake wondering why her mother wasn’t.

  Naomi got out of bed in a flash, hurried across the landing to her daughter’s bedroom, only to find it empty. Poor darling was downstairs probably trying her best to make herself breakfast without disturbing her.

  But when Naomi got downstairs, the living room, kitchen, and closets were all empty.

  That was when a deliberating dread coursed through her veins in a rush.

  If Corrie wasn’t in the house... then she had to be in the back yard. Yet when Naomi threw the netted curtains on the kitchen window open and peered outside, the back yard was also absent of her presence. She told herself to be calm in spite of her becoming more and more frantic.

  No, no, no, no, no! This can’t be happening! This can’t be happening! She’s gotta be here! Why isn’t she here, goddamn it? She should be here!

  She darted down the short hallway, fumbled with the keys still in the hole, opened the door, and leapt over the threshold to the outside, realising that if Corrie had come outside through the front door, then she couldn’t very well lock it behind her from the inside: thus, she hadn’t left the house - at least not of her own accord.

  Not knowing what to do or where to go, Naomi ran aimlessly, panting. Not looking where she was running, her foot slipped off the kerb, rocking her unsteadily; she tried to right herself but it was too late. She fell awkwardly, banging her hip bone on the kerb, emitting a scream as pain lanced through her side. In spite of the agony, and the inability to move by herself, all the single mother thought about was h
er little girl.

  Kidnapped, like the others.

  The pain in her hip was nothing in comparison to the pain breaking her heart at the thought of never seeing Corrie alive again.

  ***

  At the same time Naomi was dashing around the house and cracking her hip on the kerb outside, Sherri Douglas was cowering like a frightened little girl (perhaps the same as

  Corrie was doing, not far from Willet Close) under her duvet, after seeing something - or someone to be precise - that had made his presence known, even though he’d been dead for the best part of two whole decades.

  The unfortunate man whom she inadvertently knocked down and killed all those years ago, was in her bathroom, washing the blood off his newly reformed face in the sink. He was also listening to the portable radio, whistling along to Rock n’ Roll legend Chuck Berry, playing an all time classic track.

  Was it merely a coincidence that Chuck Berry was her favourite singer of all time and she’d been listening to one of his tunes all those years earlier on her drive home for the

  Christmas holidays when her life had changed in one split second due to lack of concentration. Now the sound of Chuck Berry emanating from behind the bathroom door seeped into the marrow of her bones causing her to tremble beyond her will.

  Chuck’s voice grew louder still when the bathroom door opened and the man emerged with the top half of his head from his eyebrows above missing, dripping crimson blood spatters on the carpet, trickling down his pallid, decomposing face, still whistling cheerfully (as though his condition was normal), tapping his foot to a sing about Memphis Tennessee.

  She could hear the creaking, menacing footfalls on the landing outside her bedroom door, which she’d barricaded with her dresser and a wooden chair. If by some miracle, the dead man managed to get the door open and push the dresser out of the way; allowing himself access to her room to do as he pleased with her, then Sherri would not hesitate: she’d jump out of the window, which was ajar, to a probable death.

  A loud rap shook the door in its frame. Sherri cried out.

  ‘Let me in,’ called a hoarse voice from the other side.

  Sherri was too frightened to answer; instead she remained hiding under the duvet, peeking out through a gap at the door, knowing that if she did as the man asked, she’d be as good as dead.

  Fists banged on the timber door three times. Sherri cried out.

  ‘Let me in, and we can discuss this matter that should’ve been cleared up a long time ago, Sherri.’

  He knows my name! she mouthed, incredulous.

  ‘That’s right, little nerdy librarian, Sherri Douglas. Lived a life of lies... You killed me - and, yes it was an accident; a terrible, freak accident. But then you made things worse, didn’t you? You hid my body and drove off without reporting the incident, just to save yourself. You could’ve lied! You could’ve said your car was dented by someone bumping into, like you told your father. You could’ve reported it to the police; could’ve said that you saw a lot of blood on the road when you’d driven past. They would’ve investigated it, found my ruined carcass a lot sooner than they did - at least then my wife and child wouldn’t be living for years in false hope that some day I would return to them. You caused them a lifetime of misery, all because of your selfishness. And what did you do that was important? You became a librarian. You were capable of a whole lot more. But after that incident you preferred to keep a low profile, afraid that someone would find out your big secret, see right through your filthy, rotten lies and report you for hit and run.

  ‘So what if you had to do a little time in prison; all you had to do was tell the truth, my family would’ve appreciated you for being honest and saving them the misery you inflicted. People would’ve still respected you as time went on, when you returned to the outside; they always do, eventually. But you didn’t, did you? Instead all you thought about was me, me, me! Well, lemme tell you somethin’, sister, it ain’t all about you... You can’t hide in there for ever. I’ll break this fuckin’ door down, and when I do I’ll make you relive that day when you killed me for ever and ever and ever...’

  The whole room shook so unexpectedly and violently that Sherri toppled backwards on her knees and fell backwards off the mattress on her neck. Unlike Naomi outside she didn’t get the chance to scream. She slapped her hands on either side of her neck, which she’d both heard and felt crunching under the horrible impact, writhing on the floor in a dull pain that made her feel as though her head was going to separate itself from the rest of her anatomy.

  A deep ravine appeared right down the centre of the timber door; the only thing separating Sherri from the clutches of the dead man. The frame splintered, dropping crumbly bits of wood on the floor. The dead man was evidently becoming less and less patient and growing increasingly irate with being prevented access to Sherri’s bedroom.

  ‘If you let me in now, without any more hassle, I’ll promise to make it quick and painless... Sherri? Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘GO AWAY!’ she shrieked.

  On the other side of the door, the half-skeleton, half-human, contorted his features, dry cracked lips peeling back away from the yellow, tombstone, crooked teeth, rolled his shoulders back... and then - with a newfound energy - continued smashing his clenched fists on the door, harder than before; the sounds of cracks almost as sweet as the sound of Chuck Berry, who was still singing the same song about Memphis Tennessee on a never-ending loop. He turned the volume up on the portable radio, so Sherri could hear it loud and clear.

  ‘Good old Chuck Berry!’ he exclaimed. ‘Can’t go wrong with a bit of classical Rock ‘n Roll, can you, Sherri, huh?’

  No reply.

  The man with the top half of his head missing put the portable radio down to one side, then charged at the door like a bull, shoulder first. WHAM! This time not only did the door shake, but so did the walls.

  Sherri cried out again.

  ‘Gonna getcha, Sherri! Gonna getcha!’ the dead man taunted.

  ‘Please... go... away,’ she whimpered.

  He laughed derisively. ‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Yes indeed-y. You sure would. Make your precious fuckin’ life oh so much simpler if I got run down and was dumped down a steep bank, hidden beneath the snow, wouldn’t it, huh?’ He stepped back from the door, preparing for another charge. ‘Well, think again, little Miss, because this time you want be getting away with murder!’ He guffawed at his tasteless pun, before rocking the bedroom door and walls.

  When he stepped back again and studied the door, he saw that the top half was cracked in half above the dresser and wooden chair, blocking him from bursting through at any moment. So, instead of charging like a wild bull, he would focus on battering the top half of the door, until the timber came apart bit by bit and he could clamber through.

  After countless strikes, Sherri heard a loud, screeching creak of timber being wrenched. She looked up and was horror-struck at what she saw. An arm reached through the aperture, and the other unseen hand smashed through, breaking more timber in half. She jolted to her feet as fast as a gunslinger would draw his weapon in a gunfight.

  This was it! If she was going to survive this horror, she had to act now, before it was too late.

  Terrorised, she scanned the room for something she could use as a weapon, anything at all. Not thinking about the danger to herself, Sherri threw herself across the mattress, wincing in agony, nonetheless undeterred, yanked the top drawer open, narrowly missing being seized by her long, curvy auburn mane by the maniacal dead man. She grabbed hold of what she’d been looking for and held it up over her head. The instrument glinted in the dusky morning light. She waited for her intruder to lean in then brought the pried blades of the sharp scissors, she used for trimming her hair and nails, down with tremendous velocity, spearing the dead man’s hand and into the polished pine surface of
her once immaculate dresser.

  His scream tore through Sherri’s ears, deafening her.

  Dark blood oozed out of the wound where the scissors protruded and dribbled over the hand onto the dresser in a coagulating pool.

  ‘AAAAAHHHHHH! YOU FUCKIN’ BITCH!’ he yelled, his face going a beetroot colour. ‘I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU! I’LL MESS YOU UP!’ he ranted in a mixture of rage and pain.

  Sherri stood motionless, hypnotised at what she’d done, grinning sadistically.

  With his free hand, the dead man wrapped his fingers around the scissors and began pulling on it. It took more than one effort, and in the end the only way he could yank it free from his hand was if he jerked it back and forth rapidly, prying it from broken bone and pierced flesh. Veins stood out like cables on his head as he screamed in the process, using profanities like someone was paying him a pound for each different swear word he could think of.

  His screams turned to faint whimpers, having finally wrenched the scissors from the devastating gash, gaping at the dresser through the hole that shouldn’t have been there.

  The dead man’s aggression had abated, replaced now by a profound weakness seeping through his bones. He slid back through the ruined door, stumbled on the landing, stopping himself from falling only when his back came into contact with the banister. Then he rushed into the bathroom, snatched the towel off the rack and wrapped it around the fresh wound, sitting down on the toilet seat, burying his head between his legs, controlling his heavy breathing, squeezing the towel that was rapidly changing colour to a dark red in seconds. When he opened and closed his hand, the dead man could no longer feel anything, due to the incredible numbing sensation crawling up his arm. Yet, now he had the scissors in his other hand. Sherri’s biggest error was, not only stabbing him with sharp instrument, but to then leave the scissors protruding. Had she extracted the scissors herself, she would have still had possession of the weapon, and could therefore use it to protect herself, but the asinine bitch hadn’t thought about what she’d done, and was now going to pay the serious consequences.