by Lex Sinclair
With that thought buzzing around in his mind, igniting him with an invigorating energy, the dead man stood up, went over to the sink studied his sallow expression, picked the skin on his right cheek with a fingernail and watched in astonishment as both the fingernail snapped, and a strip of flesh peeled away. Not only was he a dead man, alive again, but a dying man, dying again, too.
If he achieved his objective, maybe, just maybe, the thing with the goat’s head would reward his endeavours by giving him eternal life (not as a ghost, but as an actual living, breathing entity), he hoped.
He opened the bathroom door, strode across the landing towards the main bedroom, poked his head through the broken opening he’d created to say, ‘Peek ‘a boo,’ when he halted abruptly. The room around him blurred in front of him, as if the room itself wasn’t tangible, merely something his creative imagination had conjured, but was now losing its vividness.
Sherri had gone.
Growling, losing his temper with each passing second, the dead man -dying man - darted to the top of the staircase, flew down them, skipping most of the steps, and leapt to the bottom, grimaced as the impact shuddered through his knees, pinning him to the spot for a few seconds.
Behind him, at the far end of the ground floor, the dead man heard keys jingling frantically. He pivoted, paying no heed to the slicing agony in his wounded hands and brittle kneecaps, darting as fast as he could towards the back of the house.
Sherri threw the door open, dived through the gap, hit the patio surface outside shoulder first, got to a standing position in the next moment, reached for the handle and slammed the door, just as the dead man got to within inches of her. She inserted the correct key (a bronze Yale one), turned it anti-clockwise, just as the dead man pushed the handle down, and the heard the click of it locking behind her, saving her from the clutches of the maniacal intruder.
She laughed hysterically, believing a couple of minutes earlier - when she was hiding in her bedroom - that she was definitely going to die. Sweat poured out of her pores and ran down her forehead into her eyes, blinding her momentarily; she wiped them dry with the sleeve of her jumper, and was about to flee her house to safety of one of her friendly neighbours, when she ran into an immovable object, sending her flying backwards, where the back of her head cracked the glass panel of the back door, knocking her senseless.
The next thing the auburn-haired, ex-librarian and charity worker remembered, was being seized by the neck, rotten fingers cutting off her air supply, threatening to crush her larynx and pop the eyeballs out of skull, the nebulous image of a figure standing so close to her that she could smell its putrid breath on her face, before an X-shaped object was driven at her with an immense force, splitting through the thin flesh protecting her throat, so that the two separate blades jutted out at the back of her neck.
She choked and sputtered, mouth hanging open like an entrance to a miniature cavern, feebly attempting to pull the scissors out of her, before the veil of darkness swept through her conscious, ending the ordeal once and for all.
The dead man watched dully as the life departed the body that had not a few seconds ago belonged to a benevolent woman called Sherri Douglas, who had made one terrible mistake more than twenty years earlier and had been paying the price for her mistake ever since from the harrowing dreams that had followed thereafter, and who had repented over and over for not reporting the accident.
After being denied access through the back entrance, the dead man found the front door standing open - as he’d left it - exited the house that way, darted around the side of the house and cut off Sherri’s departure abruptly, just as she was turning around.
The dead man believed the thing with the goat’s head when it assured him that when he’d killed Sherri Douglas - getting his revenge on her for what she’d done to him - he’d feel morbid euphoria. However, as the dead man stood there watching Sherri slump lifelessly in a heap on the patio slabs, he felt no euphoria or even mild satisfaction; instead, seeing the crumpled form before him made him realise that what Sherri did all those years ago was wrong (there was no disputing that) - what he’d just done, though, was a hundred times worse.
Sherri hadn’t meant to kill him. She’d only done what she did in panic, not because she was a malevolent being, whom took great pleasure killing someone. Furthermore, since that fateful day, not a day went by in her life that she hadn’t spared him a thought and regretted her actions.
Tears brimmed in the dead man’s eyes, like a tidal wave drowning him with sorrow so profound that he now hated himself for being misled by the malicious voice inside his head, telling him that murdering her was what she deserved.
What’s good for one is good for another, the voice had told him.
The dead man removed the stained towel from his badly wounded hand, covered the handle of the scissors, protruding from the fatal tear in Sherri’s throat, and extracted it, tears sliding down his chapped, yellowish face.
With trembling fingertips, he closed Sherri’s eyelids. ‘Sorry,’ he wept, wishing he could bring life back to the lady he savagely killed in an ungodly act of vengeance.
He stared impassively at the scissors, dripping splotches of blood into the palm of his hand, and in one sudden swipe, slashed his own throat open, glad for making the right decision, and preventing the demon using him again to do evil.
20.
Sherri, Michael, Hugh and Homer were all dead. (One young girl, kidnapped from her home.) Four kind-hearted, cordial residents of Willet Close, no longer of this world, due to the evil that had befallen them and torn their peaceful lives apart, bit by bit, slowly, agonisingly, until the ones still alive - for now, at least - were burdened by an insurmountable melancholy, slicing through their every thought.
That’s how Joe felt, anyway.
Tonight was the night he would follow Naomi Shepard, Jake and Emma Harris, and Martha Clark to the thing where the goat’s head awaited for their arrival. Tonight, when the clock struck twelve o’clock, he would come face to face with - not an idea of evil - but evil in its purest form. Whether or not the Acolytes of Doom had paid heed to what he’d told them, when they handed him the white envelope, containing the self-destructive letter, was something he couldn’t worry about. Instead, he had to concentrate on relaxing himself; there was no use getting overwrought about his destiny. If he was going to die in the early hours of tomorrow morning, then so be it. Because he’d rather be dead, than have to endure any more stress. That in itself was just a prolonged death, waiting to happen. Joe would rather face his fears head on, and die like a man. And, if he was going to die at the hands of that ghastly creature he’d seen dragging Brian Shepard’s burnt carcass into the ground, then he was going to give it one hell of tough fight, making it as difficult as possible for the malevolent entity.
Before every big fight, Joe had relaxed during the day, watching TV or some favourite DVD’s, listening to music, or reading; anything that wasn’t at all taxing on the anatomy. That’s what he had to do right now - he had to take his mind off things he had no control over. There was no use fretting over something that hadn’t yet happened.
When whatever bad thing that was going to befall him, and the other neighbours, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
In spite of telling himself this; giving himself this good advice, he still couldn’t stop contemplating everything he had been told.
Corrie had been kidnapped; Sherri Douglas had been found dead, alongside a guy who had already looked as though he’d died once, didn’t like it, and had come back to life, before dying again. Then there was Martha’s Jack Russell, Homer; Hugh Green, who’d died mercilessly; General Straub; Detective Inspector Reeves, and Michael
Gibson, who’d been tricked into doing something which had never once tempted him in all the years his friends had tried to get him to use illegal substances to get the best out of his
genetics.
Across the street, Martha was taking care of Naomi, after they’d both seen her lying at the side of the deserted road, crying hysterically. Joe had picked her up and carried her into Martha’s house, laid her down on the sofa. They tried to make sense of her incoherent, frantic speech. It took two attempts for them to get the gist of what Naomi was practically screaming at them.
‘They took my baby! They took my baby! They took my baby! They took my baby!’ she reiterated, faster and faster, almost causing herself to suffer a panic-attack. Had Martha not been there, Joe was certain that’s what would have happened. And, although, having her taken to hospital, where they’d give her an injection to stop the continuous shaking, like tremors shuddering through her entire body, which could - and most likely would - lead to convulsions, the idea of authorities being anywhere near the vicinity, while Corrie might still be alive, was unthinkable; for they had previously been punished severely due to the involvement of the police and the military Special Ops team, by more harrowing deaths.
Martha had made them all a nice steaming hot chocolate. Then she called Emma and Jake to come over. When she’d called Sherri, there was no answer. Emma had ordered Jake to go and see if the quiet, motherless, single, auburn-haired woman was all right. Jake had returned ten minutes later, looking nauseous, his fingertips tingling, mouth like sandpaper. In a croaky voice, he’d explained what he’d seen. Then added: ‘There was blood everywhere; thick dark red blood. It looked like jam, ‘cause it was... congealing. But what I can’t understand is why whoever killed the other one first then went and killed themselves, afterwards. It doesn’t make any sense!’
The clairvoyant made a sign of a cross, hearing that her dear friend, Sherri had departed from the world in such a ghastly way. Once she’d done that, she remained silent for a few moments, took a big, deep breath, exhaled explosively and continued treating Naomi, as though nothing untoward had happened.
What she’d done was store the information for later (if there was going to be a later) when she was alone, so she could mourn her friend’s passing.
Martha never knew what Sherri had done; however, she saw Sherri for the person she truly was: a good, benevolent, cordial individual, whom always had time to stop whatever she was doing for a friendly chat with whomever spoke to her.
Joe sat in his chair in the attic, staring out the window at the moody grey skies looming overhead, not seeing them, but seeing the recent past; playing it over again in his mind like a reel of film.
Everyone had their own way of dealing with the predicament they’d soon have to face, once and for all. Emma and Jake had each other; Martha focused her attention on nursing Naomi, both physically and mentally, preparing her for tonight’s events, aware that Naomi needed to get herself together, to be strong - like she had been for years, starting her life over, raising her daughter all by herself after nearly losing her eyesight due to the continuous beatings she suffered at the hands of her abusive, alcoholic husband - for her and Corrie’s sake.
Contemplating is time-consuming, Joe thought, consulting his wristwatch, listening to the barely audible, incessant ticking. He’d been seated in his chair - which wasn’t very comfortable for long periods of time - gazing out the window (which could do with a good scrub), realising that for perhaps the first time in his life, he might actually be frightened. In spite of the feeling making him uncomfortable because he was unfamiliar with it, simultaneously, he never felt more human than right now, trying to make some sort of sense of his own crazy, confused thoughts.
When Joe Camber had come to live here at Willet Close, he’d been looking to settle down; to start living like a normal person, in contrast to his boxing lifestyle he’d been living since he was seven or eight years old. Yet, since he’d unpacked his countless cardboard boxes and made his new home look like it belonged to him, and not a house that looked like something out of the Antique Roadshow, that his cheating ex-wife Jenna-Marie had decorated, inexplicable occurrences had taken place.
And now, as he waited anxiously to face a monstrosity that lay beneath them, resurrecting the dead to do its treacherous deeds, in his fear, he realised that when there were no cameras pointing at him, when he was standing in the centre of the ring, exchanging blows with great fighters in the biggest, well-known arenas around the world, he was just like everyone else... afraid.
But he knew now that it was okay to be afraid. Being afraid would keep his mind alert, vigilant, so that he was ready to expect the unexpected.
Satisfied now that he’d studied his own thoughts and had come to a conclusion, Joe rose, forced an evanescent smile for the sake of smiling, and turned away from the window and Willet Close outside, to get something to eat, as he hadn’t eaten anything all day.
***
An hour before midnight, the group congregated at Martha’s house. (The clairvoyant’s house was becoming their headquarters for meetings, lately, so it seemed.) The old lady didn’t mind, not at all; in fact, she quite liked having her neighbours over her house, she only wished it was under better circumstances. They only got together at her house when something terrible was occurring, not because they had been all best friends’ right from the start, like you saw on the soap operas on TV during the week.
They sat in the living room in a circle, which Martha suggested they do.
‘What’s this supposed to achieve, then?’ Jake asked no one in particular.
The only light in the dim room was the candle burning, a tiny orange flame flickering at the centre of their circle, casting shadows on their faces.
‘You’ll see in a minute,’ Emma told her husband, giving him a warning look to shut up.
Martha ignored their comments, and said, ‘Now we should hold each other’s hand, so that the circle is former physically and mentally.’
Hesitantly, one by one, they held out their hands to the person sitting next to them, forming a tangible bond. Joe held Naomi’s hand and Emma’s. Emma’s other hand reached out to her husband, who held Martha’s left hand, while her right clasped Naomi’s left. They looked at each other, yet no one spoke for a couple of minutes; there wasn’t much to say.
Martha told them to close their eyes and to keep them firmly shut, until she’d finished speaking. Then she proceeded...
‘I need to ask you all to have faith in what we’re about to do. We cannot defeat the evil that lurks beneath us, in these very foundations, without strength. If one of us lacks faith, then our circle will be broken, and we will die down there - and not just die, either. But we will never be seen again... just like the others, who have been kidnapped and are still not found.
‘What we’re about to face is real - have no doubt about that, for we have the evidence to prove it... We have learned from our mistakes, and the many lives lost due to mistakes, which were not our fault. We must resist temptation from the one with the goat’s head: The Devil, himself, perhaps. We must not listen to the evil, foreign voices inside our heads when they advise us to do unlawful acts and deter us from doing what’s right... what’s necessary...
‘We must believe in unison that we can defeat evil and rescue the souls of the dead.’
The flickering flame burning the candlestick had gone out. When Martha said it was all right for them to open their eyes again they found themselves enveloped in pitch black darkness.
Martha’s heart stopped momentarily; not because the darkness enveloping them, but what the darkness and the extinguished flame meant.
Emma got up, padded across the living room and flicked the light switch. Yellow light flooded into the room, making them squint at the sudden brightness. She returned to the now broken circle, sat back down and kept her head lowered, thinking deeply about what they were all about to do, wondering if she’d ever return home in one piece with Jake by her side.
‘Can you see what the future holds for us?’ Joe asked Mar
tha.
Promptly, the elderly lady shook her head, wearing a solemn expression. ‘No, I’m afraid not... especially when I’m involved, too. I’ve always found it extremely difficult to see my own future in contrast to seeing someone else’s I’ve never even met. All I knew was something ominous was heading our way a couple of months ago - but I didn’t know what. However, I do know one thing -’
‘What’s that?’ Naomi interjected.
‘Not all of us are going to survive...’
Jake felt as though he’d been hit in the stomach, struggling to breathe at hearing the clairvoyant say in an unwavering tone that not all them were going to get through this ordeal.
‘Do you know who?’
Martha met Jake’s terrified gaze. ‘No,’ she lied, knowing at least one person in the room who definitely wasn’t going to live past tonight, because they lacked faith: hence why the candle burned out before they opened their eyes and broke contact.
Part Four
“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself. ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”
Anne Roosevelt
21.
Joe had put on the gold necklace with a shiny crucifix dangling on the chain that Martha had given him to wear. She knew that he was going to face the demon in a duel to the death; that was something she didn’t want to happen, because of the danger the retired world boxing champion was putting himself in; yet, it was also his destiny she realised that he confronted the thing with the goat’s head. Nevertheless, what concerned Martha was how the Acolytes of Doom were going to react. Would they do the devil’s work for him, and kill them all? Were they walking into a certain death trap? Was Corrie Shepard still alive? And if they did defeat the evil, would the souls of the dead be saved? Or were they being naïve in thinking what they did would make a difference? Perhaps they were all meant to die, and it was futile to even believe they could prevent their demise.