A thought burst into his mind, causing him to stagger.
Amy, sprawled writhing beyond the low wall by the roadside, her face a pincushion of glass shards, her neck unnaturally twisted against the base of a tree trunk, her mouth open with blood dribbling out.
‘No!’ he shouted.
The thought was gone.
And the shadowed gash on the woman’s face was a grin.
He ducked his head into a hand as another image struck.
Jeanette, dangling over the stairway, her neck squeezed tight by the noose that was a tie, flesh puckered and swollen over its edges. Her bloated tongue slowly oozing between her lips, growing in length like some emerging purple worm, crawling down her chin to quiver over the throat that was drawn so tight. Her eyes bulging against their sockets, first one then the other plopping loose to swing against her cheeks. A trickling of clear yellowish liquid from between her legs, soaking into the white sock on one leg, falling in a broken stream into the well of the stairway.
‘It isn’t real!’ he cried.
Gabby in repose, little white body unclothed and unmoving, as still and quiet as death. Her stomach cut open, sticky sweating organs breaking free, throbbing as they wriggled forth like slimy parasites. Her mouth beginning to open while these slithering things that were her existence escaped. Her fingers missing. Her feet blunted, each toe gone. She was calling for him, calling for Daddee . . . Daddee . . . DaddeeEEE!
‘Illusion!’ he screamed.
But the thing facing him on the dam only laughed, a deep, guttural noise that was as evil as her deranged mind.
His head shot sideways as an invisible force swiped at him. He touched his stinging cheek, feeling the hotness there. Yet she had not moved. Her snickering taunted him as cold, iron fingers jabbed at his lower body, clamping his testicles, excruciating pain doubling him over.
‘Illusion, my lovely?’ came her voice.
He shrieked and fell to his knees as the unseen hand turned to fire and thrust up inside his anus, piercing through, singeing the passage, reaching for his innards to melt and pulp them in its flaming grip.
‘ILLUSION?’ she demanded.
And although the agony was beyond belief, a white searing brand risen high inside him, an intense hurting that clawed his fingers and bowed his head against the concrete, Childes understood it was not real, the appalling severity driving off fear itself, and with the fear her intimidating control of his thoughts.
The pain ceased immediately with the realization. But he was left weakened and slumped against the parapet wall. He stared up at the black looming shape that had not moved.
‘Illusion,’ he affirmed breathlessly.
Her anger rushed out at him like a wind squall, pressing him to the stone. A sharp scratching against his pupils blurred his sight and his fingers reached for the shrivelled contact lenses, tearing them from his eyes. He dropped the crinkled plastic onto the walkway and struggled to regain his feet, blinking away tears.
An unknown pressure tried to force him down, but Childes resisted, his hand reaching for the ledge above to pull himself up. Not real, he kept telling himself, not real, not real! Tentatively he struck out at the monstrosity in front of him. Not with his body. Not with his fists. With his mind. He aimed a blow at her with his mind.
He was surprised to see her shudder.
She came back at him and Childes reeled, his lower spine jarring against the top of the parapet. But this time the mental strike was softer, had less effect.
He heard voices, distant and somehow hollow, nonexistent. They were inside his head and as unreal as the brutal thoughts she sent him. Childes pushed at her mind again and felt her flinch. It was impossible – he knew it was impossible – but he was hurting her.
The voices grew louder, but still they were from within and had nothing to do with the night.
It seemed as though she were listening too, but again she endeavoured to wound him with her own secret torture. Cruel clawing fingers that weren’t really there dug into his face, drawing down, jagged nails raking his skin. He felt their pressure, but not the pain. A curious vibration had began to hum through his body as though flowing through arteries and nerves, and the voices dipped and dived inside his head.
‘No more,’ came her rasping growl. ‘Game’s over for you, my lovely!’
She lumbered forward and her hands were like huge crane claws reaching for him.
Outrage helped. Childes aimed for that wide fleshy face, his fist balled into a weapon. It struck the blob of her nose, but she turned her head, lessening the damage. Blood smeared her upper lip.
One big hand swatted his away and then she was upon him, crushing his body against the low wall with her bulky weight. The breath rattled wheezingly in her throat. A rough hand went beneath his chin, lifting, pushing back his jaw so that he was sure the bones in his neck would snap. His fingers encircled that fat wrist and he tried to wrench it away, but she was too strong, too incredibly strong. He struck at her face and she merely shrugged off the blows. His back stretched over the ledge and Childes could sense the deep, empty space behind him.
His feet left the concrete floor and kicked uselessly at the obese body that held him there.
His mind went cold.
He was going to die.
Oddly, he was aware of the breeze brushing against his cheeks. And he was aware of the abyss behind. His blurred eyes were filled with the roundness of the full moon, its edges hazy to him now, as it watched impassively, lighting his upturned face with an unblemished radiance. He smelled her foul breath, harsh and heated with her exertions, as well as her body odour, stale with sweat and uncleanliness. So keenly acute were his senses that his thoughts mingled with hers, their separate psyches almost merging so that he knew her, touched the craziness that was inside, flinched back when it spasmed as if to seize. And as his mind retreated from hers, he was aware that she also heard the screeching voices, for they were within both their minds.
His balance had gone, his weight pivoted over the ledge; she held him there as though prolonging the moment.
But she was looking around, searching for the voices. She stopped. She looked towards the end of the dam, its granite structure softened by moonlight.
Childes managed to pull himself back a little while her attention was diverted. He swivelled his head, followed her gaze.
Saw the misty shapes drifting towards them.
They came from the night like wisps of curling vapour, nebulous and vague, a gauzy shifting of air, thin ethereal shapes that had little form and no substance.
Yet theirs were the voices that wailed inside Childes’ consciousness.
At first they had seemed almost as one, a delicate cloud bank slowly moving along the top of the dam, but they had soon begun to separate, unthread into individual plasmic patterns, becoming different entities. Evolving into definite forms.
The woman’s grip on him loosened as she straightened, an expression of bewilderment on her puffy, moonlit face. There was something more than simply uneasy surprise in her reaction, but this Childes sensed through her mind: it was an inner tremor, a flickering of fear. He eased himself from her grasp and slipped back onto the walkway, wrist muscles quivering with the effort of hauling his body over; he sank to the concrete floor, his shoulders resting against the parapet wall.
She had hardly noticed his movement, so intent were her shadowed eyes on the drifting spectres. Her brow was furrowed into deep shaded ruts and her big killer’s hands were held clenched before her as though Childes were still in their grip. She took a step backwards, obese body at an angle to the approaching mists, only her head turned in their direction.
Closer they came.
Childes was weakened, as if these immaterial bodies were drawing off his strength, using his energy; but the madwoman’s body sagged also, for they sucked at her spirit just as they fed off his.
He began to understand what she meant when she had spoken of the gift they shared and how str
ong and how beautifully powerful it was. But had she really known how powerful the gift could be? For it was gradually becoming evident what these slow-twisting apparitions were. Electric shivers ran through Childes and he cowered back against the wall.
The woman – It – the creature – the killer – was now standing in the centre of the walkway like some squat monolith as flat white light from above eerily revealed the advancing forms, their shapes becoming firm, less incorporeal, affording only occasional glimpses of the terrain beyond their discarnate bodies.
The first was small and no more than a boy. A very young boy. A very pale boy. A boy whose flesh held no blood, whose eyes held no life, and who shivered in his nakedness. A young boy whose stomach had been gouged out, shreds of skin flapping loosely over his emptiness. His mouth had opened and there were earth things inside, tiny crawling pallid grubs that always fed from graves. His decomposed lips moved and although he uttered no sounds, his words could be heard.
‘Iv i mack,’ the boy said, and those words in both Childes’ and the woman’s minds were slurred and ill-formed, as though the gluttonous worms feeding on his tongue also interfered with his ghostly thoughts.
‘Iv i mack.’
(‘Give it back.’)
‘I ont i mack.’
(‘I want it back.’)
His skeletal hand reached out for the heart that had been stolen from him.
The woman lurched and this time it was she who clung to the parapet.
Another immaterial figure came from behind the boy, this one, Childes discerned, a female; lipstick was smeared across her face as though a violent hand – or perhaps lips just as ferocious – had spread the redness. Mascara had run from her eyelashes in thick sooty rivers, giving her the painted mask of a demented clown, sick make-up to frighten small children. Like the boy, she was naked, her torso slit from breastbone (except there were no breasts, only runny wounds where breasts should have been) to pubic hair. Crude stitch-work had burst and objects protruded and fell from that crossed gash, hilariously funny objects, although no one was laughing, no one found them amusing: a hairbrush, an alarm-clock, a hand mirror – even a small transistor radio. She pulled at the edges of the wound like a woman closing a cardigan, afraid to lose any more items, as if those foreign objects were actually her lifeforce, her internal organs. There was baleful hatred in her smudged eyes for the woman who had so ravaged her body and had not even paid for the privilege.
That woman, dressed in her oversized anorak, put up a fat, ugly hand to ward them off.
But an old man had slipped between the grotesquely painted prostitute and the shivering boy, a lewd, ridiculous grin on his wizened face. Pyjamas hung loosely over his emaciated frame and the moon struck his eyes to give them vitality, a reflected gleam that was full of lunacy. Dried, caked blood darkened his pallid features in parts, and his head ended an inch or so above his eyebrows, sheered flat, more squirming things sucking at the protruding mushy pulp. He gibbered uncontrollably (again the sound only in their minds) as if cold air and gorging parasites were doing funny things to his exposed brain.
The woman shrieked, the cry as manic as the old man’s gibbering, and Childes cringed back, refusing to believe but knowing it was happening.
Now it was the woman’s turn to cry: ‘It’s not real!’
The shifting figures crowded around her, pulling and snatching at her clothes, raking her face with their hands. The boy stood on tiptoe to reach into one black pit hoping to pluck out an eye.
She pushed him away, but he came back, and he was laughing at the game. She was dragged to her knees – or perhaps she fell in terror – and she thrashed her arms, all the while shouting, ‘Not real, you’re not real!’
They became still and looked down at her gross, huddled bulk, the old man sniggering, the prostitute holding her stomach with cupped hands, the boy pleading for the return of his heart.
‘Illusion,’ Childes whispered and the woman, the she-thing – It – screamed at him.
‘Make them go away, make them go away!’
And for a moment, as his thoughts wavered between reality and illusion, it seemed their forms did partially fade, did become insubstantial mists again. Did become nothing more than thought projections.
Until a diminutive figure pushed her way through the fluctuating images to confront the obesity huddled on hands and knees.
The little girl wore a thin green cotton dress and there were no shoes or socks on her feet, no jumper or cardigan to keep off the chill night air. One side of her hair was braided into a plait and tied with a ribbon; the other side was loose and straggly, the ribbon gone. Her cheeks glistened like damp marble and a tiny hand sought to rub away the tears. But the hand had no fingers; it ended in five blood-clotted stumps.
‘Annabel,’ said Childes in an awed breath.
‘I want to go home now,’ she said to the quivering woman, her voice small and squeaky, reminding Childes of Gabby’s.
The woman raised her head and howled, a long wailing cry of anguish that was amplified over the reservoir’s watery acres, swelling to become hollow and plaintive.
The boy plunged in his hand, sinking it into the woman’s eye socket almost up to the thin wrist – at least it looked as if it were so to Childes. Impossible, Childes insisted to himself, a nightmare only! But when the skeletal fingers were suckingly withdrawn, dark fluid gushing in their wake, they held something round and glistening, something that was restrained by a thin stretching tendril which eventually snapped, a thread left dangling in the oozing liquid.
The woman rose, clutching the gushing hole in her face to stem the blood flow. She shrieked and wailed and screamed and begged to be left alone.
But they would not leave her alone: instead they pushed forward and reached for her.
She tore herself free, striking out, unbalancing the old man so that the pulpy substance and its feeding parasites inside the open container of his skull spilled out like contents from a weird Toby jug. He bent over, still grinning, still inanely sniggering, and picked up the liquefying brain from the concrete, replacing it inside the jug of his skull as easily as someone donning a hat; in truth, the gesture had all the ludicrousness of a geriatric replacing a wind-blown hairpiece.
Childes wondered if it was he, himself, who had finally gone mad.
The woman was backing away, tripping over Childes’ sprawled legs as she retreated and grabbing at the parapet ledge to maintain her balance, moving towards the other end of the dam, towards the water tower, towards an escape into the trees and undergrowth where she had skulked earlier. The moonlit shapes drifted after her, arms still reaching, lustreless eyes intent on her. They followed, wandering past Childes as though he were the ghost, unnoticed, unperceived.
Only the small figure who had been Annabel stopped to linger by him.
Childes watched the stumbling woman retreat, despising her for the atrocities her perverted yet extraordinary mind had allowed, but taking no pleasure from this macabre retribution. One of her hands pressed against her eye socket, the fingers inky with leaking substance, but she never ceased moving backwards, shuffling away from those stalking spectres. Finally she turned her back on them, her stumbling pace increasing, nightmarish terror forcing her thick legs with their overflowing ankles into a staggering lope.
She soon came to a halt. She began to back away from the steps that she herself had risen from earlier like a ghoul from a dank tomb.
She reversed into the eagerly awaiting arms of those who had followed.
Beyond her, Childes saw what had brought her to a stop, for more ethereal figures were mounting the steps, their heads coming into view first, then their shoulders, their chests, their waists, and they were not wearing the night-clothes in which they had burned to death, but their school uniforms, the La Roche colours monochromed in the moonlight, unsoiled and uncharred by flames, although their bodies were blackened and gristled, their hair gone, skulls darkened and mangled, with exposed lipless teeth
set in hideous grins and flesh hanging in rotted slivers, and Kelly pointing with a burnt and withered arm at the lumbering hulk of a woman, while her companions giggled as if Kelly had whispered some risque´ joke . . .
. . . And Miss Piprelly leading them, her charcoaled head resting on one shoulder, perched uneasily there as if about to topple, her oddly tilted eyes blazing whitely from blackened bones and skin, yet full of infinite sadness, full of weeping . . .
. . . And Matron following up from behind, herding her girls, checking that none had strayed, none were lost, and all were sound and the scars and melted tissue did not hurt, that there was no longer any searing pain, not for the girls and not for her . . .
Everything was blurred to Childes now that he no longer had his contact lenses, yet somehow everything was crystal clear inside his head. Clear even when tears crept into his eyes as the crocodile file of girls, led by their principal and tailed by their ever-watchful matron, became momentarily whole again, their unmarked flesh glowing with life, Miss Piprelly’s head erect and body ramrod proud, Kelly bubbling and impudent as ever, her pointing hand smooth and slender, with only their eyes still dead things. The change was fleeting. By the time they had all climbed the steps and were on a level with the transfixed woman, they were charred and disfigured corpses once more.
The woman’s screams were piercingly shrill as the drifting figures converged on her, discarnate bodies hemming her in, clutching and tearing, beating her, raining blows that should have had no effect, yet which somehow drew blood, somehow caused the woman, the beast, to fall back. One thick arm was raised to protect her face while her other hand still covered her gouged eye. Childes became aware that in the background and more hazily vague, observing rather than participating, was the figure of a uniformed man, the blood-seeping slash at his throat matching the tight-lipped smile on his wan face. Childes thought of the policeman he had found slumped in his patrol car at La Roche. Other shapes moved in the background, but these had no definite form, could indeed have been nothing more than mist drifting in from the lake. But there was laughter and moaning and wailing among those vapours.
Moon Page 26