The Midnight Hour

by Neil Davies

  She had long black hair, a face that was pretty rather than beautiful, a smile that sparkled and shone, and a body to die for!

  When he woke in his hotel room after their first night together, Sally still sleeping peacefully at his side, the shadow in his eye had gone.

  Saying goodbye to Sally had been hard, but the two weeks of his vacation had finally finished.

  They promised to keep in touch, exchanged phone numbers, addresses. He had every intention of keeping that promise when she finally reached her home a week after him.

  He thought of little else but Sally on the flight home. Lisa was an ever fading memory, sometimes a happy one, sometimes a painful one, but receding further and further each time. He had all but forgotten about the shadow in his eye. That was part of the madness, the depression that had taken hold after Lisa had left.

  He was happy.

  The second morning back in his flat he woke to the noise of traffic outside, of distant police sirens, of people.

  He opened his eyes.

  A cold fist of fear clenched in his chest. His stomach churned. He shook. He felt a need to urinate.

  He screamed.

  The shadow was back, bigger, darker, blacker than before.

  He was completely blind in his left eye!

  “NO!” he cried out, pushing himself out of bed, stumbling against the bedside cabinet. The lamp crashed to the floor, the bulb popping.

  He staggered towards the mirror, the sight in his right eye misty, distorted. He could see himself only as a blurred shape in the darkness of the room.

  His knee hit the dressing table and he stepped backwards onto a shoe he had carelessly thrown to the floor the night before. He fell, his back hitting the floor hard, his head jarring, his breath forced out of him as hard as if he had been punched in the stomach.

  He rolled, groaning, gasping.

  The darkness in his left eye moved, swirled, writhed.

  He no longer felt blind but rather that something was covering his eye, preventing him from seeing.

  The something took on the consistency of oil, dripping and oozing, reminding him of his hand in his dream, his nightmare.

  He raised a hand to his eye and tried to scream but was still struggling to find enough air.

  He could feel it, welling up around his eyeball, oozing out of the socket through his fingers. It felt as if it was trying to suck his eye out of his head.

  Then it was gone.

  His fingers were dry. The only thing he felt on his face was his hand. Cautiously he withdrew it, opened his eyes, looked into the darkness of the room and saw it!

  A figure, constantly shifting its shape, liquid in its movement, solid as it stood before him. As tall as a man. As broad as a man. Vaguely following the shape of a man. But not a man.

  The shadow!

  Richard could not move as he watched the blades slip from the ends of its arms. He could only watch open-mouthed as the thing moved towards him, each step splashing as though through puddles.

  He couldn’t even scream as the blades buried themselves deep into his eyes.

  WHEN THE FIRES DIE

  Liquid fire dripped from the walls of the inner sanctum in viscous drops that rolled and spread but did not burn the black flooring. Tongues of flame flicked at the ceiling but no smoke billowed from the conflagration. A smokeless, eternal fire that lined the way to the throne room, that boiled the blood of those who stepped too close, but did not scorch the flesh.

  Satan sat on the ornate throne, his foot tapping impatiently, his fingers drumming on the carved head of a demon. He scratched at the small horns that broke the skin of his forehead.

  Hargot, one of his many advisors, was approaching between the walls of fire.

  “Well?” Satan did not wait until the advisor had stopped walking.

  Hargot hesitated, knowing his master would not like the news.

  “They would not listen, Lord Satan.”

  Satan closed his eyes and sighed. This was not meant to happen to him. Trusted with one of the most important realities of the metaphysical universe he was meant to be feared, reviled and, most importantly, obeyed!

  Hargot cleared his throat, waited for a moment for his master to respond and then, seeing Satan close his eyes, continued.

  “If their demands are not met in full, as of tomorrow morning the Stokers of Hell will be on strike.”

  Baphomet gazed across the gathered assembly of demons, astrals and entities. Most were significantly less human than he was in form and manner. He, indeed, had been human once, long ago, although he had been called a name he could no longer remember. His face was grim, determined, but there was a smile behind his dark, mesmeric eyes. These creatures before him, the Stokers of Hell, were his! The power they represented was his!

  Even the Lord Satan would have to bow before their combined might.

  “What news Brother Baphomet?”

  He searched out the caller, a particularly slimy, blue-headed demon whose name was unknown to him. Nevertheless he nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgement as if they were the best of friends.

  “Nothing yet Brother. The slave Hargot has been given our ultimatum and ordered to take it to Lord Satan himself. Now we wait.”

  “But what if the Legions are sent against us?”

  The speaker this time was a small, feeble looking astral, barely managing to maintain a solid form in its nervousness.

  “Not even Satan would dare that. It would lead to civil war in Hell!”

  There was grumbling among the crowd. He knew there were many who feared a violent response. Even he feared the Legions. Only a fool didn’t. But he truly believed that Satan would have to acquiesce eventually, without violence, without forcing the workforce back to the boilers. They were strong, they were powerful. They just needed to believe in themselves.

  He was still composing a rallying cry when he saw Hargot approaching, striding between the boilers, unconcerned as steam that would strip the skin off a living human swirled around his limbs, his face. Hargot had worked the boilers for three centuries before his current promotion. Neither they, nor the Stokers who ran them, held any fear for him.

  But Baphomet made him uneasy. Baphomet had been in Hell for less than three centuries and yet had somehow raised himself above the others, had proclaimed himself their leader. He was not the first to try, but he was the first to succeed.

  “Welcome slave Hargot. What news?”

  The ‘slave’ reference pissed him off, as did the grand, archaic way of speaking. He struggled to retain his composure as he faced this… human!

  “Our Lord Satan demands your presence immediately Baphomet.”

  He stood at least three feet taller than the human before him, yet he could not shake the impression that he was looking up at the other.

  Baphomet smiled, wiped a film of sweat from his shaven head and stepped towards the advisor.

  “With pleasure.”

  Satan waited impatiently. Hargot and the human troublemaker Baphomet were approaching.

  Satan had deliberately moved the walls closer together, giving even less of a path between the running, dripping flames. It now irritated him to see Baphomet showing no more discomfort than Hargot. He had expected some sign of pain, of burning from this troublesome human.

  He had to admit to a slight and annoying respect for this display of physical and mental control.

  Nevertheless, he fashioned his best frown and his most ferocious grin, allowing his sharp incisors to pierce his bottom lip and dribble blood down his chin. It was a bit theatrical, but he felt this man would appreciate it. It seemed his style.

  “Lord Satan.” Hargot was the first to speak as they arrived before the throne. “This is the man Baphomet. The leader of the unrest among the Stokers.”

  Baphomet nodded his head in the briefest of bows. Arrogance all but shone from his being. If he was nervous, he showed no sign of it.

  “Lord Satan, I trust your slave here has passed o
n our demands? I’m sure you’ll agree they are reasonable.”

  Satan saw Hargot stiffen at the word ‘slave’. He had to admit to a growing liking for this human. He reminded him of himself as a young demon. Nevertheless, he had a job to do and a reality to run.

  “I do not agree that they are reasonable! Your request for shorter shifts I could maybe give some thought to, but the increase in pay… do you have any idea how difficult it is to find virgins these days? The demand is increasing while the supply has fallen drastically.”

  He leaned forward, fixing the human’s eyes with his most intense, malevolent stare.

  “I suggest you and your followers return to work immediately, or suffer the consequences.”

  If there was a moment of fear, of doubt, in Baphomet he did not show it. He simply smiled and shook his head almost sadly.

  “I regret, Lord Satan, that the only consequence of this meeting will be the rapid cooling and eventual dying of the boilers. As of tomorrow morning the Stokers of Hell are on strike!”

  The walls no longer dripped with flame. Patches burnt sporadically, fizzed into existence and then died. A bleak and sharply chilled atmosphere had settled over the throne room in the two months since the Stokers’ strike had begun.

  Satan sat on his throne, angry, unsure, perhaps even a little confused. He had tried everything, short of capitulation, to bring this strike to a close. True, he had not actually sent the Legions against the strikers, but he had threatened it. He had threatened everything he could think of and yet Baphomet and his followers remained unmoved.

  Baphomet!

  It didn’t matter how long you kept them here, or what you called them, humans were trouble. He would much rather deal with demons any day.

  He sat back and drummed his fingers on the carved demon head. He had run out of ideas, other than to give in. He didn’t know whether he could bring himself to perform that particular humiliation.

  Deep in the bowels of Hell the boilers were cold, the fires of Hell flickering out all over the reality. And far above, on the surface of the planet Earth, the next great ice age advanced on humanity.

  PHOTOGRAPHS

  “I don’t remember you.”

  Karen peered at the photograph pinned to the corkboard. She reached behind her, fingers pushing through the papers, pens and rolls of undeveloped film that cluttered her desk until she found what she was looking for. She lifted the magnifying glass to her eye.

  “Now why don’t I remember you?”

  The photograph, one she had taken several weeks ago, showed a simple beach scene. Sand, water, people in swimming costumes. And standing off to one side, where she surely wouldn’t have missed him, a tall, slim man in what looked like a double-breasted, black business suit. Most unusual was the wide-brimmed hat tugged low over his eyes. Not quite a cowboy hat. In fact, unlike any hat she had ever seen before. It was black, tall, conical, with that wide, stiff brim.

  She remembered the day, bright and hot. She had been wearing a sleeveless top and shorts, her shoulder length black hair tied back away from her face, and had still been too hot. Had she noticed a man in a business suit and that hat on the beach she would have focussed on him, made him the centrepiece of the photograph. The sheer strangeness of the picture would have made it fascinating. As it was, she had been disappointed when it was developed. It was a nice reminder of a sunny day, but it had no artistic merit. She had pinned it to the corkboard in her office for her private memories.

  If she now reframed it, making this strange man more of a feature, she might yet make something worthwhile of the shot. She peered closer through the glass. Pity the face, what could be seen of it beneath the brim of the hat, was out-of-focus.

  Strange that, how the suit and hat seemed so sharp and defined and yet the face was blurred?

  I still don’t understand how I could have missed him.

  “One of these days I’m going to get to use that precious camera of yours!”

  Karen smiled, knew her friend Jackie was at least half-joking, but nevertheless placed a protective hand over the camera on the cafe table between them.

  “Sorry, for my use only.”

  “I can’t help thinking that it’s your relationship with that camera that gets in the way of you and men.”

  “At least my camera doesn’t lie to me and betray me.”

  Jackie shook her head, smiling, and took a sip of her Espresso.

  “You’re 26 years old, almost two years younger than me. You can’t let one bad experience put you off forever. Not all men are Steven you know.”

  “Prove it!”

  Jackie laughed and, after a moment’s hesitation, Karen joined her. It was good to laugh. It seemed a long time since she’d had reason.

  Raised voices from across the street caught her attention, heard even above the constant droning of traffic and passers-by. She liked sitting at the pavement cafes in the city, liked the closeness of the noise, the people, the smells of city life. It appealed to the artist in her. She liked to cultivate that side of her nature, encourage it, especially since Steven. He had tried to stifle her creativity, crush it. What his Wall Street mind couldn’t understand, it tried to kill.

  Maybe finding him in bed with my best friend, my ex-best friend, was really the best thing that could have happened!

  “Sounds like somebody got a bad hotdog.” Jackie had stood up and was peering out across the traffic towards the argument.

  Karen grabbed her camera.

  “Back in a minute.”

  She pushed through the crowds of shoppers and weaved through the gridlocked traffic, raising her camera to her eye as she went, clicking and clicking and clicking. The angry faces. The jabbing fingers. Open mouths spraying spittle and accusation. A part-eaten hotdog thrown back at the vendor. A pair of tongs waved menacingly in the air. This was fantastic. This was drama. This was art!

  The pictures were disappointing.

  She watched them develop, feeling an emptiness in her stomach. It was almost a sixth sense with her, knowing when a picture was going to be bad.

  “Wish I could tell before I took the things and wasted film.”

  She clipped the latest alongside the others, hanging in her darkroom. She could feel the arguing men in the pictures looking at her, accusing her. We set up the opportunity, they seemed to say, and you blew it.

  “They were taken quickly. There were lots of other people in the way.”

  Excuses. A real professional would have got at least one good shot.

  She hung her head, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She knew that was the truth. As a professional she should have made it happen.

  She almost called Steven.

  As she sat on the edge of her bed, wearing nothing but panties and a T-shirt, she felt an almost overwhelming need for someone to hold. Someone to lie in bed with. Someone who could wrap her in their arms and hold her close.

  Steven had only ever held her as a precursor to sex. Every moment of tenderness or care or concern they had ever shared had been followed by sex, or at least by an attempt to persuade her to have sex.

  It was sex that prevented her calling him. She didn’t want sex with Steven, or with anyone. When she thought of sex, she thought of Steven and her ex-best friend. It was an image she didn’t think would ever leave her.

  She called no one.

  She crawled under the duvet alone, curled up, hugged her knees to her chest and sobbed until she fell asleep.

  The morning was cold.

  Through the thin curtains of her bedroom window she could see it was bright outside, and by midday, when the sun finally came round the building and shone through the window, it would start to warm up. But for now her apartment was cold.

  She peered sleepily at the clock on the bedside cabinet. 9:03am. Not that time was important. There was nothing she needed to do today. Nowhere to go. No meetings. No pitches. No shoots. No work!

  Being your own boss was great, until the work dried up
.

  She thought bitterly about the photos from yesterday. Unless she got something better than that there wouldn’t be any more work.

  Getting out of bed on days like this was hard, but she managed it. She forced her legs out from under the warm duvet into the cold air. She shivered as she stood. She dressed quickly in those things closest to hand. Tracksuit bottoms. A heavy sweatshirt with ‘I Want You’ stitched across the front, a present from Steven. She pulled on white socks found on the bedroom floor, trying to ignore that they had been thrown there to go into the washing basket, and struggled into pale blue trainers, not bothering to untie them first.

  Feeling slightly warmer but no happier, she pulled open the curtains, squinting out at the morning traffic, already near gridlock, and then walked quickly out of the bedroom and towards the small kitchen area.

  The coffee she made was black and strong and filled the large Simpsons mug. By the time she was halfway through it she was beginning to feel awake and alive. As she rinsed the empty mug under the tap, she convinced herself that this was only a temporary lull in her career.

  “A few bad photos don’t make me a bad photographer.”

  She was in a better mood as she opened her darkroom, ready to trash the photos from yesterday, forget about them.

  As she reached up for the first one she hesitated. She looked closer. She took it down, picked up the magnifying glass from the tabletop and examined the image, looking not at the two arguing men, but at the crowd behind them. At one figure in that crowd. A figure wearing a black, double-breasted business suit and a wide-brimmed hat, tugged down over his eyes.

  “What are you doing there?” she wondered aloud. “Strangely familiar.”

  She hurried out of the darkroom, taking the photograph with her. At her work desk she stared at the corkboard, at the beach photograph she had pinned there the other day. Where she felt she had seen this man before.