by Michael Bray
Her smile soured, and she sat back and folded her hands over her huge stomach.
“No, but if you take it with you, it’ll keep you safe.”
“Safe?” he said as he picked up the cross and turned it over in his hands. “Safe from what? I seem to remember you always saying that the dead can’t hurt us?”
“I did, but that was before I knew any better.”
Donovan looked at his mother, genuinely interested for the first time in what she was saying.
“What do you mean by that?”
“This activity or energy or whatever it is, is more concentrated than anything I have ever experienced before. It seems I have spent my entire life with Hope House and its woods. The first half learning about it, and the second half trying to keep it a secret.”
Donovan nodded. He knew all about secrets.
“What we don’t need,’” she continued, “is for those two to go running and shouting from the hilltops about the things that happen here.”
“Maybe it would be for the best,” he said with a confident smile, playing the ‘unconcerned son’ card to perfection whilst inside, he thought of the implications of any unwanted attention pointed at the town, more specifically, towards him. He looked at his mother, and was surprised to see that she too was smiling.
The rage rumbled deep in his gut.
He wondered if he had been outwardly speaking his thoughts, and that she had heard them.
“I don’t think I’m the only one who would benefit from our secrets staying hidden… am I, son?”
He looked at her blankly, his face not betraying the terror inside.
She knows.
“Look,” he said as calmly as he could manage “all of that aside, why don’t we just leave the spirits or ghosts or whatever they are to do what they do?”
She shook her flabby head. “No, there won’t be enough time. I saw them earlier, and they look ready to just up and leave. Maybe as early as tomorrow.”
“That could be… a problem.”
He smiled thinly, and the game of cat and mouse went on, both for now content to sidestep the serial killer, psychopathic-son-sized-elephant in the room.
“If something is going to happen, then really, it needs to be tonight,” she said, watching him with an icy stare.
“That place isn’t safe.”
Mrs. Briggs leaned forward and slid the crucifix across the table.
“That will make it safe.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
She said nothing, and he was suddenly a child again waiting under the watchful gaze of his mother. Without saying a word he picked up the cross and stuffed it into the front pocket of his hoodie.
“No loose ends,” she said simply, and he felt a chill caress his skin at the cold way in which she said it. He realised then that he had been wrong. He’d always assumed that he had become the monster he was because of his upbringing, but now as he looked at the obese, beastly woman opposite him, it occurred that a lot of the monster in him had been passed down from her.
He stood and pulled his hood up over his head, peering out at the evil thing that he’d always seen as a harmless old woman. He’d often wondered if she’d known about his secret past, and it was only now that he knew that she did. She had known all along.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said simply.
He walked around the table and bent to kiss his mother on the cheek. She smelled of soap and hairspray, just the way he used to remember. He stood, and in one smooth motion pulled the knife out of his pocket and plunged it into her chest.
She gasped, and stared at him as the blood pooled around the hilt of the knife. He applied more pressure, surprised to find himself crying as he waited for her to die. Her breath became shallow, then slowed and eventually stopped.
“No loose ends,” he whispered as he stood and pulled the knife free, absently wiping it on the arm of the chair and slipping it back into his jacket.
Calmly, he crossed the room and opened the door, pausing at the threshold to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Stump, the displaced house cat took full advantage of the open door and hurried back inside, not liking the cold conditions. Donovan let it go past him, watching as it crossed the room and jumped up onto his dead mother’s lap and curled up to sleep. Donovan smiled and quietly closed the door.
37. CONTACT
HOPE HOUSE BASKED IN the orange glow of late-afternoon sun. It had been a cold, crisp day, and already the grass that had spent much of its day in the shadow had a light dusting of winter frost on it. Inside the house, Steve and Melody sat at the kitchen table, the wooden Ouija board between them. Beside it was a plain white bowl, a notebook, pen and a lighter. Steve looked into his wife’s eyes, and marvelled at just how quickly a life which seemed so positive and full of promise could change. There was no joy, no feeling of Hope House ever being the home that they desperately wanted. They felt like intruders, lodgers who had overstayed their welcome. For all her stubborn refusals to initially do anything to avoid the truth, Melody had been hit hard with the barrage of information they’d gleaned during the course of the day. She was pale and looked exhausted, and he supposed he shouldn’t be so surprised.
When they’d first arrived back at the house, neither of them was sure what to expect, and had simply sat outside in the car with the engine running and the heat on full, just looking at the building. Somehow it seemed changed. There was a sinister, foreboding vibe about it. He thought back to that day when they’d first come out to look at the place, a time that felt to him like a whole other lifetime. He remembered feeling something then, a slight discomfort that he’d put down to a combination of the abundance of green and Donovan’s blatant ogling of Melody, but maybe there was more to it and on some level he had sensed whatever was out there.
“So what do we do?” Melody asked, her eyes wide and completely trusting of him to lead the way as she brought him back to the here and now.
“Well,” he said, licking his lips “we write down our problem, in this case the harassment by these… spirits. Then we concentrate hard and will them away, before we burn the paper in this bowl.”
“Are you sure it ‘ll work?”
“No, I can’t be sure. But people all over the world say this is the best way to deal with situations like ours.”
“Let’s do it, then.”
“Not yet. First, I want to try to communicate with them.”
“I don’t see why we have to.”
“I just want to try it.”
“What do we have to do?”
“Well, we each put a finger on the planchette here, and then I guess we start asking questions.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“I’m still not sure about this. Why don’t we just go stay in a hotel or something?”
“Because this is our home.”
He said it a little sharper than he’d intended, so he grabbed her hand across the table and somehow managed a reassuring smile.
“This is our home, Mel. Every penny we have is tied up here. Surely, this is worth a shot if it means we might fix this issue rather than run away from it.”
“And what happens if we can’t fix it?”
He had no answer to the question, instead taking the planchette and placing it on the board.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Maybe we can learn to live with it, show it we aren’t afraid.”
“But I am afraid. You should be too,” she said, pulling her hand free of his.
“I’m just trying to do what’s best here. This is still our damn house.”
“Is it?” she said with a sick smile. “It doesn’t feel like it to me, not anymore.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that there’s a reason why we don’t feel welcome. There’s a reason why all those people died here.”
“Maybe it’s because they didn’t do anything to try to stop it.”
“Maybe t
here was nothing they could do.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he stood, crossed to the sink, filled the kettle, set it to boil and prepared them both a cup. Melody stared at the Ouija board, and was overcome with such a feeling of absolute dread that she was certain that she was going to throw up. She concentrated on watching Steve make the drinks, and waited until he came back. He set the cups down and sat opposite her again.
“Look, we can’t put this off forever,” he said, picking up the planchette. “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather do this now than wait until after dark.”
“Yeah, me too. Okay, let’s do it.”
She had said it as confidently as she could, but still her voice wavered, and Steve felt her pain. He too was apprehensive, and yet still excited. He set the planchette on the board, reached over and took Melody’s hands in his. They were shaking.
“Relax, it’s going to be okay,” he said as reassuringly as he could, at the same time trying to ignore the butterflies in his own stomach. He released her, and put his fingertip lightly on the edge of the pointer.
“Go ahead,” he said to Melody. “Just lightly.”
She joined him in placing her index finger on the cold wood, and looked him in the eye. “Okay. What now?” she asked.
He licked his lips, and forced himself to speak.
“We try to communicate.”
“Let’s do it, but promise me that if things get weird…”
“Understood,” he said, flashing an encouraging smile, “we stop. I promise.”
He took a deep breath and then spoke as clearly as he could.
“Is there any spirit or presence here that wishes to speak with us?”
They held their breath and waited, each of them staring at the small wooden pointer, but nothing happened. Steve licked his lips and repeated his question, but again to no avail.
“This isn’t working,” Melody whispered, her eyes wide and frightened.
“Give it a minute.”
He hesitated and then tried again. “Is there anybody who wishes to communicate with us?”
The pair waited, and listened to the silence of the house. Steve shook his head and leaned back in his seat.
“You were right. This is stupid,” he grumbled.
“To the spirit who resides here,” Melody said. “Do you have a name?”
“This is pointless, Mel. You said so yourself.”
“Let’s just give it a chance. Please.”
“Okay,” he sighed, placing his finger back on the pointer. “But I think we’re wasting our time.”
“Maybe, but at least we’ll know either way.”
She waited for a further complaint, received none, so went ahead.
“Is there anything in the house or surrounding grounds that wishes to communicate with us?”
The couple waited, and Melody was about to speak again when the planchette began to move. The sensation was strange as the pointer slid slowly across the board. Steve and Melody shared a disbelieving look. The pointer had come to rest on yes, and then glided back to the centre.
“Holy shit,” Steve whispered. “Tell me that’s not you screwing around with me?”
“It’s not me, I swear. This is hardly the time to start playing pranks on each other.”
They stared at the board, still trying to process what was happening.
“What now?” she asked.
“Ask it some questions.”
“Do you have a name?”
As before, the planchette slid smoothly to the word ‘yes’ and then back to the centre of the board.
“This is unbelievable,” Steve whispered.
“-Did you die here in the house?”
The pointer slid to ‘no’.
“-Did you die near here?”
‘Yes’.
“-Are you a part of the Gogoku tribe?”
They watched as the planchette slid smoothly to the word ‘yes’, then back to the centre.
“What do we do now?” Melody said quietly.
“We find out what it wants.”
The couple turned their attention back to the board as the last rays of the sun fell behind the tree line.
38. MORE LOOSE ENDS
SINCE IT HAD FIRST opened in July 1899, the Jones family had run the Old Oak public house. Passed down through the generations, it had survived relatively unscathed, including the flood of ‘86 when over eleven inches of rain had fallen overnight and submerged the entire village in knee-deep water. Now in its fourth generation of ownership, Will was ushering the last of its patrons out of the door.
In what had become a tradition ever since the pub had opened its doors by his great grandfather, he was closing up for the traditional three-hour break between afternoon and the start of the evening shift at seven.
As a bachelor who ran the pub alone, it gave him a chance to get a few hours’ rest and a bite to eat before he re-opened. With the last of his regulars safely ushered out, he locked the doors, basked in the silence for a few seconds and then trudged upstairs to catch some much-needed rest.
He went straight to the kitchen, pulling a microwave meal for one out of the freezer and setting it to cook. As the meal was being irradiated, he went into the sitting room, kicked off his boots and flopped into the chair. He could see the scrapbook on the table that he had let the Samsons look through, and again hoped that he had made the right call. He thought he had.
His family bloodline was already responsible for so much death over the years that he hoped his actions would break the cycle. He closed his eyes, thinking of grabbing a quick snooze after he’d eaten before the evening rush began.
He never heard Donovan creep into the room. He’d been hiding in the bedroom for the last hour, and now his patience was about to be rewarded.
***
Donovan had spent the time intimately learning the layout of Will’s apartment. He knew all too well the consequences of stepping on an uneven floorboard or opening a creaking door and now, due to his research, he moved in a stealthy silence. The sleeves of his hoodie were still stained with his mother’s drying blood as he moved to the back of Will’s chair and took the length of piano wire from his pocket. He stretched it between his gloved hands and looked down at what he deemed to be another loose end that needed to be tied up.
He poised himself, enjoying the moment, the feeling of absolute power and control, which surged through him as he prepared to take Will’s life. He licked his lips, and took a deep breath.
The microwave chimed to signal that it had finished blitzing Will’s meal, and he opened his eyes. He only had a split second to register what was happening, as the hooded Donovan hooked the piano wire around Will’s neck and pulled with all the effort he could muster.
The thin wire embedded itself into the soft flesh of Will’s throat, and cut off his air supply. He kicked and squirmed, but Donovan was out of arms’ reach. Will’s vision began to fade, and with it, a strange peaceful euphoria swept over him as the edges of his vision dimmed. He looked up into the twisted face of the monster standing above him, and as his oxygen-starved brain finally shut down his organs, Will Jones realised that his life had come to an end. He stopped struggling, and Donovan smiled as he watched the last surviving member of the Jones family die.
Donovan released the pressure, and crouched beside Will, looking into his open eyes.
“I’m sorry I had to do that,” he whispered as he folded the dead man’s arms back into the confines of the seat.
“I had no choice. And I can’t afford any loose ends.”
He watched Will pleasantly and nodded as if listening.
“Thank you, I appreciate your understanding.”
Donovan paused again, and then smiled warmly.
“No, thank you. It really means a lot to me that you support my efforts.”
He stood and made to leave and then paused, and turned back towards the chair where Will’s body lay.
“Say again, Mr Jones?”
> He looked at the corpse and then nodded.
“Of course, I forgive you. And thanks for the reminder.”
Donovan crossed back towards the chair and picked up the scrapbook. He flicked through it, and then tucked it under his arm.
“This could have caused a few problems with what I’m about to do. It has to look like an accident.”
With his free hand, Donovan grabbed Will’s dead one and shook it firmly.
“Thanks again Mr. Jones. You really have been more than helpful.”
Donovan crossed the room and walked downstairs into the empty bar. He helped himself to a double shot of brandy, and stood looking out into the empty landscape of tables and chairs. Outside, it was almost full dark, and Donovan saw that it had begun to snow. He had always liked the snow. He finished the brandy, enjoying the warmth as it coursed through his body, and slipped the empty glass into his pocket.
Some would have just left it there on the bar, but he wasn’t stupid enough to leave a huge slab of his DNA for anyone to find. He would dispose of the glass later. Right now, he had one more task to complete. He let himself out of the pub, making sure he was unobserved, and closed the door gently behind him. The snow had already left a light dusting on the ground, but he thought that it was heavy enough that it would soon mask his footprints.
He walked towards his car, which was parked some distance away. As always, he was thorough, and had taken every precaution. There were just two more loose ends to tie up, and then he could turn in for the night.
‘It was a dirty job,’ he thought as he walked down the street, whistling tunelessly.
But somebody had to do it.
39. WORDS WITH THE DEAD
STEVE AND MELODY SHARED an excited glance across the table, then turned their attention back to the planchette.
“Do you mean to harm us?” Steve asked.
They watched as the pointer slid to the word ‘no’.
Melody couldn’t help but grin. “What is it that you want?” she asked, and they watched as the pointer spelled out a single word that turned their brief feeling of relief into abject horror.