by William Cook
A few yards from me sat slumped, one of the Boyd brothers – semi-upright against the wall, a massive pool of dark black blood spreading beneath him. In the weird green light of my NVgs, his eyes looked like those of a zombie, his face was ashen and splattered with more dark drops of blood. He was shaking uncontrollably as he tried to push coils of shredded intestines back into the gaping hole in his stomach.
“Paw? Paw is that you . . .?” He whispered then coughed a fine mist of blood into the air between us.
At the other end of the hallway lay the other brother. I picked up the 12-guage shotgun that lay by hole-in-the-gut’s feet and stepped over the puddle of blood.
“Paw? Help me Paw . . .” His voice was barely audible now – more of a nasal wheezing sound as he breathed his last breaths.
Seems hole-in-the-guts Boyd was a better shot than his dead brother. The gangly youth was minus the right side of his face and his left arm from the shoulder down. The mutilated remains of his head and dismembered arm lay at the end of the hallway against the coat-cupboard door. I picked up the sawn-off shotgun that he still clutched with his remaining hand, twisting it to free it from his death-grasp, and walked back past the other youth who had now ceased breathing – his head lolling forward on his chest.
I returned to the cellar and put the knife and the NVGs in the lock-box and then flicked the main power-switch on again. I grabbed a couple of old tarpaulins and a length of old tow-rope from the cellar, before heading back upstairs. Within an hour, I had all three Boyds laid out underneath a tarpaulin on the tray of their old pick-up. The country night was still and cool – the moonlight blanketed the surrounding countryside in a cold lunar glow – the sky beyond was almost cobalt blue with millions of twinkling stars signalling that it would be another clear and fine day tomorrow. I covered the bodies with the other tarp and paused for a minute, thinking of what I must do next. I knew there would be questions – after all, I was the only neighbour for over twenty miles or so. I knew the cops would be sniffing around for a while, but I also knew that their ineptitude would allow me to carry out my plan. It was so simple that I knew it would work. The Boyd clan had done most of the hard work for me, it was just a simple matter of returning them home to their treasured shit-hole of a farm-house, two more shotgun blasts, and then the wait.
Before I carried out my plan, I needed to do some cleaning. I parked the pick-up in the garage next to my car and locked the door, before heading inside to clean the mess from my walls and floor.
Five hours later and the interior of my house looked mostly normal. A hung framed picture covered a hole created by a stray shotgun blast in the upstairs hallway. A wet-and-dry vacuum cleaner and three bags of builders’ sand that I had stored in the garage, soaked up most of the blood. My shoulders ached from scrubbing the floors and walls with a bleach and water solution until it finally looked clean, although I knew it wouldn’t pass a luminol test. The damage to the front door was minimal and only took half an hour to fix – a new lock-set originally intended for the old back-door, restored the front door to an undamaged state. I checked my watch – 3 am exactly. I wrapped the three shotguns in a blanket, locked the house up, opened the garage door, placed the firearms in the foot-well on the passenger’s side of Boyd’s pick-up, and turned the key in the ignition.
I sat on the porch and thought of Mary and the kids. The fire in the distance filled the horizon with an orange glow, the moonlight giving the scene an almost cinematic quality. The sounds of timber cracking and popping carried across the fields in the still night. Flames could now be seen leaping into the air as plumes of smoke rose up to the stars. The cops and fire-engines would be here soon enough I guessed, but they wouldn’t find anything. I would be questioned about why I hadn’t heard or seen anything, but my answers would suffice. After all I had been in bed all night, doped up on sleeping tablets and hadn’t heard or seen a thing – it was the only way I could sleep these days after my family had been taken from me. They could check the prescription if they wanted – no problem. Sure I ‘d had troubles with Boyd in the past but I’d stayed away from him – he seemed like a real violent type after all and yes, I had seen him whipping his boys on occasion when they had stepped out of line.
I stood and yawned, the moon had nearly disappeared beneath the horizon line and the smoke from the Boyd farm drifted towards my place like a thick fog. I opened the door and took one last look as a massive ‘WHUMP’ broke the silence of the early morning. A huge fireball lit up the sky as the house was engulfed in flames. I figured it was the propane tank on the side of the kitchen wall that had exploded. I had turned the stove gas-jets on before I left, making sure that the candles I had lit were placed far enough away from the hob to allow me enough time to walk the distance between our two houses. The boys had been sat around the kitchen table, propped up in their chairs, their shotguns laid out on the table in front of them. It had taken me five minutes to dig the slugs from my colt out of Del Boyd junior before replacing them with two fresh blasts of pellets from Boyd Senior’s shotgun, the massive wounds effectively concealing the earlier gun-shots that I had made. Before I lit the candles, I had positioned Boyd Senior at the head of the table. I placed the muzzle of his shotgun underneath his chin, tucking the end into the gaping knife wound, before depressing the trigger with his gnarled thumb. I locked the door from the inside, turned the hobs on, lit the candles on the kitchen table, and exited via the dining room window, making sure to touch a match to the ragged curtains before closing the window after me. My breath came steady and my heart beat like a metronome as I jogged the distance across the fields between our houses. Five minutes later I sat on my porch and watched as the house erupted into flame.
As I climbed the stairs, I heard the sirens in the distance. Someone had called it in – a passing motorist maybe? I had enough time to put my soiled clothing in a trash-bag, have a quick shower and climb into bed, before the red and blue strobe lights of the first responders danced off the walls of our bedroom. Feigning sleep, I closed my eyes and thought of Mary and the kids while I waited, wishing I could turn back the clock – wishing we had moved to another town, another place, as far away from here as possible.
A Dream Realized
Once upon a time – because that’s how all such stories should begin – there lived a little boy who was very much alone. He was an orphan – his mother and father had died in a car accident when he was a baby. He hated the world he lived in, for it had treated him badly; his imagination was his only refuge from the harsh reality of the world around him. Leon looked out of his bedroom window at the forest, which lay at the foot of the mountain opposite the old orphanage. The large Victorian mansion was quiet – the children were not allowed to talk unless spoken to and it was time for bed. Every now and then he heard the click, clack, click, clack footsteps of one of the bitter matrons who patrolled the cold hallways. Leon took one last look out of the upstairs window and got himself into bed; the starched white sheets were cold against his skin where the pajamas didn’t cover him. He thought briefly about the day’s lessons: arithmetic, religious instruction, and classical literature, his favorite subject – the majority of the day, however, was spent tending the large grounds that surrounded the decrepit old house and he was tired from the strenuous work.
The other boys in the room, of which there were twelve, were all silent except one in the far corner who snored wistfully – the sound similar, to the breathing of a dying raccoon he’d found once on the edge of the road. Its guts had been glistening in the morning sun, slick with viscous fluids, the tire tracks clearly visible across its small, crushed body. It had looked up at him, its dark round eyes pleading for help, a tiny clawed paw outstretched . . . And then it died, gasping for air – making a sound just like the boy sleeping deeply, snoring in the corner of the large dormitory. The other boys looked like corpses, as they lay still and silent in their beds – most of them already asleep.
Leon pulled the stiff bed covers up
under his chin and rolled over to face the large barred window. The last of the evening light dissipated as his eyes grew weary. As he slipped into a dream, Leon thought about the same thing he thought about every night since he could remember – he tried to picture his mother and father in his mind. He’d never seen a picture of them and he’d been too young to remember them before they had died. The image he pictured was always the same: a tall slender man in a black suit, white shirt and a bright royal-blue tie; the woman dressed in a knee length floral dress with puffed short-sleeves, pink flowers against white fabric, a shiny pair of white vinyl shoes with strapped heels, a wavy brunette bob hairstyle . . . but as always, their faces were blurred, smudged almost, beyond recognition. And as he tried to make something of their obscured features, the dream that grew beyond his thoughts billowed and then enveloped the two figures, much like a cloud of smoke and then they were gone. The dream was one he’d had before and it was not a pleasant one. Something was so hauntingly familiar – the poem nagged at him, the vision of the dream made him tremble with fear.
Leon stood on the edge of the precipice, holding the hand of a small child whose pale skin was the color of a fish’s belly. The dark charcoal rocks and sharp crags of stone were pitted with dark shadows, the ridge on which they stood trembled beneath their feet. The small boy looked up at Leon – the child’s eyes were black like obsidian – no whites, or iris, just a slick blackness.
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
Leon looked down from the ridge into the precipice below. Thick clouds of gray smoke plumed from the depths, curling up into the black sky above. Flashes of a deep red light zig-zagged beneath the clouds of smoke, as the mountain shivered and belched a wave of heat up into their faces. The mountain top was shrouded in cloud and the smoke mingled with the atmosphere to create a dense fog that threatened to blind them.
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Silvered flakes of ash fell like snow around them as the earth shook again, causing Leon to grip the child’s hand tightly as he tried to steady himself. Something, or someone, moved on the opposite side of the crater rim in the thick curling smoke.
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
Flames curled up from the abyss, licking at the edge of the crater walls, fingers of fire clawing hungrily at the craggy interior walls of the volcanic pit. A figure emerged from the swirling dark clouds, small and pale . . .
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
Leon looked down at the child whose hand he still gripped. He gasped and stumbled back from the edge of the precipice, shaking the clammy dismembered limb from his grasp as he flailed his arms to regain his balance.
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
He watched as the small limp forearm tumbled and turned in the air in slow motion, before it fell into the boiling molten furnace below. A wild rush of heat and flame burst up from the pit and illuminated the foggy mountain-top for a brief second, scores of glowing embers and ash littered the night sky above as the fire sucked back down into the hellish cavity. And for that briefest of moments Leon saw the boy facing him, across the deathly gorge, pale and dead, its black eyes burning with an unholy luminescence, its one good arm extended, beckoning – the other half limb hanging limp at its side, a gristled stump where its arm had been.
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
As Leon stepped out towards the boy, the fire spitting and reaching for him from below, he realized who the boy was. It was him – Leon. And as Leon took his final step out into the abyssal gulf he saw the boy’s face, his face, change and transform into that of a tiger – roaring at him, the sharp teeth bared and snapping at him as he fell down into the infernal depths.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night . . .
And then he awoke – his heart beating in his chest like a quickened metronome, his thick brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his thin body trembling with fear and adrenaline. The morning light was cold and harsh, making the shadows of the dormitory retreat into the farthest corners. Leon lay there on his narrow bed and drew deep breaths, trying, successfully, to regain his composure and slow his breathing to a normal speed. The dream always left him feeling afraid, but today he felt more alive than he’d ever felt before. He felt like he’d survived something; like he’d accomplished an epic task, or conquered an evil foe . . .
The matron’s harsh footsteps ceased outside the boys’ room. Today, Leon felt different. Today the poem had spoken to him – he remembered the words and now he held them close to his heart. He felt the strength of the words rise in him, like the fire from the pit and he felt strong – verily powerful, as he swung his legs out of bed and placed his feet on the cold floorboards. He knew the old bitch was listening with her ear to the door, as she did every morning, hoping to catch the boys talking or behaving in a “frivolous manner.” Leon stood and approached the door, his feet padding soundlessly as he walked, hearing the metal keys jangle on her chain as she jabbed one in the lock.
Leon paused at the table with the basin and the mirror on the wall above it. He looked in the mottled glass at his reflection and smiled. Behind him, the room was filled with teeming clouds of dark smoke, flames danced in the room, licking at the walls and ceiling in the looking-glass. The other boys’ beds in the background blazed, their skeletal bodies twisting on the wire-frame mattresses. He heard the tumblers click and fall as the matron yanked the key in the lock. Leon looked at his reflection in the mirror and smiled a terrible smile, his eyes a black the color of oil, his stubbled lips pulling back to reveal a set of sharp canines. His forehead swelled then flattened, his nose wrinkled and bristled, as a snarl emitted from the back of his throat. The iron padbolt clanged as it was drawn back sharply on the other side of the thick wooden door. Leon’s shoulders rippled with muscle as he turned to face the sound, thick claws sprang from his fingertips and toes as he crouched in expectation. A thick deep hunger for blood on his lips, a pulse in his brain that demanded the crushing of this approaching execrable life-force. The poem’s verses sang in his tumultuous mind, as the door handle turned and the matron entered the room:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
The Receiver
I received the call yesterday. My mother has died of cancer. The Big C. My world is collapsing in graduating seconds, each tick of the clock seems less regulated by the laws of physics. I have retreated to my safe place. My panic room bunker. My eyes closed last night but I fear that sleep has escaped me now, forever. All that remains is the grim cold reality of a world dipped in death.
The phone continues to ring, incessantly.
ddddddaaannnnngggg
ddddddaaannnnngggg
ddddddaaannnnngggg
Each trilling tone grows louder.
ddddddaaannnnngggg
Ddddddaaannnnngggg
DDDDDDAAANNNNNGGGG
The noise ascends, demanding to be heard.
DDDDDDAAANNNNNGGGG
DDDDDDAAANNNNNGGGG
DDDDDDAAANNNNNGGGG
The concrete room is rectangular – the walls painted a dirty white – a single fluorescent tube buzzes and pops overhead intermittently, the sound – like kamikaze flies frying on an electric bug catcher. At the far end of the room, the phone (old style bell red) vibrates with a shrill sonar, sitting on a small hard-wood desk.
DDDDDDAAANNNNNGGGG<
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DDDDDDAAANNNNNGGGG
DDDDDDAAANNNNNGGGG
I slowly walk towards the desk, my hearing collapses beneath the wall of sound. All I hear, rather – feel, are my own footfalls. At first, light clicking taps, then . . . leaden sonic booms:
TAP, CLICK, TAP, CLICK, TAP, THUD, THUD, THUMP, THUD, THUMP, THUMP, BOOM, THUMP, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM . . .
A white cloaked arm reaches out before me. I notice the flesh on my hand glistens: colored black like obsidian. My fingers look like talons, unbendable, immobile, but yet they extend and stretch until they close about the red plastic receiver and lift the handset to my waiting ear. A burst of static and the fluorescent light flickers frenetically above me. A strobe light – the white hot light burns. The intense vision has a sound that can only be seen . . .
WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH
And then the light strobes slowly to one color . . .
FLIP FLIP FLIP FLIP FLIP FLIP FLIP . . .
. . . to a low burning point overhead – a slight blue tinge surrounds the dim length of tube, now cold and somber but with still enough light to cast a shadow down onto the off-white concrete floor. I see the black shape of me – elongated, shadowed, the looping coils of the telephone receiver cable, twisting and turning up my arm like a serpentine demon. I detect a sound, coming from far away down the telephone line. My breath clouds before me like steam, but thicker, like exhaust fumes or ectoplasm.