When he approached, Sarah tried to kick out at his leg again, but he expected that.
He fell on her knee with all his weight. Bone shattered, knives exploding into Sarah’s flesh like contained shrapnel. She let loose a piercing scream as the pain shot up her thigh and through her body. The knee was fire, but Otto wasn’t going to let her focus on it.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said, and drove his fist into her face. Sarah’s lips smashed against her teeth.
She tried to lift her hands in defence, but the fire in her knee was burning the colour out of her vision.
“I love you,” he said, punching her square in the nose. It broke, another source of heat. She tasted blood.
“I love you, Sarah,” he said, crying. He drove his fist down once more, landing it squarely on Sarah’s chin. Her jaw clicked. She saw stars.
“Stop . . .” she stammered, lips already swelling. His weight pinned her down, grinding the bone fragments in her knee against flesh and tendons.
Otto rolled off.
Sarah began to crawl. She moved forward, inching away from her old friend, but couldn’t resist looking back.
Tears flowed freely down his face. He pawed at his eyes with small hands, looking like a giant kid, unaware of the destruction he was capable of. It was as if he was a victim in all this. She turned her attention forward, continuing her crawl.
“Sarah, no,” Otto said, regaining control. “Come back, baby.” He was sniffling behind her, getting to his feet.
Just a little farther, she thought, pulling herself along with her arms and the one good leg remaining. Her face rubbed against the kitchen tile. There was something beneath it, coarse and fibrous—the butcher's twine she was going to use to restrain Otto.
“Let’s go to bed. Come on.” There was a limping shuffle behind her. She reached out with her right hand, grabbing blindly just as Otto clutched her by her left.
Sarah grabbed Otto’s narrow wrist and torqued her body. He was propelled over her, pushed along by Sarah’s good leg.
Otto landed on his back, air rushing out of his lungs. He rolled over, but Sarah leapt onto his back before he could get up.
She unraveled the butcher’s twine and looped it around his neck, but his fingers slid between it and his throat.
Sarah pulled back with all her weight, but it wasn’t enough. He was pulling the twine away. He was stronger.
If only I was in the body of someone else.
He pulled more and more, the twine coming away from his neck. It slipped a little through her fingers—she gripped it desperately.
Otto would get out of her hold and finish what he started.
Her leg ached. Couldn’t she give up? She could sit back, say she tried her best and let Otto do whatever he wanted. After all, wouldn’t she wake up in her rig? Wouldn’t she open her eyes, blink at the bright lights a bit, and then go on with her day?
Her vision was cloudy. The cut on her head was dripping again. Her ears rung like the high-pitched alarm of a faulty smoke detector.
No, this was the real world. Nobody to deal with the consequences but her. The fallout was coming, and it didn’t look good.
Her grip was slipping.
I’m sorry, Mark. I’m sorry you got dragged into this.
Sarah looked over at him expecting to see his limp body, but he was moving.
He reached towards the door. It was a feeble gesture, but he was trying. He had reason to give up, three oozing ones in his gut, three valid excuses to call it a night, but he was still trying.
You either break the mold, or the mold breaks you.
Sarah redoubled her grip, giving the twine a turn with each hand. It tightened, pressing Otto’s fingers against his own neck. She pulled hard, bending his back with all her strength as the fingers near the side of his neck turned first crimson, then a dull, dark violet.
He groped at her with his free hand, but Sarah used her good leg to kick him in his swollen knee. Otto shrieked in pain and, with a great effort, slid his hand out from under the twine.
Sarah looped the twine around another turn, crossed her hands behind his neck, and pulled even harder as he used both hands to get to his feet. She held on as he stumbled through the living room, smashing her into the TV mounted on the wall. She held on as he fell forward, crashing through his coffee table, sending coasters flying across the hardwood.
He shifted his body and began to crawl towards the bathroom, towards the gun that had come to rest in the piled-up shower curtain, yet still, Sarah held on.
He collapsed a foot away from the firearm, yet still, Sarah held on.
She held on through the music coming from next door.
She held on while sirens wailed outside. While heavy boots fell outside the apartment, while the music shut off, and while the door swung open, she held on.
It was only when Captain Anderson himself kneeled next to her that she let go. His large, soft hands pulled her fingers open.
“You’re okay, Forrester. You did it.” Anderson unwrapped the twine from her bleeding fingers. It bit into her skin the same way it had bitten into Otto’s. Paramedics lifted Sarah onto a stretcher. Another tended to Mark, pressing gauze against his wounds and calling for help.
“Otto,” she stammered, colour fading from the world as she looked at Anderson from half-closed eyes. “It was Otto.”
“We know. Mark called us on his way here.” He placed his hand over hers. “Everything is going to be okay. You can rest now.”
She rested.
* * *
9
* * *
Sarah used her crutches to hobble down the hall and visit Mark. He watched a M*A*S*H rerun on a small, wall-mounted TV.
“Knock-knock,” she said, awkwardly pushing her way through the door to his room.
“Hey, Forrester. You look like shit.” He was lying in bed, shirtless, his stomach wrapped in bandages. Colourless hospital food sat before him untouched on a plastic tray: a loosely wrapped sandwich loaded with mayo, a carton of milk, some cereal, and a pudding cup.
“You smell like shit,” she shot back, lowering herself into the chair at his bedside.
“Do I?” he said, frantically pushing the blue hospital blanket to his waist and checking the ostomy bag on his stomach.
Sarah laughed. “No, I’m just teasing.”
“You may look worse than me, but my gut’s going to pay the price for our little date for years to come.”
She did look worse than him. Her lips were swollen large, like two fat earthworms dried out and cracked by the sun. The break in her nose had been reset, bandaged with a metal splint running along the bridge. She had two black eyes, bruised cheeks, and a leg wrapped in a heavy cast.
But she was alive. She needed to breathe through her mouth, but at least she still breathed.
“If that’s what you consider a date,” she said, “I’m not surprised you’re still single.”
“Maybe I’ve just been waiting for the right one to come along.” He held a plastic container out to her. “Pudding cup?”
She took it. “Look at that,” she said, peeling off the top, “you finally got to buy me dinner. Does that make this date number two?”
“Sure,” Mark said, “Maybe for our third we can get our hands on some wheelchairs and wreak havoc on these hard-ass nurses.”
“You sure know how to treat a girl,” Sarah said, licking the top of the lid. “Any news?”
“Nothing from Anderson himself, but Janine said they’re keeping things hush-hush. They don’t want news of Otto getting out of hand. Nothing about his actions while on duty.”
“No complaints from the woman he assaulted? Her family?”
“None. The man he possessed is going to make a full recovery and won’t have to work for a very long time. From what I hear, the ACU has some deep pockets. Funded by some big-name donors. They’re trying to open units all over the country, possibly international. Get ready for the threat of outsourcing a major
police force.”
“What are they saying about Otto?” Sarah asked.
Mark rubbed a hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble there. “From what I hear, they’re going to call it an isolated incident. A domestic argument that got out of control. I’m sure they’ll be talking to you soon so you can get your story straight.”
“And the wallets? The jewelry?”
“I don’t know. Mailed back to their owners? A cynical person would assume they would just drop them in the trash and forget about it.”
“I still can’t believe—”
“Hey,” he said, interrupting her. “There’s no way you could’ve known, so don’t go kicking your own ass about it. You’re a fucking hero, Forrester. Don’t try to convince yourself otherwise. If you weren’t such a badass, I wouldn’t be here right now. Janine says the officers are going to be throwing you one hell of a party when you’re back in fighting shape.”
Sarah’s smirk stung her busted lips. “I thought you said you couldn’t talk to those bulldogs. Said they emasculate you.”
Mark smiled at her. “I guess my ego isn’t as big as people assume.”
“Nobody wants to hear about your ‘ego,’ Taylor. Your euphemisms are as disgusting as your shit bag.”
That set him off. He laughed until he was holding his stomach and crying through his chuckles. Smiling, Sarah turned up the TV to drown him out, but an older nurse walking by heard his uproarious laughter and walked in, frowning.
“Excuse me, miss, you need to leave. Mr. Taylor needs rest so his stomach can heal.” The nurse tended to Mark, whose laughter died off when the matronly woman walked in. She reached into a cupboard and pulled out what looked like a deflated, beige whoopie cushion. “We’re going to change your ostomy bag, Mr. Taylor.”
It was a procedure Sarah had very little interest in watching.
“Sorry! Mark, I’ll come back when you’re feeling a little bit better.”
“Thank you, Mommy,” he replied in a baby voice. Sarah rolled her eyes as she began to hobble out. “There it is. The patented Forrester eye-roll. She reads her own mind as if reading the paper.”
At the door, Sarah turned around to flip him the bird. A glint in the nurse's eye stopped her.
Blue rings around the older woman’s pupils shone accusingly as she swapped out the bags.
“This TV is way too loud,” the nurse muttered, turning around to press a button on the side of the flatscreen. When she turned back, the blue rings were gone. “I’m going to wipe you down now, sweetie.”
“I could get used to this,” Mark replied, rolling onto his side. “Some dignity, please?” he said, looking innocently at Sarah.
She shook her head.
“Right, sorry. See you later.”
The blue rings were never there. They couldn’t be. She hobbled away, certain of it, but felt cold eyes on her as she moved down the hallway to her own room all the same.
CHRISTOPHER O‘HALLORAN—HWA and HOWLS member—is a Canadian actor-turned-author who has been published by Hellbound Books, Tales to Terrify Podcast, The Dread Machine, and others. Despite making the transition to writing, Chris still puts his acting diploma to use; he acts like a fool for chuckles from his wife and son at home in British Columbia. His work can be read at COauthor.ca where fans can find updates on his upcoming novel, Pushing Daisy. Follow him on Twitter @BurgleInfernal.
* * *
Illustration by Joe Radkins
After three months, Lisa was still stewing in rage. She knew there must be something she could do about the atrocious injustice. If her relatives wouldn’t help her, and if her lawyers couldn’t revert the will to its original state, then she would have to take matters into her own hands.
A brilliant idea occurred to her one night as she was watching a reality television show. The brash nature of the women onscreen spurred Lisa’s fantasies. Consuming mindless entertainment had become part of her nightly routine, but she was more than willing to interrupt the monotony to fulfill her idea.
She poured herself a third shot of whiskey and swallowed it in one gulp. Springing from the couch, she swept everything off the coffee table and dashed into the tiny bedroom of her wretched, temporary apartment. She regarded her surroundings with disgust as usual. The state of the whole building was disgraceful. The apartment was small and prone to pests. Every nook and cranny hosted swarms of cockroaches, always fleeing down the drain before Lisa could get a chance to crush even one of them. The hovel was also devoid of décor. Boxes still lined the walls from her move-in day. She simply didn’t have the energy to go through everything or the will to put it all away. It was all such a drastic change from her previous home, which her brother Marcus had usurped.
As she settled her hand on the closet doorknob, rustling sounded from behind the door. A shudder came over her body. She was tempted to lock the creature inside, but she needed to retrieve her hidden materials. She took a deep breath and turned the doorknob. The bitter smell of rat feces wafted out from the closet. A large, dark shape scurried into the corner, followed by several smaller shapes. She normally would have set more traps, but she didn’t have patience tonight. She was on a mission, and she would not tolerate distractions.
Her cloak hung in the corner of the closet, hidden behind her work suits. After quickly dressing in the proper attire, Lisa checked the mirror. She hardly recognized herself. A smile, though small, lit up her face. Lisa hadn’t seen herself smile since before her father died. It encouraged her. If she was able to smile and feel excitement again, what could stop her from reclaiming her rightful haunt?
She stooped to get the shoebox from the ground, brushing away some pellets of feces and holding back a gag. A corner of the box had been nibbled away by the family of rats, no doubt. She opened the box to find an old, untitled book. The faded cover of the tome was some sort of leather, obviously cut by an amateur. The material did not fit the dimensions of the book well; the corners puckered with flaps of extra leather, and even the flatter areas had ample room to sag and shift. Lisa stroked the soft cover, her heart pounding through her fingertips, and took the book into the living room.
She had marked the page more than two months ago, when the lawyers read her father’s will to her and Marcus. She hadn’t planned on reading the passages the day she tagged them, but she acknowledged the possibility of needing to act. Her brother, meanwhile, accepted the terms of the will without argument. He had sat in the lawyer’s office, arms folded, and grinned.
Why should he have complained? He got the house, despite knowing nothing of its potential. To him, it was simply a large, fully furnished home for his wife and kids. To Lisa, however, the house offered a far more important opportunity. It lay in the center of a huge plot of land surrounded by strong, thick trees. She wouldn’t have to worry about nosy neighbors there, and she would have access to all her mother’s relics. Marcus believed they were collectibles, but Lisa knew better. She was well acquainted with their power, and she even knew how to wield some of it.
Lisa had tried to change the will with minor incantations, but they were not strong enough. Each time an attempt failed, she would down a few drinks of whatever half-empty liquor bottles she could find in her apartment, swearing to never open the book again. Even so, she kept it in the closet with her cloak, unwilling to throw away that bit of her heritage. Her mother must have taught her dark alchemy for this very reason: to provide for herself. She always said that to live was to look out for oneself, never for another. “You must protect yourself,” her mother told her, “no matter the cost.”
The events of tonight, fueled by alcohol, ambition, and ire, would right the wrongs of the past. She would have to use major spells, forceful spells, far beyond anything she had previously practiced. Marcus and his wife Gabriella would become aware of their crimes. They would receive retribution. However, she was determined not to wreak any undue havoc tonight. She only needed to punish the parents.
Their children were innocent, especi
ally little Will. Just four months ago, Lisa had vowed never to be the cause of his tears. She had made her gentle promise on Thanksgiving, when Marcus lost his temper because Will spilled gravy on his new shirt. Marcus was incensed, already under the stress of hosting the festive meal. Will ran outside to cry on the porch while his parents cleaned up the mess. Lisa followed him and eventually soothed his tears. She could still hear her brother’s loud frustrations from outside, all his cursing and insults. Not even the elderly patriarch of the family could get Marcus to calm down. Although Lisa had never felt much of a connection to her niece, Amelia, something about Will pulled at her heart. Maybe it was because he resembled his grandmother.
Lisa now had to make Will’s grandmother proud. Kneeling next to the coffee table, she opened the book to the passage marked with a red ribbon. The yellowed pages were thin, the outer margins nearly transparent from decades of oily fingers riffling through them. Although the text was not in the Latin alphabet, or any language that still had fluent speakers, the symbols made sense to Lisa.
Accompanying the alternately jagged and swirling characters were countless illustrations, each drawn with excruciating detail and rich color. Some images seemed to depict plants, though they didn’t resemble any known flora or fauna. Others were intricate, abstract designs, often weaving through the lines of script. Still more pictures showed humanoid figures with exaggeratedly long limbs, extra facial features, or extremities that connected to larger plant-like effigies. The drawings had always mesmerized Lisa, as she knew they held ancient, mystic power.
Grotesque visages and unnatural limbs occupied the upper half of the page that Lisa needed. The lower portion featured a tower of red and blue rings. Flanking either side of the pillar were three strings of tiny symbols.
Lisa read the six lines in her head. A few words were unfamiliar to her, so she tried to sound them out. There was no way to confirm her pronunciation. Her mother had advised her time and time again about the gravity of articulating the incantations with accuracy. The unearthly, conniving beings that fulfilled spells always took advantage of ignorance. The High Court could sort out some mishaps, but much like the mortal courts, one couldn’t rely on them for justice. But Lisa had confidence in her abilities on this night. She closed her eyes and chanted the words aloud. With each repetition her speech strengthened, starting as a murmur and growing into a boisterous, passionate song.
Howls From Hell Page 18