The light continued to grow, taking over the room radiating searing warmth. The thrumming that Truman had heard since the needle went in grew louder until in manifested into vibrations that he could feel shaking the ground beneath him and the wall behind his head.
The rumbling became a scraping, followed by a clunk as stone met heavy stone. The colours began to return, rushing towards him as if pushed by a freight train, until suddenly his vision was clearer than before. The bright white light was still there and becoming brighter, absorbing all of the darkness from the cell and breathing it in. Truman turned his head, relieved he was able to move again.
Was he dead? Or was this the out-of-body experience that so many talked about, that came with the final rays of light?
It can’t be, he decided as he moved his arm freely finding it did not leave behind the image of his limp, dead body underneath. He looked to the floor and found the source of the heavy thud that had woken him. Four feet away from his bed lay one of the stone blocks that made up the impenetrable wall of his cell. He looked towards the wall itself and saw a perfect aperture through which the light was burning through – not sunlight from the outside world but from the white light that he had already experienced before. The thud came again as another brick fell. Truman watched the wall torn away as if made of paper. The third stone flew towards them with a flash and Stamford disappeared from Truman’s gaze, catapulted across to the opposite side where he lay slumped on the floor, his dazed limp body propped against the wall.
The stone had struck Stamford square in the chest, winding him and cracking his upper ribs. Truman remained on the bed, powerless to move, staring towards him, trying to make sense of what had happened – what was still happening around him. A faint moan escaped the doctor’s lips, but there was no movement to suggest he was conscious.
Truman averted his gaze and fixated on the wall behind him. Brick by brick it was dismantling itself. The rest of the structure was falling outwards forming an unkempt pile of rubble. The light continued to glare brighter and brighter and Truman was forced to bring his hands up to shield his eyes. The heat was as unbearable as the brightness itself.
His hands…he could move them both up to his face with no effort. The shackles had fallen from his arms and even the cuff that belonged to the broken chain was gone – they had disappeared from sight.
‘Ewan…Ewan…’ the light sang, soothing him. Truman responded to his old name without trepidation. He looked up, straining his eyes, as a shadow drew closer to him from out of the white. He knew that voice and at that moment he knew that there was a chance for him. The light around the shadow faded enough for him to take in all of the heavenly features he hoped he would see.
‘Evelyn,’ he rasped his throat dry. The heat and the poison had drained all moisture from him.
Evelyn appeared at the bedside, as present in the room as Stamford had been – no longer an illusion. Truman sat up on the cot, his legs hanging, his feet rested on the floor. There was no strength left his limbs. It did not matter though. At that moment he was safe.
‘Ewan, we must leave,’ she said, ‘We must get away from here. They’re coming.’
‘Who?’
‘There’s no time.’ The urgency was clear. She wanted to tell him everything but now was neither the time nor place. It was too dangerous for them both. ‘We must go,’ she reached for his hand.
‘I must see them.’
‘No, Ewan! You can’t. If they see you, I will lose you forever. There’s too many of them.’
His hand flinched. Her touch was cold. Not an unpleasant cold, a welcome one, a relief from the searing heat coming from the light that Evelyn brought with her. Evelyn calmly reached out and touched his hand again. This time he did not recoil or hesitate. He took her hand and rose to his feet. Although he knew his body was weak, it was not an effort supporting his own weight again. How long had it been? Days, weeks, months? He dare not speculate. As he stood, she led him away from the bed towards the now absent wall and into the bright light.
Truman paused looking back at the figure that lay against the wall. Stamford had started to stir. Truman stared at him wanting to know who he was, what he had done and why any of this was happening. He knew that he would not get the answers he craved – needed – from that man. Stamford looked back at him, his face more gaunt and tired than before.
‘Ewan!’ Evelyn tried to break Truman from his daze. ‘We have to go, they’re too close…’
‘I can’t leave him,’
‘You must! There’s nothing you can do for him. He belongs to Them.’
As she spoke, Truman glanced over her shoulder and saw Them. They started as spots, tiny black holes breaking through the walls of the white room that built itself around him. Then they grew. They grew outwards, upwards. They came together forming larger pools of nothingness. Just as he had witnessed before they began to grow and morph into beings of their own.
Unlike his vision, they were not hazy or made up of black smoke or shadows. They were foreign beings. Completely black, they appeared as solid entities with arms, legs, torsos and heads.
There were no faces.
The only feature that made the bulbous shape on top of their shoulders appear head-like were a set of burning red eyes. Truman stared unable to do anything more. He could not move. He barely even felt himself breathing. They continued to grow but in that instant he realised that they were not just growing; they were drawing closer, from a distance beyond the white light, being drawn towards it. Hundreds of sets of beastly red eyes shone towards him, never shifting and drawing nearer.
‘We have to go!’ Evelyn cried once more, above the thrumming that still pulsated through Truman. He thought it was the energy in the light that made the sound, like a million fireflies beating their wings in unison, but now it sounded like something more.
Something much worse.
Voices.
Hundreds of voices, speaking in another tongue, not of this world; chanting without lips. He listened for a few more seconds, trying to tune in to them and hear what they were saying. With the voices he began to react to energies running through his body again. The energy was telling him to move, to take Evelyn’s hand and get as far away from the beings as possible. To stay would result in certain death. Not just the kind he had already witnessed but extinction; a failure to exist on any level in this world. He had never believed in a life after death but something had awoken in him.
He looked towards Evelyn whose eyes were pleading for him to take her hand and move with her once more. He took one more step and they headed towards the light. Stamford had just enough strength to push himself away from the cold stone wall. He fell towards Truman just as he was walking away. Then the light consumed Truman and the woman who had come for him.
Stamford lay alone on the floor of the cell now. As he pushed up on his arms to put himself in a sitting position, he looked around. Hundreds of red eyes looked back at him as the room became nothing more than a blanket of dark.
Stamford rested against the wall - the stone structure the only thing keeping his body upright as he gulped in fresh air, wanting to feel alive again. He had welcomed the light as soon as the cell door had burst open saving him from the darkness.
And those eyes. They had appeared to burn, trying to penetrate his mind, to tear away his skin. But he had been saved. That was all that mattered right now. He knew he could rely on Grayson. All of these years, the man had served him, protected him, and never judged. Now he had saved him from those things that wanted to devour his soul. The front courtyard of St. Dymphna’s Research Facility situated in the most barren corner of Wildermoor at River’s Peake, which had been his home for over twenty years, never looked so beautiful. Spring was on its way and soon it would be awash with bright colours and new promise.
He closed his eyes for a moment, his mind struggling to shut out the images and sounds of those moments he was alone in that room.
Those voices.
‘Come…with…ussssss.’
Stamford’s eyes popped open as the door creaked loudly, startling him, making his heart feel as though it had stopped dead. The sound had chased away the shadows and their voices. At the sight of Grayson’s hulking form, shining like a beacon in the doorway, Stamford found the strength to jump to his feet despite his damaged ribs and run towards him. Whimpering, he was carried outside.
‘How are you feeling now, sir?’ The deep voice settled him instantly. ‘Here, take this,’ he handed Stamford a steaming polystyrene cup of coffee, fresh from the vending machine in the lobby. No-one besides Stamford had occupied the facility for years but he had insisted on keeping the coffee machine there.
‘Thank you.’
Grayson noticed the doctor was badly hurt and shaken up. He had no idea what had happened in the room and was afraid to ask. He was also concerned by Stamford’s reaction when he enquired what had happened to his patient, the man they had taken from his temporary surgery room in Shepherd’s Beach, the one that Stamford had obsessed over since he brought him back to the facility, and had devoted his life to since then.
It was as if he had just vanished. And whatever had happened must have been bad. It was the first time Stamford had refused to answer any of Grayson’s questions or allay his concerns.
They stood in silence. Grayson watched Stamford take a few tentative sips of coffee, struggling to control the cup to his mouth for his shaking hands.
‘So what happens now, boss?’ Stamford stared across the horizon. Besides the imposing building behind them this side of Wildermoor was a vast nothingness. There were no prying residents, or lawmen had to watch out for or answer to.
Stamford knew his time was running out. He had failed, and whenever the images returned of Truman Darke/Ewan Childs walking away, disappearing into the burning light, clinically dead moments earlier, his insides dropped feeling as though they were detaching themselves from their warm casing and accepting the fate that awaited him. He had lost the one that held the key to the Council’s sacred plan.
‘It’s over, Grayson. For me, at least.’
The big man stared silently in disbelief at his employer. This man – the doctor – had displayed a passion so deep for his work that Grayson wondered if he had ever considered there was a life beyond it. Now virtually overnight, something had happened to make him give up.
Grayson hadn’t noticed the black shape that appeared far on the horizon across Wildermoor hastily drawing closer. He watched Stamford as he stared coldly out across the plains - a man in the throes of submission.
Stamford finished his coffee with a loud gulp and without shifting his eyes, offered the empty cup back to Grayson.
‘Please be a dear and take the rubbish inside and dispose of it. You know how I hate litter. Nothing should spoil this place.’
Grayson took the cup and begrudgingly walked back through the lobby. Stamford knew that he had to walk to the very back of the building to find the only waste paper bin in the whole facility. He would be gone a while.
The doctor stood up straight, despite the pain from his chest causing him to wince, and raised his head high. Within moments, the black Mercedes turned into the gravel driveway leading to the courtyards. The driver, dressed head-to-toe in black, complete with black sunglasses, stepped out and opened the rear passenger door nearest to Stamford. Without a word exchanged between the two, just a nod on each part, Stamford stepped into the back seat of the car as the door closed brusquely behind him. Stamford exchanged a greeting with the man beside him. A stylish gentleman in a black suit, crisp white shirt and slick black hair looked vacantly towards him in a silent welcome.
‘Your failure has caused great concern,’ the man said coldly as Stamford sank into the warm yet soulless, leather seat. ‘Your time is up, Mason.’
By the time Grayson returned to the courtyard, Stamford and the Mercedes were nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The sunlight sneaking in through the curtains was the only thing to wake Ewan, as he wrestled his eyes open turning onto his left side, he reached an arm out around Evelyn’s body. Both were naked with only a thin sheet to protect them from the chill. He pulled her close, nuzzling against the back of her neck and kissed her. Both lay in silence.
It had been the same practice for three days. When Evelyn had saved him from the facility that night and led him into her light she had asked him where he wanted to go.
‘Home,’ was his simple response. She knew that he did not mean his lonely one-bedroom flat in Bethesda Street. Home was Tewkes’ Range. He remembered being appalled at the decrepit state the place had been left in. The later generations of the Childs’ family not caring to maintain the majesty it once had. But those times were distant memories to Ewan; it felt as if he had never left the place.
That night, when he was led through the decaying front door, Ewan had collapsed and remained locked in a coma for two weeks. This time, the unconsciousness brought no images from the past or any pain. His body repaired itself steadily as he slept.
When he finally awoke, the house was alive again. The walls freshly painted, windows replaced and a new timber veranda erected at the rear of the building, adjoining the exit from the kitchen. The sight it provided was breathtaking – an unspoilt view across Wildermoor taking in the vast plains as they rolled to the bordering forests. The range’s land lay void of crops but Ewan decided he would change that. He and Evelyn finally had the home that he had longed for.
That night at the facility was still a blur, as was the life he left behind in that room. He was home, in body and spirit, and that was all that mattered. Evelyn had done her best to fill Ewan in on the events that had brought them back together, but she had been instructed to spoon-feed him information as he regained his strength. He deserved to know everything, but his mind was still recovering. It would all be too much.
His body healed nicely. The bathing light that Evelyn had brought forth had evaporated the poison that had shut his body down and allowed Ewan to leave with her that night. The rest was up to him. He had to build his mental strength before she could lead him any further down the rabbit hole.
However, this day everything felt different. They had woken and lain together in silence. The silence lasting for one hour then two. Then a third, until the morning had passed with no words. They had spent the time in each other’s arms. Ewan thankful for each minute that he had with Evelyn, but trying not to admit something was wrong. Something was hanging over the both of them, something he could not explain.
‘You’ve still not told me why you came back for me,’ Ewan said cautiously as they both sat on the bank. He cradled her from behind in a reverse bear hug. He had asked the question many times but she had always changed the subject. That day something felt different. Evelyn knew that she could not avoid it forever. She continued to gaze out across Wildermoor, admiring the beautiful scarred surface that proved the moor had fought against everything nature had thrown at her. Ewan craned his neck to see her face, to check that she was still with him.
‘An end is coming,’ she said still staring ahead, ‘the likes of which have never been witnessed.’
Her soft voice contrasted the words it released. An air of finality lingered for a few moments as Ewan tried to make sense of it.
‘An end to what?’
‘This…’ she replied sweeping her head in an arc to signify the land before them. Ewan followed her action, but failed to follow what she was saying.
‘
This? You mean Wildermoor?’
‘It starts here.’
Ewan tightened his grip around Evelyn’s waist, worried that she was suffering from a fever, which was affecting her thoughts.
‘I don’t understand,’ It was the truth if not an understatement. She was definitely making him feel uneasy and he had no idea what to do.
Evelyn finally turned her head to the side and their eyes locked. Tears were starting to well, giving her piercing blue eyes a depth that concerned him. If he stared into them for too long, he himself would be lost. There was something happening – something big – that she was keeping from him and struggling to tell him.
‘The Council – the same who were in the caves the night that I was there when they took my father’s life - that very evil still hangs over this place. It is nearing the time that it will claim this land for its own. They still reside here in Wildermoor. They have remained hidden for over three hundred years lying in wait for Him to return.’
Her voice was starting to tremble as she spoke, having the same effect on Ewan’s hands. He felt such an overwhelming fear, and willed it to stop. But it was no use. He wanted to believe that her ramblings were just that, but something in her eyes told him otherwise.
‘And now He has, they are readying their troops. As must we.’
‘We? Evelyn, what are you saying? You’re making no sense. Who is we? And what is this end? You’re tired, we both are. Too much has happened in the last couple of weeks for either of us to -‘
‘Don’t you get it?’ She snapped cutting him off, breaking free from his warm grip, finding her feet. ‘In a matter of months – maybe even weeks – none of this will exist!’
‘I am trying to understand, Evelyn, I really am! But I barely know who I am anymore, where I am, if any of this is even real. Now you’re talking as if the world is going to end and there’s no hope for…I don’t know, all of this is just a little hard to take in right now.’
Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) Page 18