The Box of Demons

by Daniel Whelan

  He kept trying to open his eyes, each time with increasing difficulty. He felt his breathing begin to slow, and the pain in his joints that he had felt for so many days began to ebb away. It dawned on him that this was the end of the Great Leporine Kingdom, but he did not feel as sad or as ashamed as he should. He felt free.

  It had begun to rain again. He heard it, and saw it, but hardly felt it at all. He did, however, feel something land gently on his nose. His eyes opened, and he saw a flash of black before him. It was the butterfly, and it lay still. It seemed so unimportant now. He exhaled. He closed his eyes. He slept for the final time.

  Chapter Five

  The Tide Turns

  Ben remembered the car journey clearly: his grandfather, silent as usual; his grandmother constantly turning round to check if he was OK. He also remembered pulling up to the house, and getting out of the car, but after that it was all a jumbled mess. Policemen; trails of loose earth; the open gate; the plants and vegetables strewn around the garden; the graffiti.

  Druss.

  The image of Druss was the hardest to shake. If he closed his eyes, and tried to escape the horrors of the day, a picture of Druss would snap into his brain, and it would set him crying again.

  He retreated to his room, sat on his bed, and did not move for a long time. A tray of tea and toast lay on the floor untouched. His grandmother would check in on him periodically. He felt deeply helpless, numb with sadness and anger and the unfairness of it all, and the Box did not like it. It became rough, like sandpaper, and tried to smooth out his feelings with abrasive music. He yanked it out of his satchel and hurled it across the room. It made a loud clanging noise as it hit the radiator, then landed the right way up. It always did.

  Ben’s grandmother called up the stairs to see if he was all right. He managed to summon up a ‘yes’ from somewhere within himself, although the word grappled with his throat on the way out, and he did not recognize his own voice.

  The lid of the Box squeaked open. It was a timid, toe-in-the-water sort of sound, and one by one the demons spilt out.

  ‘Go away,’ said Ben, quietly. It was easier now, his voice less alien to him. The demons said nothing. They just stood – or hovered – around him. Kartofel fidgeted, uncomfortable with silence.

  ‘We have to talk,’ said Orff. He looked less stooped than usual. His voice was reasonable, less indulgent.

  ‘No,’ said Ben. Speaking was easier still.

  ‘Your mother saw us, Ben. No one has ever seen us before. Don’t you think we should discuss it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’m scared, Ben,’ said Djinn.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Tch,’ said Kartofel, ‘I told you we should have waited. He only cares about the bunny carking it. Don’t matter that everything went weird all of a sudden.’

  Ben laughed. ‘When has anything ever been normal?’

  ‘It’s not our fault you’re a weirdo with no friends who gets bullied by Year Eight girls.’

  ‘Year Seven,’ corrected Djinn.

  ‘Look, just shut up, all of you,’ said Ben. ‘We don’t need to talk. Leave me alone.’

  Amid the shouting, his grandmother’s voice floated up the stairs. ‘Ben, will you come down for some tea? You should try and eat if you can.’

  ‘Maybe it’s Welsh Rarebit,’ said Kartofel.

  ‘Arrgh!’ shouted Ben. He was hot with anger, his cheeks crimson. He got up off the bed, and marched towards Kartofel, his fist raised.

  ‘And what you gonna do with that?’ smirked Kartofel. ‘Reckon you can punch fire, do you?’

  Ben let out a frustrated howl. He punched out at the air above Kartofel, prompting the demon to cackle. Enraged, Ben took a step forward with his left leg, brought his right back, and punted Kartofel into the radiator. The resulting clang was even louder than the one the Box made.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK up there, Ben?’ his grandmother called again. ‘Do you want me to come up?’

  ‘Just leave me alone, Gran,’ shouted Ben, ‘God!’ He stomped over to where the Box lay, thrust it into his satchel, and stormed out of the room.

  ‘What you doing, Ben?’ Djinn called after him as he ran down the stairs and out of the front door. ‘W-w-where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going for a bike ride,’ he shouted. He pulled his old yellow Raleigh Chopper – a hand-me-down from his mother – out of the garage, and set off into the darkness. By the time he reached the end of Fford Heulwen he could look over his shoulder and see a stream of colour flowing into his still-unbuckled satchel: a rainbow of blue gas, crimson flame, and yellowy skin.

  He cycled towards the East Parade, to where Tynewydd Road met Marine Parade; it was a quieter stretch of promenade, somewhere he was less likely to be disturbed. There was a small viewing area there, a stone semicircular turret that looked out to sea. He skidded the bike to a halt, abandoned it next to a litter bin, and headed down a short winding path. He fished the Box out of his bag, and dumped the satchel. The demons burst out, and Ben carried on to the slippery green sea defences.

  He felt ill looking out over the tempestuous waters, a mixture of his own terror and the torturous sounds the Box was making.

  ‘This really isn’t good for my kinetosis,’ called Orff from the path behind. The roar of the waves made it hard for sound to travel, and so Ben had to turn round to hear. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

  ‘Is he going to jump in?’ asked Djinn.

  Ben laughed. ‘I’m throwing the Box in. Let the sea decide where you go. I don’t care any more.’

  ‘Why’s he doing that?’ said Djinn worriedly. ‘How will we get home?’

  ‘He doesn’t want us to get home, idiot,’ said Kartofel. ‘He’s casting us out to sea.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Ben!’ shouted Djinn. ‘I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll never ask to go to the chippy again.’

  ‘He won’t do it,’ said Kartofel nonchalantly. ‘It’s a bluff. It’s always a bluff.’

  Ben stretched his arm over the sea. Djinn wisped behind Orff, his gassy bulk shivering.

  ‘Do it then,’ said Kartofel. ‘It’ll hurt you more than it hurts us.’

  ‘I can live with it,’ said Ben.

  ‘You’ll get nosebleeds,’ said Orff.

  ‘I’ll heal.’

  ‘What if you don’t?’

  ‘I don’t care.’ He raised the Box high above his head. The waves crashed against the rocks, stretching out their arms, begging to take the Box from him. The wind whipped water at him from all directions, sea spray splattering what the rain could not. The music of the Box mirrored the sea, turbulently stabbing from one octave to another, a rolling, seasick variation on its default theme. With a huge grunt of effort, Ben cast it down into the water.

  ‘No!’ said Djinn, dashing forward. In his panic he overshot the water’s edge, and found himself hovering above the sea for a moment. He looked down, gasped, and then zipped back to almost-dry land, breathing heavily.

  Orff groaned. ‘This does not agree with me. Not at all. I feel queasy already.’

  The Box bobbed on the surface for a while, playfully tossed about by the grateful sea. A great wave surged over it, shoving it back towards them before receding, taking the Box a little further from the shore.

  The pain started in Ben’s stomach: an uncomfortable constipated gnawing at his innards that made him feel hungry and full at the same time. He knew that he needed to get off the rocks and back to the path before it became too much and he was unable to move. He stumbled on to the tarmac, managing not to slip on the rocks as he clambered over them, and fell to his knees when he reached safety.

  At the top of the path, a dog began to bark; a slushy, sibilant sound somehow both high- and low-pitched. Ben was on all fours now, at Orff’s feet. Kartofel scuttled up to him.

  ‘I told you so,’ he said.

  The barking continued, becoming more insistent. Ben looked up tow
ards the viewing area, and saw a small, round, canine head pop over the top of the battlements and disappear.

  Orff’s legs became a blur. The stretching was beginning. The barking grew louder, and as Ben looked back up to the path he could see that a short, tubby man was hurrying down it. He felt a rush of air as Orff passed under him. Streaks of colour whooshed by as Djinn then Kartofel followed.

  The man – who was dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit and suede loafers – was almost upon him. The strange canine sounds were now all around, and as Ben reached out a hand he noticed the first drops of blood fall from his nose.

  It was only as the man passed him that Ben realized that the source of the dog noises and the man in the suit were one and the same. It was not a man at all, but rather some kind of scarred dog-creature. It tore past him, out on to the defences, and then leaped from the rocks into the sea. Ben writhed in agony. Blood streamed from his nose, and his gut felt like it was burning. Although it was getting fainter, the Box was producing the hardest, nastiest sounds it could, as if it were struggling to hang on.

  The Creature was swimming out to sea at speed. It seemed futile: the distance was surely insurmountable for such a wretched, pathetic thing. Undaunted, it launched itself forward with great strength, kicking and splashing its way towards the bobbing Box with a ferocious doggy paddle. It drew level, then lunged for it.

  Ben heard a squealing in his head. The Box did not like being handled by the Creature, and it appeared the feeling was mutual – the Creature yowled in pain as it touched it, and the water around them began to bubble, as if the sea was being brought to the boil.

  With great difficulty, the Creature tucked the Box under its arm, and began battling back to the shore. Its progress was hindered by the turning tide, but the Creature was tenacious and powerful, and it cut through the turbulent sea as if it were a paddling pool. Ben felt better with every stroke, and as the Creature drew closer the nosebleeds stopped, and the sharp stomach pain eased to a dull ache.

  The Creature climbed back on to the rocks, and shook itself dry. It was a hideous thing, unmistakably canine, although it was so disfigured it was impossible to say which breed. One of its eyes was too big for its socket, and it bulged, bloodshot, out of its head. The other was swollen shut in a permanent black eye. It had no lower jaw, and so its thick, lolloping tongue lashed around beneath its upper incisors according to the whims of the wind. It was a rotting-pumpkin excuse for a head, and it was attached to the business-suited body by means of four exposed vertebrae.

  The Creature threw the Box down at Ben’s feet, and began to scratch at its paws. Its hands were smoking, and Ben could smell barbecue. All along the Creature’s side was charred: burned fabric was fused to bleeding flesh. It gave a slobbery, gargling growl of pain, as if a snake had suddenly decided to try barking. It staggered closer and closer to Ben, who tried to crawl away backwards, but like a horror-film mummy, it kept coming.

  ‘NEVER. AGAIN.’ Words were clearly difficult for it, and they came out ill-formed. All Ben could do was nod frantically.

  ‘UNDERSSSSTAND?’ It tilted its head to one side, and perked up its right ear.

  Ben nodded.

  ‘SSSSAY. IT. THEN.’

  ‘I do. I understand. Never again. I won’t try to throw it away again.’

  ‘GOOD. NECKSTIME. YOU. DEATH.’ It moved on to all fours. ‘WHEEL. BEE. WATCHING.’

  Ben watched it race back up the bank, using its unburned legs to propel itself. Its injuries didn’t seem to affect its speed at all: it was off up the path and out of sight in no time.

  Alone, Ben dragged himself over to the Box, and put his left hand on to the lid. Slowly he began to feel better: his injuries healed, as if they had never happened in the first place. He took the Box in one hand, got to his feet, and headed back up the curving path, stopping only to collect his satchel before cycling away.

  At home, he did not receive the expected reprimand for running off, or for coming home soaking wet. There were no questions about where he had been, or what he had been doing. Instead, his grandmother tried to pamper him. She ran him a hot bath, and made him cheese on toast. Before he went to bed, she gave him a hug, and told him how much they all loved him, his mother included. And then, when he was in bed, she brought him warm milk and honey to help him sleep.

  He woke with a start. His eyes snapped open and he took a snatched, gasping breath. It was still dark, and his alarm clock read 4.48 a.m.

  He never woke up in the night. Never.

  Something was wrong.

  He lay there in the dead quiet, too scared to move, eyes wide open, breathing heavily.

  The dead quiet.

  The Box was not singing. The fear seeped away, replaced by a sense of wonder. This peace, he thought, is this how everyone else hears the world? If it is, then how is anyone ever unhappy?

  He tumbled out of bed, scrabbling around for the Box. He put his hand on it, and it didn’t make a sound. Anticipation building inside him, he took it out and tried to open it. He could not. It was shut tight, and no amount of prising could budge it. He shook it hard, putting it to his ear to listen for signs of afterlife, but he could hear nothing. The Box was dead. It was just a box.

  He hardly dared imagine a new life without the demons. Excited, he rose from the floor to turn on the light.

  ‘Are you enjoying it, Ben Robson?’ whispered a voice. ‘The silence?’

  Ben spun round, a little too quickly for his still-sleepy arms and legs, and promptly fell face down on the carpet. He turned his head to look up at the source of the voice, and as he did, the far corner of the room began to emit an orange glow. A figure emerged from the darkness. He was taller than anyone Ben had ever seen, and wore a long dark robe the same colour as the night. The light streamed from him, and as he moved closer Ben could see him more clearly: his arms, his face, and finally, his wings.

  Standing in front of him, in his little bedroom in North Wales, was an angel.

  Chapter Six

  Thus Spake The Seraph

  It had never occurred to Ben that angels might actually exist, which seemed unbelievably stupid now that he had one standing in front of him. It stood to reason that if there were demons, then there would be angels too; maybe if his mum hadn’t been the way she was, he would have come to that conclusion sooner. Instead, he was only getting used to the idea now that the one in his room was at its most radiant.

  In silhouette, the figure had appeared to be the classic statue-on-the-side-of-a-building sort of angel. He wore a sleeveless cassock, tied at the waist by a long tasselled cord. Huge feathered wings sprouted from his shoulders and a halo of light encircled his head, like a saint on a stained-glass window. But as the orange light grew warmer and brighter, filling in and defining each feature, it became clear how different he was. This angel was the colour of perfect darkness: were it not for the orange glow, Ben would not have been able to see him at all.

  ‘It is pleasant to finally meet you, Ben Robson,’ said the angel.

  ‘How are you doing that? Making it go all quiet?’

  ‘Alas, it is only temporary. My time here is short, and we have much to discuss.’ His voice was quiet and breathy, with a warm tone quite at odds with the cold remoteness of his eyes: he had white pupils and red irises set in tar-black eyeballs. They bored into Ben in the most unsettling way, as if he were being weighed and judged. ‘I am the Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts, First Oblate of the Cult of the Four Winds, Celestial Lord of the Skies.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘Right.’

  ‘I am also your Guardian Angel.’ The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts gave a slight bow, followed by a long pause. He shot Ben a quizzical look, almost affronted.

  ‘Um . . .OK?’ said Ben.

  ‘Forgive me. I am accustomed to a little more awe when interacting with the children of Men.’

  ‘I’ve had a bit of a strange day. What do you want?’

  The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts open
ed his mouth as if to reply quickly, before promptly closing it again. ‘I have come to ask for your help in the name of the Prime One,’ he said after a moment. ‘The fate of the Creation is in your hands, Ben Robson.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ben.

  ‘You attempted to dispose of the Box today, did you not?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you were prevented by a demon, were you not?’

  ‘It was a sort of a dog creature,’ said Ben. ‘Why are you talking like that?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Like we’re in a courtroom drama or something.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said the angel, with a stretched smile. ‘It has been generations since I was able to enter into discourse with one of your kind. I am disinclined to learn the latest colloquialisms.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means the Veil which separates the Worlds is shifting, and the Creation is in flux. My kind believe The Adversary means to take advantage of this perilous state to steal back the powers stripped from him after the Grand War.’

  ‘I meant what does “colloquialisms” mean, but that’s nice to know as well.’

  ‘I see.’ The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts shook out his wings, and sat down beside Ben on the bed. ‘Henceforth I shall endeavour to speak as plainly as angelically possible. You are familiar with the story of the war in Heaven? It is well known on Earth?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It was eternities ago.’ The angel suddenly appeared distant, sorrowful even; he stared straight ahead. ‘The Adversary led an uprising of the infernal against us, and we, the Prime One’s chosen, smote them with His wrath. We did not smite them enough.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘We showed mercy. As punishment for their blasphemies, the worst of their powers were stripped from them and sealed in a prison here on Earth, safe on the other side of the Veil. Until now.’

  ‘Why? What’s so special about now?’

  ‘Fluctuations in the Veil are rare. It has been nearly seventy years since it was last safe for angels and demons even to attempt to traverse it.’