Dawn of the Demontide

by William Hussey

  A face appeared at the window. Mr Grype squinted. Almost amusing, Esther thought, that a Seer should have such bad eyesight. He ushered her in.

  ‘Step in, step in, quickly now.’ Grype glanced over her shoulder into the dark stretch of Yaga Passage. ‘There are things living in this street I do not trust.’

  ‘Your neighbours have always been somewhat strange,’ Mother Inglethorpe admitted.

  ‘Visitors from the borderland,’ Grype sneered. ‘Mangey half-breeds. Still, a witch need not necessarily fear them, as long as she has her magic about her.’

  Esther sniffed. Her fingers went to her breast and sought out the place in which Miss Creekley, her demon, nestled. Reassured, she followed Grype into the shop.

  The air was musty with the smell of old paper. In every corner, upon every surface, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, books had been stacked and balanced and wedged until it appeared that the shop itself was constructed from old, leather-bound volumes. Mother Inglethorpe scanned a few of the titles: A Practical Guide to Raising Demons; The Devil’s Black Book—a Directory of the Damned; Hair, Skin and Fingernails—Their Use in Transformation Spells; Pyromancy—the Art of Reading the Future in Flames (partly singed).

  The only feature of the room, besides the creaking bookcases, was a big old fireplace. A few coals glowed in the grate, giving the room what little light and warmth it possessed. A dusty, ugly-looking bird perching upon the mantelpiece watched Mother Inglethorpe as she crossed the room. This was Mr Hegarty, Grype’s familiar. It was a low-caste demon, its magic limited to the gift of Second Sight. In keeping with the bizarre humour of such creatures, it had managed to tear out its own eyes.

  ‘Tell that hideous thing to stop watching me.’

  Grype stroked the demon-bird’s neck, ignoring the black beetles that fell from its plumage.

  ‘Be nice to Mr Hegarty. He is a great favourite of Master Crowden’s, and you need all the goodwill you can get after tonight’s mess … Well, we better not keep him waiting. Follow me.’

  ‘I know the way. You stay here and dust your books, librarian.’

  Esther knew how much Grype hated that word. Librarian. It reflected his lowly position within the Coven. With his powers more or less limited to that of Second Sight, he had been given the job of cataloguing the Master’s vast collection of supernatural tomes.

  The witch left her enemy seething by the fire and went to Grype’s small back office. This room was as crowded as the main shop, every surface cluttered with books. Mother Inglethorpe paused before a curtained doorway. The sign above the door:

  THE MANAGEMENT—Entry strictly forbidden

  The curtain fluttered. A breeze sighed out of the doorway and clutched Mother Inglethorpe around the throat. Summoning her courage, she stepped forward. The curtain flapped behind her and she left the world of the living and entered the Veil.

  Her soul—what was left of it—quaked. It always did when she came here.

  The Veil was not dark, and yet she struggled to see. It was not cold, and yet the atmosphere froze her to the marrow. Over the centuries mankind had given this place many names: the Passing Gate, the River Styx, the River of Three Crossings, Limbo, some even mistakenly thought that it was Hell. But Hell was filled with the hideous and the tormented—this was a realm of nothingness. It was the place through which the dead passed on their journey into the afterlife. As such, it was never supposed to be a home to anyone.

  All the same, the black magician Marcus Crowden had made it his home.

  ‘Mother Inglethorpe, welcome.’

  Crowden came from out of the shadows, his strange cabinet floating behind him. The man—if he could still be called a man—was tall and broad. He wore the costume of a seventeeth century gentleman: a three-quarter length cloak, plain shirt and waistcoat. Buckles adorned his wide-brimmed hat and bucket boots. The hat sat low upon his brow and a dirty piece of cloth had been wound around the lower half of his face, so that only his eyes could be seen, hard and glinting.

  Esther had been a witch for over forty years and had encountered many monstrous things. Even so, nothing chilled her quite as much as being in the presence of Master Crowden, the immortal leader of their Coven. From his own time of the 1600s to the present day, Crowden had straddled the centuries, never aging, never dying. That was powerful magic indeed. And yet Esther wondered—had the toll of those long years been scored upon his face? Is that why he kept it hidden?

  She bowed. ‘Please, what has happened to Tobias Quilp?’

  ‘Tobias has been captured,’ Crowden said. His voice was soft, almost musical. ‘Both he and his demon are locked away in the vaults of the Institute.’

  Esther stifled a sob. ‘We must save him.’

  ‘Pointless. We could not hope to take on the Elders within their own fortress. We must forget about Quilp, he is lost to us now.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You naysay me, madam?’

  Like a prowling lion, Crowden circled his favourite witch.

  Esther could feel his rancid breath upon her skin.

  ‘It gives me no joy to tell you that your beloved is lost, yet it is so, and must be faced. And unfortunately his sacrifice appears to have achieved little. Claire Harker is dead but the weapon remains a secret.’

  ‘She would not give it up?’

  ‘From what I can gather, Quilp murdered her only after he was convinced that she would never betray the Elders.’

  ‘Stupid woman.’

  ‘Do not confuse stupidity and bravery, such ignorance does not become a member of my coven. We must now focus our efforts upon gathering all the information we can regarding this weapon. And from now on we must be discreet. Your clumsy attempts tonight have put the Elders on their guard. I do not believe they will launch an attack, but we have to be careful. Six months from now the Demontide will be at hand. It has been thwarted for over three hundred years—every generation of Elders has prevented it—but this time we shall prevail. The Door will be opened and demonkind will be set free. Imagine it, Mother Inglethorpe! Thousands of demons roaming the Earth, and all of them at my command!’

  Esther’s thin blood stirred at her master’s words.

  ‘And your part in our victory will be vital,’ Crowden continued. ‘I want you to watch Dr Harker, seek out clues as to the Elders’ weapon. In the end, if your surveillance proves fruitless, we can always try your trick one last time.’

  ‘Torture the boy.’ Esther smiled.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘How did you first hear of the device, Master Crowden?’ Esther asked.

  ‘A little bird told of it. A spy from the Hobarron roost. And that was all that was told: the whisper of a weapon.’

  ‘Who is the spy?’

  ‘Ah, now that is my secret … One other thing that may interest you: Quilp managed one last act of cruelty before the Elders took him.’

  Crowden waved a hand through the air. In the swirl of cloud that issued from his fingers, Esther could make out the form of a young man. Tattered clothes hung from his stocky frame. He looked frightened, his eyes darting in every direction. His hands had been bound together and there was a scarlet-stained bandage around his neck.

  ‘His name is Simon Lydgate,’ Crowden said. ‘A friend of Jacob Harker. I had him picked up after I received the news of Quilp’s failure. Mr Pinch had left the boy in a rather desperate state. It’s remarkable he survived.’

  ‘Why not kill him?’

  ‘Bloodthirsty as always, my dear. But no, I think young Master Lydgate may prove useful to us. For the time being I will leave him in Grype’s care. And now as to your punishment … ’

  A shiver ran the length of Mother Inglethorpe’s body. When Crowden had offered her the task of watching the Harkers, she had thought her failed plan had been forgiven. She ought to have known better. Forbidden knowledge and new spells awaited those that had served Crowden well. Witches that fell short of his expectations were not so lucky.

  The Coven Master made
a gesture with his forefinger and his black cabinet swept forward. Constructed entirely of wood, it was exactly like any stage magician’s cabinet, except in one respect. This box was alive. The witches of the Coven had often wondered why their master did not appear to have a familiar of his own. Some speculated that, due to his vast experience of witchcraft, he had dispensed with the need for demonic power. Mother Inglethorpe had heard of such witches. In the old days, it was said that they could work spells through the natural magic of the world around them. The magic of the earth, of trees and streams, of the wind and the sea. Esther dismissed these tales as silly nonsense. Even Marcus Crowden needed his demon if he was to work magic.

  A demon that took the shape of a wooden box filled with nightmares.

  ‘Your punishment, madam. You must step inside my cabinet.’

  ‘Please, Master, I am sorry … ’

  ‘No tears. Ten minutes in the box is all that I demand. Are you still my faithful servant?’

  The door of the cabinet creaked open.

  ‘Always,’ she murmured.

  Mother Inglethorpe stepped into the box.

  The door slammed shut.

  A moment later, the screams began.

  Six Months Later

  Chapter 6

  Something Nasty in the Boathouse

  Jake and Claire Harker stood before the canal tunnel.

  Somewhere in the darkness a killer lurked.

  ‘Come on, Jake,’ Claire grinned, quickening her pace, ‘let’s get home. Your dad won’t be too much longer and then we can eat. What would you like for tea?’

  ‘Mum, wait … ’

  It didn’t feel right—the brightly-lit canal, the chuckling water, the cheeriness of his mother. The whole scene was wrong. Jake held back, stared into the tunnel.

  ‘Don’t go in there.’

  His mum laughed and marched on.

  ‘NO!’

  ‘Jake? Are you in there? Are you OK?’

  The nightmare dissolved into the bathroom mirror. Jake’s reflection stared back at him. Another flashback. They were becoming rarer, as his therapist told him they would, but they still had the power to terrify him. He ran a basin of icy water and splashed his face. Still shivering, he opened the bathroom door.

  Rachel stood outside. She looked at Jake for a moment and then dragged him into an embrace.

  ‘I heard you were here,’ she said. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  Jake could only nod.

  Downstairs, the Institute Summer Ball roared on. Glasses chinked, music played, and jokes were batted between friends. There had been an awkward lull when Adam Harker arrived with his son, but as soon as Jake slipped away the party atmosphere returned. The problem was that none of them had seen him since Claire’s death. A death so sudden and terrible that they did not know how to console him. Only Rachel had bothered to seek him out.

  ‘Fancy grabbing some fresh air?’ she asked.

  Jake followed her through the corridors of Green Gables, Dr Holmwood’s huge manor house. By trying a dozen winding routes they found the back stairs and the door to the gardens. Once outside, Jake breathed a little easier.

  ‘Bit much?’ Rachel said, nodding towards the house.

  ‘Yeah. Bit much.’

  They walked on in silence. The grass crunched beneath their feet and the scent of jasmine hung heavy upon the night air. A hundred species of rose grew in the neatly tended beds that bordered the pathways. Sleepless insects droned around their heads. When they reached the riverbank, the sun was just dipping over the horizon, its last rays touching the water and dyeing it the colour of blood.

  ‘We missed you at school,’ Rachel said.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Sure. There’s that kid in the year below you get on with. The one into zombies and stuff. And then there’s Miss Bowles from biology, she asked after you. Even Killjoy Kilfoy misses you. Told me the other day that he hasn’t read a decent horror story since you … ’ Rachel took his hand. ‘I’ve missed you, Jake.’

  Was that pity in her voice? Jake didn’t want her pity. But if she’d genuinely missed him …

  ‘Where have you been?’

  The question was bound to be asked by someone, sometime. Jake had thought he wouldn’t be able to answer it. Now he found the truth rushing out of him in a flood.

  ‘After Mum died—after she was killed—my dad took six months off work. We travelled a lot; saw some amazing things—the pyramids, Niagara Falls, the ancient city of Petra. We stayed in the poshest hotels. Dr Holmwood paid for it all. It was … very nice of him. Everywhere we stayed, Dr Holmwood arranged for someone to see me, you know? Check that I was doing OK. I’m fine though.’ Jake stole a glance at Rachel. ‘Really, they said I’m fine now. I’m not mental or anything.’

  Rachel squeezed Jake’s hand.

  ‘When we came home, I could’ve gone back to school but…’

  ‘You weren’t ready.’

  ‘Dr Holmwood paid for private tuition. I’m behind, but I’ll catch up. Probably have to take my GCSEs next year, though.’

  ‘They were a nightmare!’ Rachel said, rolling her eyes. ‘But a brainbox like you shouldn’t have any trouble.’

  ‘The only thing I’m really behind with is biology. My mum used to help me out—she was a biologist before she switched to engineering. She used to…’ A sob hitched in his throat. ‘She … ’

  ‘It’s all right, Jake. Let it out. You’ve been so brave … ’

  Jake’s anger flared in an instant. He tore his hand from Rachel’s.

  ‘Brave?’ he snarled. ‘You think I’m brave? Are you some kind of idiot?’

  Anger burned through his body. It spread out from his heart and engulfed his mind. All at once the world around him seemed to fade and he could hear a faint voice whisper deep within: Welcome to your prison, Coven Master …

  ‘Jake? Can you hear me? Are you all right?’

  The vision fell away. He saw Rachel, confused and hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just, I wasn’t brave, Rachel. My mum and Simon were murdered right before my eyes, and I did nothing to save them.’

  ‘The paper said it was a lunatic. He could’ve killed you too, Jake. He tried. I heard you’d been hurt.’

  Jake pulled up his trouser leg. An ugly purple scar ran around his calf.

  ‘My God, it looks like an animal bite.’

  ‘I guess that’s exactly what he was,’ Jake said bitterly. ‘An animal.’

  ‘Do you remember much about him? What he looked like?’

  ‘No. The police went on at me for days but the psychiatrists said I must have shut it out. They even tried to hypnotize me. Didn’t work. But sometimes I still see bits of what happened. The bridge, my mum, somebody waiting in the dark. And something else … It’s crazy, Rachel. Sometimes I see a monkey.’

  ‘A monkey?’

  ‘Or something like a monkey, clambering out of the tree. You know that big old oak by the canal? The one they used as a gallows years ago? They called it Demon’s Dance … Demons … ’

  ‘Jake?’

  ‘The memory of that night, Rachel—somehow it’s not real.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The bits I do remember—my mum asking me what I wanted for tea, even the moonlight on the water—it’s as if it’s a story I read in a book.’

  ‘I guess it must seem like that. A dream, a nightmare.’

  ‘No. I know my mother and Simon died. I know they killed them. But I also know that it was worse, so much worse than I remember it.’

  ‘They? You think there were two of them?’

  ‘A man,’ Jake nodded, ‘and something else. Something that came down out of the tree.’

  The river burbled and grew darker as the sun slipped behind the trees. From the wood came the first stirrings of night creatures. Rachel took Jake’s face in her hands and gazed into his eyes. The river, the forest, and the world fell away from Jake until all that was
left was the angelic face before him. His heart throbbed, a deep and joyful beat.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ she whispered. ‘I think you’re heartbroken. I think you’re picking up the pieces of your life. It’s hard, it hurts, it’s taking a long time, and I think you need a friend to help you.’

  She kissed him gently on the brow. With her touch, he felt the fire again in his veins, only this time it wasn’t the flame of rage.

  Rachel pulled away and the feeling was lost.

  ‘Call me,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I will … Are we going back to the house?’

  ‘It’s peaceful here. A good place to think; you should stay. We’ll talk later.’

  Jake watched until Rachel disappeared among the trees.

  He took her advice and stayed by the riverbank for a while, thinking over the last six months.

  After the murder, a passerby had found him in the woods that bordered the canal. An ambulance was called and he was taken to hospital. He had been unconscious and, at that time, it was not clear what had happened to his mother. When Jake woke up, and started screaming about a crazed killer, the murder hunt swung into action. Within a few hours, his mum’s body had been found downstream of the canal tunnel. Despite the police not being able to trace Simon Lydgate, Jake continued to insist that his best friend had died trying to save him. He was interviewed many times in the weeks that followed but his memories of what had happened remained vague.

  Weeks turned into months and no clue as to the identity of the killer could be found. Adam had taken time off work and father and son spent every moment together. Jake had always been close to his dad, and now the loss of his mum strengthened that bond. They had shared everything in these last months: their memories of Claire, their plans for the future …

  Raised voices drew Jake out of his memories.

  ‘What you’re suggesting is evil, Saxby. Pure evil.’

  It was his dad—there was an ugliness in his voice that Jake had never heard before.

  ‘We’ve tried your way, Harker, and it hasn’t worked. This is the only thing we can do now,’ Rachel’s father said, equally enraged.