by Brewin
“Richo, we have to go that way anyway,” John answered him.
“Well John, why can’t we see anyone else here?” Kev said. “We must have missed a turn.”
“Look, how about John goes up ahead to see where this path leads and whether it joins back up. The rest of us will wait for him here,” suggested Nathan.
“Nah fuck this, I’m not waiting,” said Kev. “I’m gunna head back the way we came. This is bullshit!”
“Kev, I’ll only be a few minutes and you know we’re not supposed to split the group,” John said. “Just wait here, will ya?”
Kev sighed and rolled his eyes. “Alright then. Be quick.”
John threw off his pack and started jogging down the track, disappearing into the forest soon after...
It began to rain.
The five of them sat in sombre huddles among sodden puddles. Steady rain fell, dripping off the limp skin of trees and soaking through their raincoats and into their bones. They called out for John a few times, but had no reply.
“How long’s John been?” said Richo, his teeth chattering. “I’m freezing!”
“At least twenty minutes,” said Mouldy.
“Maybe I should go up ahead and see where he is. He might have hurt himself,” suggested Nathan.
“He might have found that thing,” said Richo.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Shit Nathan, we might as well all go,” said Kev.
The others agreed: no one wanted to be left alone.
Lightning flashed nearby them, sending strobes across the gloomy sky. The rain got harder, driven by wailing gusts.
They set off down the slippery path in pursuit of John. Weaving through bracken, boulders and the leering branches of Manna Gums, they reached a grassy clearing after a few hundred metres. It disappeared into a thick, churning fog ahead.
Kev stopped to look back at the others, raising his voice over the wind and rain, “Can anyone see a path here?”
“Nup. But that fog’s weird!” said Richo.
Nathan called out for John again: a forlorn hope.
Spaz wandered away to a discrete tree. Despite cold, unresponsive fingers, he managed to open the front of his pants and began to relieve himself.
Something stumbled through the bushes behind him, incoming.
Spaz pissed on his leg as he craned back over his shoulder...
And saw John standing there smiling.
Spaz relaxed. “John! You scared the shit out of me!”
“Wanna see something really mad?”
Spaz finished and turned to face John. “Like what?”
“C’arn, I’ll show ya.” John tugged Spaz’s raincoat sleeve.
Spaz hesitated. “We better tell the others you’re here. They’re still looking for you.”
“Naaah, they’ll be alright. This’ll only take a moment. Don’t worry, it’ll be worth it. It’s mad!”
“Oh, ok then,” Spaz said and followed John into the churning mist...
Spaz felt like he’d stepped into a dream. His head spun trying to comprehend the sudden darkness, the heavy sound of chanting, the burning torches, the fornicating bodies...
A great crowd of people danced naked and bleeding with hundreds of hulking, hairy, dog-faced creatures, groaning, screaming and growling in a sadistic orgy of blood. Central to them was a figure in purple bloodstained robes upon a blackened pedestal, chanting.
One of the towering beasts turned to fix its red demonic gaze on Spaz and licked its lips.
“See, I told you it was mad! Haha!” John said.
WEDNESDAY 5:05 PM
“Honey, I’m home!”
Brian called from the open doorway of his house. His new accomplice Jason waited outside in the driveway, sweating in the driver’s seat of his silver Valiant Charger.
After escaping Howqua Hills Police Station in Jason’s car, the pair of them went to get loved ones, but neither Brian’s partner Sasha nor his ex-wife Julie that his two children lived with, were home. Jason’s parents weren’t home either, leaving Brian and Jason alone to face the world. Struggling to contain the panic enveloping them, fellow victims became comrades in times of turmoil. With everything that mattered in their lives at stake, they had no choice but to fight.
They checked into a motel to examine the police files they grabbed as they escaped. The files on the Weston killings pointed to the involvement of Henry Wilcox: a twenty-three year-old man from Melbourne with a history of psychiatric illness. His mother reported him missing two days ago and his abandoned Torana was found yesterday at Frank Weston’s house on the outskirts of Howqua Hills. Brian phoned the office of forensic pathologist Dr David Dawson, but there was no answer, and when he called Henry’s parents’ house, he got Henry’s former psychiatrist, Dr Bernard Russell, instead. Desperate to make sense of events, Brian organised to meet him in Melbourne that night, hoping to find David too.
Back in the present, there was no reply, or any signs of activity inside his home. Brian stepped into the hallway of the house...
As a groan issued from behind the closed door of the master bedroom to his immediate right.
Brian pivoted to face the sound. “Sasha?”
Another groan came in answer.
Don’t think. Just be ready to do what you may have to do.
Brian reached for the doorhandle with one hand and drew his pistol with the other...
“Is that you, Brian?”
Brian quickly holstered his pistol. “Yes it’s me, Sasha.” He opened the door.
Sasha was sitting up in bed next to the phone, her long brown hair tumbling down the front of her faded pink T-shirt. A filthy fetor lingered...
The familiar fetor of foul demon-spawn.
She smiled. “It’s so nice to see you!”
“Is everything ok, Sasha?”
“Yes, everything’s fine! I was really tired from work today, so I was just having a lie-down for a bit.”
Brian glanced around the corners of the room. He turned back to her. “So everything’s fine?”
“Yes! That’s what I just said, honey! Why, are you surprised?”
Still that smell...
“Um, yeah maybe. Has anyone called?”
Sasha shook her head. “Not a soul... Look, I know you’ve been really busy and stressed with work–”
“Yeah I–”
“And I’m sorry I haven’t been nicer to you lately and more understanding.”
Brian raised his eyebrows. “Well, thanks!”
“You’re having such a tough time at the moment with everything, the last thing you need is someone nagging you about what’s going on and what you’re doing, when even you don’t know!”
Brian laughed. “You do understand!”
“Of course, honey! I love you!”
A moment’s hesitation. “I love you too, babe.”
She reached forward and embraced him. He felt the warmth of her body against his cold skin, the soothing aroma of her perfume, the softness of her breath.
Hang on. Isn’t this all a bit too easy?
“You’re not mad at me anymore, then?”
“No honey,” she murmured.
“That’s good.” Brian gave her another squeeze and stepped back. He looked her in the eyes. “But why the sudden change?”
She returned his gaze. “I haven’t changed.”
Outside, the sky darkened as grey clouds rolled in on stormy gusts to cover the setting sun.
Brian looked over at the dressing-table nearby. He turned back to her. “Sasha. I’m going to do something which is going to seem a bit strange, but trust me on this one, okay.”
Sasha wrinkled her brow. “What are you going to do?”
Brian stepped over to the dressing-table and opened the main drawer. He pulled out a pin from the sewing kit there and turned to face her. “Just need to test something. It won’t hurt.”
“Brian, what the hell are you on?”
Brian moved
towards her, pin in hand.
Sasha leapt from the bed towards the door.
Brian lunged across the bed and grabbed her right wrist. “I’m sorry, Sasha. But I have to do this.”
Brian held onto her wrist as he pricked her finger.
“For fuck’s sake, Brian! What’s wrong with you?”
Please God, let it not be her too.
A bubble of blood began to form on her fingertip... Purple.
Unmistakeably purple.
Still holding her wrist with one hand, he drew his pistol with the other, his hands shaking.
It has to be done.
“BRIAN! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
“What has to be done. I’m–”
Sasha swiped the phone from the bedside table and twisted past Brian’s aimed pistol. The gun went off as she smashed the phone on his head as hard as she could.
Brian slumped on the bed, releasing his grip on Sasha. She tried to wrestle the pistol from him, but he quickly recovered and pulled back.
She staggered to her feet, facing him, incredulous. Her right arm hung limp and bleeding from a gaping bullet wound in her shoulder, drenching her shirt. “You just tried to kill me.”
Tears welled in his eyes as he raised the gun again, but she was quicker, bolting out the door.
“HELP! HELP! SOMEBODY HEEELP!”
Sasha ran out of the front door and into Jason coming the other way. “My God, you’ve been shot!” he exclaimed as he grabbed her.
Sasha turned and pointed with her good arm at Brian advancing behind her, pistol in his hand.
“HE’S TRYING TO KILL ME! HE’S FUCKING CRAZY!”
“She’s one of them, Jason! Look at the colour of her blood!”
Across the street, a mother desperately dragged her curious children inside. Other households called the police.
Jason shielded Sasha from Brian’s aim. “What? Her blood’s not purple!”
Brian saw the perplexed looks on their faces and the worried faces of his neighbours peering through windows... He’d made a terrible mistake.
Sasha’s blood wasn’t purple after all. He’d just tried to murder his own girlfriend. Publicly.
Brian dropped his gun and sank to his knees in anguish, sobbing into his hands.
I can’t take this anymore.
Now Jason had his gun, the one Brian had given him, out but lowered. He stood between Sasha and Brian. “Thanks for rescuing me, but I ain’t staying around for this shit. And besides,” Jason looked at Sasha trying to stop the blood flowing from her wound, “I think I better get this lady to hospital.”
Brian didn’t look up. “Yeah, ok.”
Sasha and Jason said something to each other that Brian didn’t hear. Then Brian felt Sasha spit on his face.
“I never want to see or hear from you again unless it’s to put you in jail, you fucking psycho!”
Brian didn’t move. “Fair enough.”
“I’ll be getting all my stuff tonight or tomorrow, and I’d better not have to see your face when I do.”
“I was heading down to Melbourne tonight anyway.”
“Try telling your police buddies that.”
WEDNESDAY 6:13 PM
The darkness within whispered.
Then the darkness had eyes: piercing red orbs. Then a sleek wolfish head, lips curled into a macabre grin. Finally a hulking, upright body with arms ending in claws like fistfuls of rusty knifes.
The demonic beast stepped from the deep shadows of the suburban backyard, silent, graceful. As dusk became darkness, it gazed upon the red-brick house before it. Lights were on and through open curtains it saw an elderly couple eating dinner.
It paused to sniff the air and then bounded towards the backdoor.
Herbert and Marilyn Derwent sat at a polished oak dining table in their comfortable house in suburban Watsonia, quietly enjoying a lamb roast. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata played in the background, providing a gentle backdrop to the soft clatter of silver cutlery.
“So when did Brian say he was getting here?” Herbert asked.
Marilyn finished her mouthful before answering, “He said it’d be late if at all and for us not to stay up for him. He knows where the keys are, I s’pose.”
Herbert nodded. “Yes, he’ll be fine.”
They continued eating. Outside, wind began to slowly build, drowning the sounds of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata.
Marilyn paused. “I don’t think he’s coping well with the stress of his work though. I’m a bit worried about him actually. He was very terse on the phone when he–”
Suddenly there was a loud knocking, three times, on the backdoor.
Marilyn’s arms dropped. “What is that?”
Herbert peered at the hallway door, from beyond which the sound came. “I better go see.”
Herbert dusted his mouth with a cloth serviette and rose from the table. With Marilyn following, he went into the darkened hallway that led to the bedrooms, bathroom and laundry. He stopped at the door to the laundry and flicked the switch on.
An empty basket rested atop a dormant washing machine next to a water trough, bucket and mop. On the other side of the room were two doors: one for the toilet, the other the backdoor where they had heard the noise. Both doors were closed. The narrow windows either side of the backdoor showed signs of neglect but little of the dark outside. The only noise was the wind, wailing miserably.
Herbert turned to Marilyn and shrugged. “Guess it’s nothing.”
She frowned. “We both heard something.”
He shrugged again. “Probably just the wind.”
Outside, the wind dropped low enough to hear the clang of a metal rubbish bin.
“Maybe it’s something trying to get into bins?” Herbert said.
“Well, maybe you should take a look.”
Herbert picked up the mop next to him and stepped towards the backdoor. Marilyn stood in the hallway as he turned the outside light on...
Light spilled over a concrete back porch strewn with rubbish blowing in the wind from an overturned metal bin. Beyond, the tops of trees could be seen, swaying against the cloudy moonlit sky.
“Ohhh, the bin’s been knocked over!” Herbert said. “There’s rubbish everywhere! I better go clean it up.”
He unlocked the backdoor and stepped out into the night. Marilyn watched him for a moment from the hallway and then called out, “I’ll get you a pan and broom.”
Still holding the mop, Herbert looked around for signs of any intruder. Seeing none, he stepped back inside to replace the mop. He then returned outside to clean the mess, leaving the backdoor open.
He had picked most of it up by hand before Marilyn returned. She handed him the pan and broom. “Here.”
Herbert began sweeping the remaining rubbish into the pan as Marilyn stood watching.
“Any idea what knocked the bin over?” she said.
Herbert finished quickly and looked up at Marilyn. “Nope.”
Marilyn rubbed her exposed forearms and crinkled her nose. “Anyway, it’s cold out here and that rubbish smells, so I’m going back inside.”
Herbert followed her back into the hallway.
Marilyn stopped to ask him, “Did you lock the backdoor?”
“Of course!” He smiled and put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry love, we’re quite safe.”
Marilyn walked into the dining room. “We really should think about getting an alarm system, y’know,” she said as she sat back down at the table.
Herbert joined her at the table. “Oh, let’s not go through this again. I already told you I’m not going to live in a fortress. This isn’t bloody America!”
“Please don’t swear, Herbert,” Marilyn said before digging into her meal.
“Sorry, Marilyn.” Herbert pointed his fork at her. “But we are not getting an alarm system.”
Suddenly, Marilyn’s eyes widened in terror. A shaking hand across her mouth, she could only point at the doorway behind him...<
br />
“What’s the matter, love?” Herbert asked as he turned around to where she was pointing.
Behind him loomed a hideous canine abomination. Two-and-a-half metres high, jet-black and hairy, its fanged snout agape, its terrible claws poised to rend. The stench of it smothered them like a pillow.
“Oh my God,” was all Herbert managed to say before it grabbed his head, its palm pressed against his face. Then it lifted him from his seat.
Herbert flailed helplessly at the air, emitting muffled moans of agony, as the beast held his head in a vice grip that threatened to crush his skull.
Marilyn sat paralysed with incomprehension, saliva dribbling from her gibbering mouth. Herbert’s scalp split with the pressure, dripping rivulets of blood down the beast’s hairy arm.
It lingered in the moment, indulging itself in the sweet scent of suffering. It curled its lips to snarl at the drooling female whilst dangling the helpless male before it, slowly flexing its grip on the male’s head, savouring the taste of terror...
Marilyn finally found her voice again, “Please God. Save us.”
“Mooortal praaayers to a mooortal God,” it answered.
Marilyn screamed as long slimy black tendrils emerged from the claw that held her husband. Prehensile, they snaked their way from its palm down Herbert’s shaking body, reaching his ankles in a few sickening seconds.
Transfixed, she watched as Herbert’s now still body was sucked into an opening that appeared in its palm. It laughed at the horrifying sound of Herbert’s body becoming pulp as it was drawn into the unearthly orifice.
And then before the quivering female could quiver any further, she joined him in endless darkness...
WEDNESDAY 8:11 PM
Minions of the dark gathered.
Around sullen campfires and under steady drizzle, the staff and students of Oberon Grammar huddled, the boys and girls separated by a safe distance of a couple of hundred metres or more. By now, even the stragglers had arrived. Soaked, hungry and tired, efforts were directed towards pitching tents and cooking, then eating and sleep. Across the river, Fry’s hut could be seen, silhouetted against a murky sky, empty save for the rats known to reside there.