Blood of Hope

by Wood, Rick

  Douglas reached the centre of the courtyard and stopped.

  He could see Martin in the distance, looking confused. Looking lost, hopeless, wanting to intervene, torn as to why he couldn’t.

  Douglas closed his eyes.

  “Dear Lord, please save my soul,” Douglas whispered.

  The beast’s contorted, expressionless mouth manifested into a cocky grin. Its muscular, enormous torso, ravaged with bloody hair, loomed sinisterly over its prey.

  “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

  From the distant path into the church, Martin crept forward, raising his hands in preparation to attack.

  Douglas vehemently shook his head, willing Martin to stay back.

  “For you are with me.”

  Douglas imagined himself kissing his hand and making a cross on his chest.

  “Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

  He smiled.

  “You prepare a table for me in the presence of thy enemies, you anoint my head with oil, my cup overflows.”

  Douglas lifted his head up to the demon, staring into the eyes of masochistic abyss.

  “Surely goodness of mercy /shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  Douglas’ eyes narrowed.

  “Give me your best, you piece of shit.”

  The demon swiped its claw across Douglas’ neck. His head flew across the wind, and splattered against the far wall.

  The last thing Douglas heard was Martin’s scream.

  “No!”

  25

  Martin sprinted at a pace he never knew he had, his feet treading heavily against the stone floor, echoing around the hollow church. He leapt through the crumbling brick that had been the wall of the holy church and burst toward the beast.

  As he manoeuvred his hands in circles, he scrutinised the beast’s malevolent eyes. Such ferocity encapsulated in two circles of red. Martin had to do all he could not to be scared.

  He threw his hands forward, exuding flames powered by pure anger.

  The beast set alight.

  But it did nothing.

  It stood still, an ominous grin circling its fangs. The flames from Martin’s spell flew off its coarse skin, rising into sparks of amber.

  The beast relished the flames like a gift.

  The heir rose its claws, turning Martin’s fire into flickering flames of its own. The blazes travelled along its body and to its paws until it was nurturing two hectically organised fireballs, each twice the size of Martin.

  Martin ran in the direction of Douglas’ headless body, swallowing a mouthful of sick as he passed his mentor’s remains.

  Flames sprung from the heir’s claws and thrashed against the steps, Martin narrowly escaping the blaze that brushed his heels. Douglas’ body turned to black ash, and the rest of the courtyard became engulfed in a humungous, beating fire.

  In a moment of quick thinking, Martin conjured a circle of wind and used it to propel him into the air, away from the flames licking his feet.

  He landed upon a side of the church roof, nestling himself into a high window ledge.

  The heir turned its snarling eyes to Martin, who glared back, taking cover. The heir leapt onto the side of the building, spearing its claws into the walls, dragging itself up. It only took three stretches of its arms to be within swiping distance of Martin.

  Martin’s legs seized, his knees thrashing against one another. The ground below him was small, too far away for a safe landing. Even if he could safely jump, the ground was manically ablaze.

  The heir grew closer and swept its arm toward Martin. He narrowly ducked the deathly blow, and decided he had no choice.

  Martin jumped to his peril, but aimed his hands for the side of the beast. He grappled hold of a large bone on its sharp spine, clinging on with everything he had. The heir retaliated by letting go of the building, falling into the pit of flames.

  Martin had to think quickly. He twisted his arms around to form a ball of water, lunging the vast puddle below him so that, when he landed, it could act as protection from the flames. He flung his arms out to his side, spraying the water into every direction until he had reduced the fire to a few remaining flickers.

  Before Martin had any time to get cocky at his successful landing, the beast swiped again toward him, catching the boy and sending him flailing against the far wall of the courtyard, onto which he landed face first, attempting to use his hand to support himself.

  Martin dropped to the floor, groaning in pain. His ribs were consequently in agony, and the fingers on his right hand couldn’t move properly.

  It hurt. But an injury was nothing compared to the death he would face if he did not stop fighting.

  The beast marched toward him, reaching out its arms and exhibiting its intimidating claws.

  Martin twisted beneath the heir’s legs and ran back inside the church. Pushed forward by a gust of wind from a swipe of the heir’s claws, Martin shook at the chaotic sound of plummeting stone. The dust from the rubble turned to a mist in the air, forcing Martin into a coughing fit.

  He dove behind the altar, scrunching himself into a tiny ball, hoping he would be too small to be found.

  That’s when he saw it.

  A few yards across from him.

  A trapdoor. Some kind of secret passage behind the chancel, beside the sacristy.

  If he could only get to it unnoticed.

  The wary snarls echoed behind him. The tapping of elongated nails and the thudding of the hooves made it clear the beast was searching Martin out.

  Martin could feel it sniffing. The air of its vast nostrils fanned the back of his neck

  Surely it would sense him.

  This was the heir of hell.

  The heir of hell.

  He shook his head.

  I was a fucking idiot to think I could take on the heir of hell.

  No time to think of that now.

  Come on, Martin.

  Need to get to the trapdoor.

  Douglas. He’s dead… He’s dead…

  Grieve later. Run now.

  Douglas…

  He peered around the altar, watching the beast twisting its head. Its deep breathing filled the church walls with a cold, echoing gust.

  A sudden stabbing pain fired through Martin’s chest.

  He grabbed his wrist with his usable hand. Something was hurting. He was in pain. Too much to bear.

  He couldn’t fight.

  He needed to get to that trapdoor.

  He peered around the other side of the altar, glancing at the rear of the resting creature. He lifted his hand out, pointing at the far pew.

  If I could just cause a distraction…

  He focussed his mind.

  Listened.

  The breathing of the beast brushed against the walls of the church. But once Martin focussed, it wasn’t the only sound he could hear.

  The distant laughter of children. The faint breeze travelling through the air. The cold against his teeth, the dust in his lungs, the ash in his hands.

  The pew flew across the church, smashing against the far wall, giving Martin a momentary distraction that might just give him the respite he needed.

  The creature shot its head in the direction of the sound.

  Martin flung himself forward, peeling toward the grate and diving into the pit.

  He landed flat out on his back, the hard stone floor slamming against his bones, and he had to stifle a pained moan.

  This was what he was up against?

  This was the thing he was supposed to beat?

  Are they fricking kidding?

  He pushed himself against the far wall, ensuring he was out of view if the heir chose to look through the trapdoor. The only light came from the above grate, meaning he could consume himself in darkness against the shadow of the wall.

  He stayed there until he heard nothing.

  Until t
he small amount of light faded.

  Eventually, the deep breathing left. The dark, sinister presence faded from his bones.

  He could feel it. He was alone.

  In too much pain to stand.

  His hand deformed, his back in agony, his ribs in furious, torturous pain.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to concentrate on something else.

  Focussing on quietening his mind, like Douglas had taught him.

  Douglas.

  Oh God, Douglas.

  Blood seeped through his fingers.

  Eventually, he passed out.

  Dear Martin,

  Hope you are feeling better than you described in your last letter. I was disappointed to find that your relationship with Father Douglas was growing strained, but it may just be a matter of crossed wires.

  Douglas is a brilliant man. He has done amazing things for the field of the paranormal, training many an exorcist and many a psychic.

  He is the kind of man who can take someone with erratic powers and help them harness it.

  Unfortunately, I have never had the pleasure of meeting him in person, but hopefully I will be able to soon. I have still corresponded with him over the years, seeking advice when I have needed it.

  He has always known the right thing to say.

  Even though what he has had to say may not have been a pleasant thing for me to listen to.

  Whatever he is telling you, saying, making you do – it will be for a reason. This is a man who thinks carefully through the purpose of everything he does.

  Listen to him.

  Learn from him.

  In time, he will grow to respect you and you will grow to respect him.

  Hopefully, by the time this letter reaches you, your relationship will have grown and you will find him to be as good a mentor and as good a teacher as you could hope him to be.

  Sending you good thoughts on this journey.

  All the very best,

  Derek

  26

  Ash consumed the air like a poisonous gas. Vacant onlookers gathered at the church’s lower steps; the commotion, the thrashing, and the flames had attracted quite the attention.

  Martin didn’t care. They could stare all they wanted.

  They’ll all be dead soon, anyway.

  As he lifted his t-shirt over his nose and mouth, shielding his lungs from the wet smoke hovering in the atmosphere, Martin peered through the grate of the trapdoor. He lifted it up, climbed out of the pit, and lunged himself onto the stone floor; an action that left him seething in pain. He lifted his top up and flinched at the sight of a large, dark-grey bruise spread along the right side of his ribs. He tried touching the wound with his hand and recoiled with pain.

  There was a deafening ringing in his ears he couldn’t escape. His brain pounded against his skull, and a lump on his forehead throbbed at every pulse.

  His nose flinched and his skin felt tight, dried blood cementing it in place. His jaw hurt to move, his back ached, and shooting stabs of pain fired up and down his leg.

  Once more, he dragged himself to his feet, using the altar as leverage. A whimper escaped his lips. His muscles wobbled, convulsing with throbs of anguish.

  Come on you fucker. If you can conjure a fireball, you can withstand a bit of pain.

  In truth, it was far more than just a bit of pain.

  But the one thing he had learnt at school, the one lesson he paid attention to in GCSE Psychology – was that the words you use affect your mind-set and influence your unconscious. Perhaps, if he played down how much agony he was in, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

  Well, whoever had come up with that stupid theory was wrong.

  It still hurt.

  Taking longer than he wished, but going as fast as he could, he dragged himself into the debris of the courtyard.

  The sunny blue sky had vanished. Grey clouds lingered overhead and drips of rain fell, sinking through cracks in the ground.

  A few steps and his muscles gave way again, forcing him to collapse into a heap.

  The courtyard looked like it had been launched into a ball of fire, then drenched with a rapid tsunami.

  Wet ash stuck to the stone surfaces. Black, burnt scars stuck to the ancient, cracked walls with stubborn displeasure. Part of the wall had been smashed to a dusty rubble of rock. A pile of stones collected upon the ground beneath the side of the wall the beast had launched itself upon.

  There was no sign of Father Douglas’ body.

  Of course, there wouldn’t be. He had been burnt to pieces.

  The ash that hovered in the wind, dancing around in black flakes, consuming the air with the lingering destruction of the fire – that was Douglas. That was all that remained of him.

  That was, until Martin looked behind him. Something was rammed into a burnt-out hole in the wall of the church.

  Something shaped like a head.

  But the face had been reduced to grey, tinged flesh. The parts of the visage that had not so long ago been prominent features of an old priest’s face were now charred peelings of faded skin and skull.

  A circle of hair surrounded Douglas’ bald spot, stubbornly clinging to blackened skin. Occasional red marks interrupted the black-and-grey scar tissue that had formed around the skull.

  An unrecognisable mess remained in place of a face.

  The man who’d taught Martin to calm his mind, to conjure the elements. The man who had found a way to access the troubled mind of a manically conflicted teenage boy. The man who had such a profound influence that Martin had actually begun to believe in himself, believe that he was something, that he could actually make a difference in this stupid, ridiculous war.

  This was all that remained.

  None of the warm, wise heart that Martin had only just gotten to know. None of the knowing eyes or proud smile. Just a distorted chunk of charred flesh.

  Martin collapsed into a heap on the floor, curling up into a ball, and bawled like a child.

  It was fine. No one was around to see it.

  If his mates back at school saw him now, they would laugh. Laugh at his pathetic tears.

  But they weren’t his mates.

  They had never been his mates.

  He had no mates, no family, nothing.

  And the only man who had begun to change this had played his part and was gone.

  Martin launched an angry fist into the stones, smashing his knuckles and peeling back dead skin. It hurt, but he didn’t care. The pain helped.

  He punched again, relishing the beautiful agony.

  He lifted his head to the heavens and screamed.

  Why do you sit by and watch us wage this war for you?

  Martin collapsed onto his back, staring up at the darkened sky that dripped solemn raindrops upon his suffering face. The rain grew faster and, before Martin knew it, he was pummelled with a bombardment of bullet drops of water.

  It pounded his face.

  But he liked it.

  His mother had always loved the rain.

  He had always loved the rain.

  As he allowed his mind to wander, his thoughts led to the image of the ghastly beast he had fought.

  “Fucking hell…” he muttered.

  That used to be Edward King.

  That used to be a man.

  A great man.

  That was what he was meant to be training to fight?

  That’s what the world was sending him up against?

  Tears flooded once more, mixing with the rain water into nothing.

  He was the frontrunner for a war that could never be won.

  “We know that we are from God, and the whole world lies in the power of the evil one.”

  1 John 5:19

  27

  8 October 1989

  Ten years, three months before millennium night

  No more being battered or bruised. No more listening to the echoes of dismay beating through the bedroom walls. No more inexplicable marks prompting faked concerned looks from t
eachers.

  Today was a new start.

  Everything Eddie owned was in a sports bag. A few clothes, a book, and a picture of Cassy.

  That was it. Sixteen years on this earth and these were his accumulated possessions.

  Jenny’s warm smile greeted him as he crossed the threshold into her parents’ house. Her happiness to see him move in helped slightly to ease his nerves.

  But only slightly.

  His stomach still churned, twisting into knots, uncomfortably tingling.

  “Hey.” Jenny put her arms around Eddie and hugged him. “So glad you’re here.”

  “Eddie!”

  Before Eddie could say another word, Jenny’s mum appeared behind her and engulfed him in a large, affectionate hug.

  “We are so glad you are here,” she greeted.

  Jenny’s dad appeared in the far doorway, nodding a welcoming nod at Eddie, who returned the gesture.

  “Thank you so much for letting me stay here,” Eddie gratefully spoke.

  “Oh, speak nothing of it.” Jenny’s mum waved her arms in defiant dismissal. “I have watched you grow since you were a little boy, and become such good friends with Jenny, it’s already like you’re my own.”

  “Still,” Eddie offered. “They’d have put me in a foster home otherwise. God knows where I’d have ended up. It’s really nice of you.”

  “Come here, you silly pudding.” Jenny’s mum embraced him once more.

  “I’ll show you to where you’re staying,” Jenny suggested.

  Jenny’s mum finally let Eddie go. She placed a strong hand on his shoulder and nodded in silent understanding.

  Jenny led Eddie up the stairs into what used to be the guest bedroom. The bed was perfectly made, the duvet tucked in at the sides and fancy, thick, floral pillows perched against the headboard. The wardrobe smelled like fresh wood cleaner, the carpet immaculate, and the curtains a comforting shade of blue.