Witnesses

by Anthony Watson

  “Because we’re all sheep? Need guidance?”

  “Except you, of course. You don’t need anyone telling you how to lead your life, what to believe in?”

  “I—”

  “Worked well for you has it, Dave?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Dark smiled. “I’m sorry, Dave, there was no need for that. What matters a lifetime of underachievement after today? We are the two most important men in the world right now, you and me.”

  Dave rolled his eyes and sighed.

  “What colour’s my aura, Dave?”

  “What?”

  “My aura? You know, the colours you see around people? What colour’s mine?”

  There was a more aggressive tone to Dark’s words now, Dave could sense. “You don’t have one.”

  “No, I don’t. Why would that be, do you think? Actually, why do you think you can see them in the first place? What’s so special about you? What’s your scientific explanation for that one?”

  The interior of the church suddenly felt very cold to Dave. “What do you know about them?”

  Dark smiled again, the tension that had so suddenly appeared dissipating. “It’s your gift, Dave, or one of them. We both have them. I can’t see the auras, but I know you can. You’ve not always had the ability, but just recently it’s been getting stronger and stronger. To look at someone and know exactly how they’re feeling before you even speak to them? You worked it out, I know you did. Can’t you see that that means you’re… different? Of course you are, and now you know why. No, I don’t have an aura – just like you - and now you know why that is too.” Dark stared into Dave’s eyes, his gaze intense, piercing. “Accept it, Dave. Embrace the truth of what you are.”

  Dave got to his feet, his mind in turmoil. That part of him that had responded to Dark’s words earlier, his wild tales of Armageddon and sacrifice, stirred within him again. It’s true! It screamed but still he fought to reject the idea. He slipped me something, I’ve been drugged… No way this is for real, this is the twenty-first century… The greatest trick…

  “No!” he screamed and stormed down the aisle towards the door of the church.

  “Yes!” Dark shouted in reply, getting to his feet and following Dave through the church. “What about the black auras, Dave? What about Gary Wallace? What about Mickey?”

  Dave stopped in his tracks at the mention of his friend’s name. Memories flooded back, memories which the events prior to him discovering his friend’s body had pushed to the back of his mind. He felt anger welling inside him. Slowly he turned to face Dark. “You leave him out of this, you bastard. Don’t you fucking dare…” He lunged at the other man, arms outstretched to grab him. Dark stood his ground, allowing Dave to crash into him, momentum tumbling both of them over onto the floor.

  Dark held his arms up to his face to ward off the wild punches Dave threw at him. After a few seconds, he pushed him away, almost nonchalantly but with surprising force. Dave flew backwards, landing heavily on the stone floor. Dark scrambled quickly to his feet and strode across to Dave’s prone figure, looming over him.

  “He’s dead, Dave, and you knew he was going to die. You saw the black aura.” Dark saw the glimmer of recognition in Dave’s eyes. “Just like Gary Wallace – you saw his aura too.” He reached out a hand to Dave, waited until the other man reluctantly took it and allowed himself to be pulled up off the floor. Dave brushed himself down, regained his composure.

  “I saw him after, too.”

  “After he was dead?”

  Dave nodded. “Yeah. Him and the soldier.” He sighed deeply. “Is that another one of my gifts?”

  Dark grinned and placed an arm around Dave’s shoulder. Nodding, he said, “Yes it is, Dave, and this is one we share. We see the dead, we can both see them.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “For want of a better term, yes. They’re gathering, Dave. The end times are approaching and the dead are rising, preparing for the battle to come. It’s time for them to choose sides.”

  “Good or Evil?”

  “Yes, Dave. Look, I’m glad you’re beginning to accept the reality of what’s going on here. It’s a lot to take on board, I know…”

  “You could say that!”

  “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.” Dave allowed himself to be guided along the aisle towards the door. “I can’t do this,” he said, and stopped.

  “Yes you can, Dave.”

  “No, no I can’t,” he shook his head vigorously to emphasise the words. “It’s ridiculous! Why me? How me? I’m nobody, Mr Average – Mr Less-Than-Average, actually. No, this is bollocks, ridiculous. Hey, I’ll tell you what, though, you had me going there for a while! Still, joke’s over now, eh? I’m sorry, I’ve been under a lot of stress just lately, not been myself—”

  “Dave! Stop it. You’re gabbling.” Dark reached for the metal latch on the church door and pushed it up and open. “Come on outside.” He pushed the door open and the two men stepped out into the mid-morning sunshine.

  Dave squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand against the bright sunshine. Gradually his vision adjusted itself and he could look out across the rolling landscape in front of him. The view was spectacular, but it was what lay immediately in front of him that drew his attention.

  “Oh God…” he whispered as he looked at the graves laid out before him. A variety of headstones were on display: arched, rectangular – some in the form of crosses. In one corner a weeping angel, the stone from which it was carved pitted and cracked by long years of exposure to the elements, gazed heavenwards as if seeking comfort. It was what stood beside the headstones that had drawn the exclamation from Dave, however. Some were little more than shadows, some wispy and diaphanous as if made of smoke. Others were of a more solid form and cast their own shadows across the grass.

  Dave felt a hand on his shoulder, felt a reassuring squeeze. “Our gift,” Dark said quietly. “The dead are rising, Dave. Waiting, just like us.”

  But all Dave could hear was his own heartbeat, pounding, getting louder and louder…

  * * *

  You can see the red flares in the aura around the chief’s outline. He is angry. Truth to tell, this would be obvious to anyone – your new “ability” is fairly redundant in this particular scenario. “We’re not made of money!” he says, shouts, not for the first time, probably not for the last. “So I suggest we – and by that I obviously mean you – try for as quick a resolution to this one as we can.”

  You agree wholeheartedly. Your “personal” involvement in this case is impetus enough for you to clear it up as soon as possible. Right now, getting back to your co-ordinating role with the shopping mall bombing seems a far more desirable option.

  The killer has struck again, once more leaving a note on the body with your name on it. You see the suspicious looks your colleagues give you – maybe not suspicious but certainly mistrustful – but there is nothing you can say to allay their apprehension. There has been no direct contact from the murderer, merely these oblique messages. Perhaps he (or she – though the severity of the wounds on the bodies suggests this is not the case) is taunting you. It certainly feels like this is the case sometimes. But why? For what reason?

  “We managed to squeeze you onto the next flight out of Penang,” the chief continues, “you got the last seat. Seems there’s some dignitaries on board, ambassadors, ministers and the like. Anyway, you can pick up your ticket at the airport. We haven’t,” and here he smiles, “booked the return ticket yet. Obviously, we don’t know when you’ll be coming back. No doubt cost a pretty penny when you do, though.”

  His frustration is understandable, but you resent him taking it out on you. “Thank you, sir. Is that all?” You keep your tone polite. At least he gets to go to his own home tonight; you have to drive out to the airport and fly to Kuala Lumpur. That’s where the second body has been discovered.

  “Yes. That’s all.” He waves you away dismissively and you leave his office quickl
y.

  You have a long night ahead of you. The flight is relatively short, but you might be able to grab some sleep on the plane. You grab your bag from beneath your desk and make your way to your car. A few of your colleagues wish you good luck, a safe journey, others avoid looking at you.

  The evening air is warm; the storms that have raged over the last few weeks have gone. The flight should be a smooth one.

  The killer must be stopped. Such atrocities cannot be allowed to continue. You will catch them – of that you have no doubt. It’s more than just a job, though. This is – for whatever reasons – personal now. Finding out what those reasons are makes you even more determined to wrap this case up.

  You pull away from the station. A quick call into your apartment to throw some clothes into a case and then onto the airport.

  You glance at your watch.

  Plenty time.

  * * *

  Mist rose from the ground like an exhalation on a cold day, as if the earth itself was issuing a sigh. Tendrils joined and merged to form a dense white cloud that covered the ground like a blanket pulled up against the cold. Although the bright sunlight that had, only moments ago, bathed the land, warming the soil of France, of Virginia, of Northumberland meant that this was not really the case. Within minutes of the appearance of the first wisps, a thick fog now obliterated those landscapes.

  The fog moved. Seemingly not content to linger above the ground from which it had been born, the cloud began to slowly drift forward, somehow driven toward (or drawn by) the small churches perched on their respective hillsides. Creatures scuttled away from it, attempting to outrun the miasma that threatened to overwhelm them. Insects and arachnids, mammals small and large – even the birds took flight to avoid contact with the swirling cloud, some instinct within them identifying the wrongness of it, telling them that this was somehow a dangerous thing, a thing that should not be happening to their world.

  Its destination was soon reached and the mist spread around the bases of the hills on which the churches stood, encircling them so that they became islands floating in a sea of whiteness.

  * * *

  She walked in the light.

  A bright, shining whiteness that surrounded her, a cool whiteness that felt wet against her face as she moved through it. The ground beneath her feet was damp, too, the wetness soaking into her sneakers as she crossed the short grass. She walked in silence, as if the cloud surrounding her had sealed off the outside world and all its distractions. Only the firmness of the ground she walked over stopped her from imagining that she was somehow high in the sky, walking through real clouds rather than a clinging mist. The notion pleased her and – in this world of dreams – seemed perfectly natural.

  Why shouldn’t I walk in the clouds? she mused. Why not, if I want to?

  She felt no pain. The realisation hit her so suddenly that she stopped in her tracks. Glancing down, she ran her hands over her belly, rubbing the places where for so long now a fire had burned within her. Her fever too, was gone – really gone, not just cooled by the moisture in the air around her.

  I’m better! she thought, then remembered she was only dreaming. She began to walk again, not knowing where she was walking to, simply knowing that she had to get there.

  A figure slowly emerged from the mist. She slowed her pace as she approached the shape, unsure as to who – or what – was slowly being revealed to her. As she drew closer to it she could see that it was a man, a soldier dressed in an old-fashioned uniform she didn’t quite recognise. The soldier was sitting down, not on the wet grass but on a long wooden seat. Approaching, she could see the ornate carving on the armrest of what she knew now to be a church pew, saw also the damage done to it, a splinter hanging from it, the unvarnished wood revealed beneath it making it look like a wound. The soldier was slumped on the seat, asleep. His left arm lay across his lap, hand clutching the top of his right arm.

  “Are you all right?” Dilly asked, but she received no reply. She repeated the question, but obtained the same lack of response. She reached out a hand, grabbed the soldier’s shoulder and shook it briefly. “Sir? Are you all right?”

  Again, no response, not even to her touch. What do you expect in a dream? She straightened up, realised that there was no use in continuing to try to communicate with the soldier, and began to walk on.

  Whatever next? she wondered, and smiled.

  As she walked, she began to hear noises from within the fog around her. At first, she thought it was the burbling and gurgling of a stream, but as the sounds intensified she realised that they were whispers, at first no more than a susurration, like the sound of crickets in the late evening, gradually increasing to a crescendo that filled the air with a hissing that hurt her ears.

  She began to run and, as she did so, more figures loomed out of the mist surrounding her. Indistinct forms, little more than shadows, but people, definitely people…

  The whispering intensified even further, became a cacophony and as she ran Dilly began to make out words and phrases, her own name among them. Save us! Do it! Give yourself over… Kill him!

  She raised her hands and placed them over her ears, but still the words got through. It was as if they were coming from inside her own head rather than the enveloping mist. “Stop it!” she cried out, stumbling, but then regaining her footing to continue her headlong run to…

  “Dilly!”

  She skidded to a halt, slowly dropped her hands. It wasn’t the sound of her own name that had brought her to a halt. Rather the voice that had spoken it. As she watched, the mist directly in front of her swirled and a figure stepped out of it to face her. Dilly already knew who it would be, had recognised the voice immediately.

  “Mama?”

  “Hello, Dilly,” her mother said as she took another step towards her. “Seems like you turned out to be something after all, don’t it?” Dolores laughed, and somehow the sound seemed different to the rough cackle she usually emitted. Warmer, somehow, more genuine. The whispering had abated, was now little more than background noise, static on a badly tuned radio.

  Dilly took a step away from her mother. What kind of a dream is this? “W-what do you mean, Mama? And what are you doing here?”

  Dolores smiled and Dilly felt a wave of emotion at the sight. Mama never smiled at her, not in a real way. “Oh, darlin’, I had to come see you. This is my only chance.”

  “What do you mean, Mama? Your only chance?”

  “We’re in a special place here, Dilly. A place we can talk together.”

  “We can talk anytime, Mama. When I come home we can talk all the time.”

  “Ah, darlin’…”

  Panic flared within Dilly. The thought came to her again: What kind of dream is this? “What’s wrong, Mama? I know something’s wrong.”

  Dolores closed her eyes and slowly turned away from Dilly. “Take a look, darlin’. See what Lover Boy and his little friend did to me.” She slipped the nightdress off her shoulders, let it slip down her back to reveal the hideous wound there. Ragged edges, still red, framed a cavity through which bones were visible.

  Dilly screamed. The sound echoed through the whiteness, momentarily silencing the whispering.

  “Oh, Mama! What happened to you? Are you okay?”

  Dolores laughed, a deep, hearty laugh. Shuffling the nightdress back over her shoulders she turned to face Dilly once more. “I think you know the answer to that one!” The smile disappeared from her face and she continued, “I’m dead, Dilly. Dead and gone. Your boyfriend did this to me, or leastways the thing he sent did it. Either way this is down to him.”

  “Oh, Mama, I’m so sorry…”

  Dolores waved a hand dismissively. “Not as sorry as me…” The smile returned to her face. “At least it means we can have this talk.”

  Dilly’s brow furrowed and tears welled in her eyes. “Am, am I dead, Mama? Is that how we can talk?”

  Dolores shook her head. “Not dead, darlin’, no. You are dying, though.
That’s how come you’ve been able to come here.”

  “Here? Where’s here?”

  “It’s a special place, Dilly. We’re between things here.”

  “Like Limbo?”

  “That’s one name for it, I guess. Interstice – that’s another. Ha! Bet you didn’t know your old mama knew words like that, eh? Whatever. You gotta do the right thing, Dilly,” Dolores shook her head as she spoke, emphasising them. “You got to stop this right now.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Mama. What do I have to do?”

  “It’s the end of days, Dilly, as prophesised in the good book. Armageddon awaits but you can stop it.”

  Dilly sank to her knees, felt the wetness of the grass soak into her knees. The ever-present whispering increased in intensity.

  “Why me, Mama? What can I do?”

  Dolores walked over to her daughter and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You and Lover Boy, you’re the Two Witnesses. You’re all a part of this, Dilly, and that’s why he dragged you away from the hospital…”

  Dilly gasped.

  “Yes, honey, you’re not in hospital anymore. He’s brought you here to sacrifice you to The Beast, you and him both. You can’t let him do it.” Dolores sighed, clasped Dilly’s head to her and gently stroked her hair. “You’re dying, darlin’. He did that, too. Taking you away from the hospital before you was good and ready, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. We can make your death count for something, though – and not the something he wants either.”

  Dilly sniffed, wiped the tears from her eyes. “What do I have to do, Mama?”

  Dolores smiled. “I think you know, darlin’. You die before The Beast comes and there’s no sacrifice. The chain of events is broken.”

  “You want me to—”

  “Yes, darlin’, I do. We all do.” She swept an arm around to indicate the shadowy forms concealed in the mist. “And we’ll help you.”

  “You will?”