“Help me lift her,” Amelia ordered.
Eloise got on the other side of Louisa and they lifted her off the ground.
Together, they half dragged, half carried her up the road.
“What’s going on?” Harold ran towards them. Sean hung further back, his attention flitting between the women and the cottage. He disappeared back inside the house as Harold moved Eloise out the way and picked up Louisa. He half staggered, half ran to the last house on the yard. As they bundled her inside, Mark’s last cry faded.
“I’ll try and hold them off. You help her.” Harold disappeared out of the door, leaving the women in the front hall. Louisa doubled over again.
“It hurts, it hurts so much!” she cried.
“I’ll go get Kellie, Eloise, stay with her.” Amelia ran out the door.
Minutes later, they were back. Something had happened while she’d been gone, and the girl was sitting in a puddle of watery blood.
“Is this normal?” Amelia asked.
“No.” Kellie joined them, her midwife’s leather satchel at her side. “I’ll get the girl upstairs. She needs to be on a bed.” Kellie dragged Louisa over towards the steps. “Eloise, go boil some water. Amelia, I need towels.”
“Thank you,” Louisa whimpered.
Kellie put her hands under the girl’s arms and pulled her up. A thin red trail stained the back of her underwear. Amelia was still in the hallway. She caught Kellie’s eye, and opened her mouth to say something, but Kellie brought a finger to her lips.
“Come on, honey, you can make it.” Kellie helped Louisa up the stairs, and into the spare bedroom.
Louisa fell onto the bed, panting. “What were they?” She curled up on the mattress. “And what happened to my Mark?” The last words came out in a small voice, as if she didn’t want to hear the answer.
“They are the ellyllon.”
“But what are they? Where’d they come from?” Louisa wiped tears from her face.
“They’re a type of goblin. The nastiest kind,” Kellie said. She leaned over and let out a long sigh. “Evil, evil creatures.”
“Goblins?” Louisa half laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
Kellie shook her head without looking up.
“Why did they attack my Mark?” Louisa forced herself into a sitting position and stared at Kellie, her eyes wide and liquid. “Seems like you wanted him to be attacked.”
“I’m so sorry, honey. He was supposed to be in the cottage. He was our sacrifice.”
“You what?” Louisa started crying and grabbed Kellie by the shoulders, shaking her. “You can’t have him. Get him back! You must get him back. I need him to help me with the baby.” Tears were coming fast now. “He’s going to protect me and keep me safe.” She made to get off the bed. “I’ll go and get help for him.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said he’s our sacrifice. You go back there, and they’ll take you next. And the little baby you got tucked away in that belly of yours.”
Louisa froze for a minute. The color on her cheeks draining. “Sacrifice,” she whispered. Then in a shout, “You made my Mark into a sacrifice!” Louisa grabbed harder onto Kellie, digging her fingers into the older woman’s flesh.
“I’m sorry, okay? We are required to do this. Every goddamn August.” Kellie pulled the girl’s hands off her and busied herself examining the contents of the midwifery satchel. Years had passed since she’d needed the equipment inside. She fastened the bag back up and placed it on a chest of drawers. With a deep sigh, she sat down on the edge of the bed.
“No. Stop saying you’re sorry. Go get Mark. Fetch him out.”
“He’s gone, honey. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
Louisa slapped Kellie hard across the cheek. “You killed him!” she shrieked. “You murdered my Marky.” She collapsed on the bed and sobbed into the pillows.
“Do you think we have a choice? We have none. Each and every year they expect a sacrifice.”
Louisa jumped up. “Is that what he was? Am I as well? A bloody sacrifice?”
Kellie drew close, her arms out for an embrace. “I’m sorry, honey…”
Suddenly, the girl reached out and grabbed the nightlight from the stand next to her. “You sick fuck!” she screamed, and slammed the base of the lamp against the side of Kellie’s head.
The American’s face seemed to fall on one side, her head wobbling in sluggish circles. Louisa watched everything in slow motion. The flailing of the woman’s arms, the way her leaning back seemed graceful, until the angle grew too deep. For a second Kellie sat still, as if this had been intended. Then she slipped off the edge of the bed and toppled over onto the floor.
“Oh shit,” Louisa whispered, and peered over the side of the bed. A pool of blood grew around Kellie’s upper body. Louisa could see where it leaked from – no spurted. Like a crack in a dam, the whole reservoir that was Kellie’s blood was going to empty out on the floor.
Blood pumped rhythmically out of the hole in Kellie’s scalp as an enormous pain started in Louisa’s belly, growing until all Louisa could see was the pain. It filled her vision, red like the liquid on the floor. Like the stuff pouring from Kellie. Then, as the waves of cramps lessened, she noticed: blood wasn’t pumping out of the American anymore.
The woman was twitching. Louisa had seen that with road kill. She’d run over a rat once. Before she fell pregnant, and Daddy still treated her like his daughter. Before she walked past the bus stop one morning, shedding her school uniform as she went, tossing the clothes into a bin, and a doorway became her home. Before she met Marky, and fell in love.
“You killed him!” she said, weeping. The pain subsided for a second, and then rolled up again – a wave of agony that darkened the edges of her vision. She gasped in air, panting, trying to clear her sight. This isn’t right, she thought, and grabbed her belly, holding on tight.
When she’d ran the rat over, a little electric shock had run through her body. She’d always wondered if that had been the moment the rodent died. Maybe that was why serial killers murdered. To feel that electric shock, get that sudden kick of life running wild through their nervous system. Imagine the shock from something as big as a person. A need could grow for that kick, she could almost understand a murderer’s compulsion.
She’d not felt a bolt of electricity with Kellie. What if she wasn’t dead?
The pain rolled out of her body and Louisa leaned over the side of the bed, panting. Sweat poured from her now, plastering her hair to her scalp, like the blood sticking to that woman’s head.
Kellie wasn’t where she’d fallen.
A soggy maroon puddle covered the floor. The impression of Kellie’s head and shoulders were clearly defined by the absence of blood.
Where was she?
The American should be dead – or unconscious. Louisa was half tempted to peer under the bed, and might have, had the next wave of pain not flowed into and filled up her small body. Pounding, pounding. The girl shrieked, and fell back on the pillows.
Harold grabbed a sword from the umbrella stand. The weapon made a sharp metallic zing as the blade caught against the ceramic rim. “I take it you left yours in your house.”
Sean shrugged. “How could I possibly have known I’d need one?”
“Imbecile,” Harold muttered and hurried into the kitchen. “Did you suppose those little bastards would give up so easily?” He returned with a foot-long meat cleaver. “This will have to do. Try and hit something with the sharp edge.” He tossed it over, not waiting to find out if Sean caught the cleaver before running from the house and into the yard.
Sean narrowed his eyes. The beasts had their sacrifice. No doubt they’d be on their way back to the Otherside. Did he dare tell Harold he’d been wrong? Sean grimaced. Their absence would be enough.
Out on the yard, the night darkened further as clouds moved across the moon. Harold was in the middle of the road, warming up by spinning the sword in gentle arcs. The old man drew his arm back
and lunged into the air. Sean opened his mouth to speak, to say ‘I told you so’ but a slight movement at the entrance to the cottage made him swallow back his words.
The front door opened and two little greeny-blue orbs about a foot off the ground bobbed in the darkness within the building. The orbs moved closer until the form around them took shape revealing the first of the ellyllon as it crept over the threshold and onto the garden path.
“Come on, you bastard,” Sean said. He stood beside Harold now, tossing the meat cleaver from one hand to the other.
The creature cocked its head, as if questioning their presence. It sniffed the air, closing its reflective eyes, drawing its height to almost two feet as if pulled up by the moon. Then its eyes snapped open. The ellyllon turned and spoke in a series of grunts and clicks into the cottage.
“Here we go, son. You ready for this?”
“You bet. I’ve been itching to do this for many a long year.”
“I’ll bet you have. Remember to keep your eye on the ellyllon you’re attacking.” Harold raised his sword behind him, high in the air and waited for the approach of the beasts.
“Like tennis,” Sean beamed, despite the gathering numbers of ellyllon in the doorway.
“No. Like murder,” Harold said, then under his breath, “Our turn.”
The first of the creatures walked slowly down the path towards the men. Its feet were big in proportion to the rest of its body. A thick coat of long hair covered the creature, colored strangely in the pattern of a silver tabby cat. Sharp ears jutted from the sides of its head, again, almost feline, but too long, and set at an angle that pointed to the rear, as if it was permanently annoyed. Its lips hung open, revealing rows of sharp shark-like teeth. It clicked loudly into the night air. At this command, four more creatures appeared at the door. All five now regarded the men, their eyes reflecting the little available light. Then they charged.
Harold caught the first one with the edge of his sword. He swept the blade through the air, his left hand held up behind him, his right sweeping down and into the side of the creature’s throat. The head rolled off to the side of the road, but the body managed to run another couple of steps before crumpling to the ground.
Sean spread his legs. He didn’t have the grace of Harold as the old man danced on the tarmac, his sword slicing through the air, leaving severed body parts scattered around his feet. Sean tightened his grip on the meat cleaver. The blade was sharp, glinting as the moon reappeared from behind the clouds.
Backing up, Sean lifted the cleaver until the weapon was high above his head and waited. An ellyllon darted away from Harold, avoiding the edge of the sword. Sean let the cleaver fall from the air, his palm damp, but his hold on the metal handle firm. The blade slid through the head of the ellyllon, slicing it into two, right down to its belly. A strange gurgling sound came from the creature. Somehow, the eyes fixed on him for a moment. Then the life flickered out and its tiny body sagged and slid off the cleaver. Sean had little time to examine the remains. A second creature launched itself into the air, its mouth wide, aiming for the arm holding the cleaver. With a grunt, he skewered the creature on the blade through the open mouth. The creature’s teeth chattered together on the metal as it slid down the blade and towards his hand.
“Ugh!” He shook the ellyllon off and slammed his boot into its head. The skull crunched, and grey matter slopped out. Kicking the corpse away, Sean looked up in time to see a third creature flying through the air towards him. He raised the cleaver again.
At the door to the cottage, the ellyllon kept appearing. Each paused as it left the confines of the building, taking a gulp of air before sprinting towards the men.
Sean spread his feet, bending at the waist, arms wide. He swung with the cleaver.
Again, and again, and again.
Chapter 12
Neil came to in the bathtub. He reached for his glasses on the side of the tub, curling the wire arms around his ears one-handed. The clock on the wall swam into focus. Ten minutes had passed since midnight. He’d survived another attempt.
A machete lay on the bathmat, surrounded by a large puddle of blood. Maybe using an eighteen inch blade had been a little over-the-top. Neil had taken care not to hack his wrist off completely. He’d cut until all that held his hand to his arm was a small section of skin. Swallowing the pain as he worked, Neil had enjoyed the waves of burning agony as he sawed through his limb. Then as the grandfather clock in the hall downstairs began to mark the start of the eighth hour, Neil had passed out.
Eleven minutes had passed since September started.
He examined his left arm. The joints were still parted from where he’d dug the tip of the machete into the joint and twisted, but the skin was knitting back together as he watched. The hand flopped forward, certainly not under his power, as he’d severed anything that might help him move the appendage using his own will. With a click, the joints snapped back into place. The flesh still had a long way to grow until he healed completely. But he knew he would be mended. Free to mourn another death that wasn’t his.
Neil climbed from the tub. Rose-colored water sloshed about under him. He shouldn’t have filled the tub, should have left the plug out to drain the blood away. The evening before he’d decided the scene might be more dramatic if he’d been found dead – at rest – in a bath full of his own life’s force. Try and solicit an emotion from his twin. In reality he knew the night he died, his brother would be far more worried about his own pitiful existence.
Plop. Plop. His wrist continued to leak. He should be dead.
Die, die.
DIE!
Neil grabbed the machete from the bathmat, and using his good hand, held it with the point pricked in between the two ribs covering his heart. Before he slammed the blade home, he heard a shout and a yell through the window. He ignored whoever it was and tested the sharpness of the tip. A small crimson jewel grew on the boyish skin of his chest.
“Get that one!”
The voice was subdued, passing through the double glazing, and whispering into Neil’s ear as he pushed at the machete.
Die.
Someone was outside, on the yard. Something was happening.
I don’t care.
He flexed the fingers on his left hand. Already working. The muscles were still weak, but strong enough to join his right hand and grab the handle of the machete. He took a deep breath as he prepared to pierce his heart. He’d get a couple days reprieve before consciousness brought him back. Three if Pete didn’t find him for a while and the blade remained in place.
“Watch out!”
Another yell from the yard. This voice had a Scottish lilt. Must be Sean. The machete dropped to the floor, and Neil exhaled. He grabbed a towel, and rough dried, leaving bloody streaks where the material passed over his chest and wrist. More shouts sounded, and strangely, the plink of metal. He took a pair of jeans from the hamper in the bathroom, and slipped on a t-shirt. He almost left the machete on the blood-soaked floor. As a last thought before leaving, he picked up the weapon.
Neil arrived at the yard. Harold was sweaty, his sword cutting through the air. He appeared to be moving to a choreographed dance, lunging forward and back on his toes, the blade glinting. His silver hair had long since plastered to his scalp. Sweaty patches stained the underarms of his button down shirt. As he turned slightly, Neil saw a dark streak that started at the neck, and ran down the back of the old man’s shirt to the waistband of his trousers.
Sean was several steps behind Harold. He tossed the meat cleaver between his hands a couple of times before indicating at something in the shadows to come forward.
All around their feet were bodies. Initially, Neil thought of cats. Perhaps Harold had had enough of Eloise’s feline obsession. Then a flash of light caught his eye. Something stood in the doorway of the cottage. The creature stretched towards the moon, like a miniature werewolf. Its eyes sprang open – little green lights piercing the dark.
“Here
comes the next batch,” Harold called out.
Sean slashed the meat cleaver through the air, catching a creature in mid-flight as it leapt at him, teeth bared, arms wide, its claws dagger sharp. The ellyllon yowled, the sound cut off abruptly as the blade sliced into the center of its head, and the body fell in two twitching lumps on the ground.
“Come on, you bastards,” Sean said, the cleaver bouncing from hand to hand.
“W-what the hell is g-going on?” Neil asked. Harold didn’t move. His attention was on the group of ellyllon currently making their way in small inquisitive steps out of the cottage.
“We’re goblin hunting,” Sean said, and flashed him a broad grin.
“They’re c-c-coming out…” he stuttered, and pointed as the creatures broke into two groups and ran towards the road.
“Come over here with that machete, and put it to some use,” Harold said, not taking his eyes off the beasts. He swung his sword wide, and with not so much as a judder, the blade cut an ellyllon through the belly. It staggered, and died where it fell.
“I d-don’t know h-how to f-fight,” he said, and backed away.
“Come back, you fool, and do something besides kill yourself for once.” Harold stopped long enough to glare at Neil. A creature leapt forward, not giving Harold time to use his sword, and sank its teeth into his arm. “Don’t just stand there, you fool.” When Neil still refused to move, the old man shouted out, “Help us!” Harold leant over, and smashed the ellyllon on the tarmac. The creature let go and tried to scramble around him, but Harold beheaded the beast before it could get away.
With slow steps, Neil took up position behind Sean, the machete hanging from his good hand.
“You’ll grow to like killing them after a while. I find the experience extremely satisfying,” Sean said. He swung the cleaver into the side of a ellyllon’s head. “I’m getting rid of so much pent-up aggression. I really am.”
Sacrifice (Sulham Close Part 1) Page 9