by Shaun Hutson
He ran from the sitting room, through the kitchen, and unlocked the back door.
If he could just get to his car . . .
The garage was about thirty feet from the house at the end of a long tarmac drive.
With the sound of the splintering front door still echoing through the night he plunged on towards the garage, slipping once on the grass. He rolled over and sprang to his feet, not daring to look back. The cold air rasped in his throat as he gulped down huge lungfuls. Finally, with a whimper of relief, he reached the garage. Only then did he afford himself a look back over his shoulder.
No one was following him.
He flung open the garage door and scurried around to the driver’s side of the Jensen, fumbling in his pockets.
He’d left the keys in the house.
His heart seemed to accelerate to an impossible speed, hammering madly against his ribs.
He tugged on the car door in his anger and fear, knowing that he had no choice but to go back for the keys. Clenching his teeth he turned and sprinted back across the grass towards the open back door, the sound of splintering wood still loud in his ears.
Another few moments and the intruder would be inside.
Cutler crashed into the kitchen table in his haste, bruising his hip. He ignored the pain, intent only on finding his car keys, on escaping with his life.
He looked around frantically for the keys, aware that the front door could not hold out for much longer. Each hammer blow rained upon it brought his would-be killer closer.
‘Oh God,’ he grunted. Where had he put the bloody keys?
A huge lump of wood was torn from the door, clattering into the hall. Cutler spun round, his eyes darting back and forth.
He saw the keys on the drinks trolley and snatched them up, hurtling back out through the hall and the kitchen.
The front door finally crashed inwards and the intruder blundered into the hallway, catching sight of the fleeing land developer.
He knew without turning round that he was being pursued but that knowledge only spurred him on to greater effort and, seconds later, he was outside again, sprinting towards the garage, praying that this time he didn’t slip and fall.
Behind him, his attacker followed.
Cutler reached the garage. Only then did he turn and look back.
The sight he saw nearly caused him to drop his keys.
The would-be killer was within twenty feet of him.
Cutler smelled the noxious odour, saw the blood, felt the searing cold.
He kicked open the side door of the garage, dashed through and slammed it behind him, slipping the bolt, praying that it would keep the intruder at bay long enough for him to get away.
His hands shaking madly, Cutler struggled to push the key into the lock on the car door.
There was a deafening crash as the first powerful blow landed against the garage door. It was followed by many more.
Murmuring to himself, Cutler struggled with the keys again.
They fell from his grasp but he hurriedly snatched them up and rammed the appropriate one into the lock. In an instant he was behind the steering wheel.
As he jammed in the ignition key he heard the side door of the garage beginning to give.
It would only be a matter of seconds now.
He twisted the key savagely, stepping on the accelerator simultaneously. The engine roared into life and he rammed the Jensen into gear, but his foot slipped off the clutch and the car stalled.
On the verge of hysteria now, he started the engine once more, the loud roar drowning out all other sounds.
Cutler didn’t even bother opening the main doors. He merely ducked low behind the wheel and put his foot down.
The Jensen shot forward as if fired from a cannon, smashing through the double doors and out into the night, skidding on the tarmac for precious seconds as Cutler struggled to control the vehicle.
He heard and felt a tremendous thud which seemed to rock the entire car and, for a second, he thought with delight that he’d managed to run his attacker down.
It took him a second to realize that the thud had come from above.
There was someone on the roof.
He braked hard, trying to dislodge the attacker, but as he did so, a powerful hand swung down towards the driver’s window.
Glass exploded inwards under the impact and Cutler shrieked as he felt the slivers cutting his skin. The scream was silenced a moment later as the hand fastened itself around his throat.
He swerved, running the car onto his front lawn, skidding to a halt, both hands now clutching at his assailant’s arm and at the hand which was throttling him.
His attacker slid from the roof of the car without releasing the strangling grip on Cutler’s throat.
He felt himself being pulled towards the broken window and, for one bizarre moment, he thought his assailant was going to try to pull him through the tiny opening.
Instead he saw another hand reaching in, clawing at his face, at his eyes. Sharp nails started digging into the soft flesh of his lids, curving inwards to scrape the sensitive orbs themselves.
Pain enveloped him and he struggled even more fiercely, but his frantic movements only seemed to inflame the attacker more.
Cutler felt his head being turned to an impossible angle, felt the muscles and bones creaking and popping.
Then suddenly, he was staring into the face of his attacker.
Horror such as he had never felt before overwhelmed him and he felt sharp pain stabbing at his heart.
He managed one final scream.
Gripping his head like a bottle top, the killer twisted with incredible ferocity.
The bones in Cutler’s neck cracked with a strident shriek, the muscles tearing like paper as the killer continued to twist.
Cutler slumped forward, his head turned completely around, facing backwards.
Without a second’s hesitation, the assailant tore open the car door and dragged the body from the confines of the vehicle, which already reeked of excrement and blood.
The killer stood over the corpse for a moment, then fell upon it.
There was much still to be done.
PART THREE
‘His heart is black,
His blood is cold,
Returning to destroy our World.
Warrior
Fifty-Three
WHEN THE LEAVES DIE ON THE TREES THEN THEY FEAR HIM. WHEN THE WIND IS COLD THEY FEAR HIM. AND THEY KNOW THAT ONLY THE DEATHS OF OTHERS CAN STOP HIM RISING SO THEY KILL. THEY KILL IN HIS NAME BUT THEY KILL IN FEAR OF HIM AND HIS POWER WHICH IS SUCH TO SPLIT THE WORLD IN TWO. NONE CAN STAND AGAINST HIM FOR NONE POSSESS SUCH POWER AS HE. SAVE ONE. THEY KNOW LITTLE OF THIS OTHER. OF THE ONE WHO IS ALWAYS WITH HIM. THE ONE WHO SEEKS LIVING BODIES NOT DEAD ONES. THE ONE WHO LIVES IN OTHER MENS MINDS. I HAVE PLACED THIS KNOWLEDGE IN MANY PLACES. HIDDEN. FOR 1 SERVE HIM AND I CARRY THE SECRETS.
THE LEAVES ARE DYING ON THE TREES. THE YEAR IS AT AN END. THEY MUST KILL AGAIN.
DAGDA COMES.
Kim sat back from the notebook and exhaled deeply. Wallace stood beside her, looking down at the words which she had so painstakingly transcribed from the stone tablets.
‘Who the hell is Dagda?’ said Wallace, glancing at the notes once more.
‘Each Celtic tribe worshipped its own individual god or goddess,’ Kim told him. ‘For instance, Maponus was a Northern God, but the lord of them all was Dagda. He was the most powerful, the most feared. Supposedly grotesque to look at. He’s described as an immense figure with incredible powers.’
‘What about the other name?’ the inspector said, pointing to one which was underlined further down the page.
Morrigan, the Queen of Demons, Dagda’s mate in fertility rituals. She was also known as Nemain which means panic, or Badb Catha, the raven of battle. In some ways, thought to be as powerful as Dagda himself.’ She looked down at her own scribblings.
WHEN COMES THE SEASON OF COLD THEN COMES DAGDA UNLESS TH
EY ARE WILLING TO OFFER TO HIM THE YOUNG OF THEIR TÚATH.
‘The Celtic year was divided into two halves,’ Kim said. ‘The season of warmth and the season of cold, basically summer and winter. They had no concept of spring and autumn, only that there was one time of the year for growing crops and another for storing them.’ She sighed. ‘But don’t ask me how all that ties in with the murders.’
Wallace shrugged, sipping at his coffee, looking down at the photos of the murder victims spread out on the table in front of Kim. The most recent one showed the butchered remains of James Cutler. His body had been flayed, his eyes torn from their sockets, his stomach cavity almost emptied. Beside him lay the final abomination.
Three lengths of intestine used to form a capital letter I.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck one a.m. and Wallace rubbed his face with one hand, simultaneously stifling a yawn. He had driven to Kim’s house after leaving the scene of Cutler’s murder, returning quickly to the police station to collect the photos. That had been three hours ago. He stretched and looked across at Kim, who was dressed only in a short house-coat, her slender legs drawn up beneath her. He did not drop his gaze when he saw her look back at him.
‘You look exhausted, Steve,’ she told him, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. As she withdrew her hand he held it and kissed her slender fingers. She responded by moving closer, snaking one hand around the back of his head, pulling him to her as they kissed.
The scream which echoed through the house caused them both to gasp aloud.
It came from upstairs.
From Clare’s room.
Fifty-Four
Kim leapt to her feet and dashed for the stairs taking them two at a time in her haste. Wallace was right behind her, the scream still drumming in his ears.
They reached the landing and he followed as she pushed open the door of her daughter’s room and hurried in.
‘Oh God,’ Kim gasped as Wallace joined her and they both stood gazing down at the girl.
Clare was lying spreadeagled on the bed, the covers thrown off in an untidy heap. Her head was moving slowly from side to side, her lips fluttering constantly, expelling a series of low mutterings. Her eyes, though, were closed tightly.
Kim moved forward but Wallace stepped in front of her.
‘Don’t wake her,’ he said, seeing that the girl was obviously still asleep. He picked up the covers and laid them gently back on the bed, moving closer to the sleeping girl. Her entire body was quivering gently, as if a mild electric shock were passing through it. Kim crouched beside the bed, touching her daughter’s hand, feeling how cold the skin was despite the thin film of perspiration which covered her face, matting her hair across her forehead and beading into minute crystal droplets on her arms.
The low whispering continued, like some kind of muted litany, the same mumblings repeated over and over again as the girl’s head moved from side to side.
‘This happened to her once before,’ said Kim, anxiety etched on her face. ‘It must be another nightmare.’ She bent close to her daughter’s face, brushing a strand of hair away. As she did so, she realized that it wasn’t a string of words which Clare was mouthing. It was one single word. Kim strained her ears to pick it out.
‘Can you understand what she’s saying?’ Wallace asked.
Kim merely raised one hand to silence him, the word now becoming more distinct.
It sounded like steam escaping as Clare mouthed that one word over and over again.
‘Samain. Samain. Samain.’
Kim frowned, unsure at first if she had heard right, but Clare continued and there was no mistaking the word.
Wallace saw the look of concern on Kim’s face.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Samain. Samain. Samain,’ Clare breathed, more insistently now.
The sound stopped abruptly. In the silence they both heard the girl’s breathing return to a semblance of normality. The rigidity in her limbs seemed to disappear and she curled up into a ball beneath the covers. Kim sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on her daughter’s shoulder, her eyes never leaving the girl.
‘I’ll sit with her for a while, Steve,’ she said softly.
Wallace nodded and walked slowly from the room. Kim heard his footfalls on the stairs as he descended. From the kitchen she heard the sound of the kettle being filled.
Clare continued to sleep peacefully.
Kim found that it was she who was quivering now.
‘Is she all right?’ Wallace asked as Kim entered the sitting room, closing the door behind her.
She nodded and sat down beside him on the sofa, gratefully accepting the mug of coffee which he handed to her. A heavy silence settled over them, finally broken by Wallace.
‘What was she saying, Kim? That word, you seemed to recognize it,’ he said.
She nodded slowly, her eyes drawn towards the photos of the murder victims before her. Kim put down her cup, her own breathing now becoming more rapid. She looked at each of the photos that showed the letters which had been formed from lengths of bleeding intestines. She pulled a notebook towards her, one eye on the grisly photos, and said, ‘When the letters the killer left behind are placed in the correct order they do make a word.’
Wallace watched as she wrote down in block letters:
SAMAIN
‘Samain,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s a Celtic word. It means the end of summer. The Celts held a great festival to mark its ending.’
The inspector swallowed hard.
‘Is there any way Clare would know that word?’ he asked. ‘Could she have seen it written in one of your notebooks?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Kim said, her brow furrowed. ‘That’s what the writing on the stone tablets must refer to: “When comes the time. Time of cold. Time of Samain.” Whoever carved those tablets was a very powerful Druid. He claims to have had power over Dagda. “When comes the season of cold then comes Dagda,” ’ she re-read.
‘So what happened at Samain?’ Wallace asked.
‘In order to ensure that their crops would grow in the coming year, the Druids would sacrifice children to Dagda. It was like a kind of fertility rite but also a means of appeasement to prevent Dagda from rising and entering this world. It was done every year.’ She pointed to a line of the transcript.
ONCE RISEN HE CANNOT BE STOPPED. ONLY THE OFFERING OF THE YOUNG WILL PREVENT HIS COMING
‘Steve, don’t you see? The children’s skulls that we found in that underground chamber must have belonged to sacrificial victims killed in the name of Dagda, to prevent him from rising. Every one of those children had been decapitated and the eyes gouged out. It was part of the ritual. Except that the carbon-dating tests I ran on the skulls showed that not all of them came from the same period. They weren’t all Celtic sacrifices. One of them belonged to a child who was murdered in 1823. Other people, in the past, have found those tablets and deciphered them. The knowledge has been passed down through the ages, the superstition continued for thousands of years. Right up until 1823 when that last child was murdered.’
Wallace felt a chill envelop him.
‘Children must have been sacrificed on that same spot for thousands of years. Since 1,000 B.C. that site had been used for the ritual murder of children,’ Kim continued.
‘Was it always children?’ the inspector asked.
‘Young children. They would be killed on the night of Samain. Usually three at a time because three was a mystical number to the Celts. How many children have been kidnapped from Longfield?’
Wallace stiffened.
‘Three,’ he said quietly. ‘When was Samain? The date?’
‘October 31st,’ she told him.
‘Christ, that’s tomorrow,’ said Wallace. ‘October 31st. Halloween.’
‘The name changed but the festival has persisted in different forms,’ Kim told him. ‘The early Christians called it Hallowmas. Then in the Middle Ages, November the 1st was consecrat
ed as All Saint’s Day so the night before became All Hallow Even. Over the years it was shortened to Halloween.’
‘The kidnapper must have some knowledge of all this,’ Wallace said, agitatedly.
‘When you were at the museum you were reading up on witchcraft,’ she reminded him. ‘Halloween is the most important time of the witches’ year too.’
Wallace nodded, remembering the butchered animals that had been found in the wood near Dexter Grange. His gaze strayed to the photos of the murder victims, slaughtered in a similar, though even more horrendous fashion. But one question plagued his mind.
‘Why would the killer spell out the word?’ he mused, looking at the pictures. There was a heavy silence.
‘The three kids that have been kidnapped,’ he continued, ‘obviously whoever’s got them is going to use them as sacrifices tomorrow night.’ He looked at Kim. ‘Charles Cooper would know about this ritual, wouldn’t he? And he had it in for Cutler and the others that were killed.’
‘You could say the same about anyone who was part of the archaeological team on that dig,’ she told him. ‘They all had a grievance against Cutler.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, unconvinced. ‘But three kids are going to be murdered tomorrow night unless I find out who’s got them. I’ve got to concentrate on the likeliest suspects first.’
‘But what if the legends about Dagda are true?’
‘Kim, you’re not serious?’ he snorted.
‘A lot of people have been serious about this over the past few thousand years. Serious or frightened enough to murder children to prevent unleashing this . . . evil, whatever it is.’
‘So you think I should let the kids die?’
She lowered her head.
‘I’ve got to find them.’
Kim gripped his hand.
‘Do you have to leave tonight?’ she wanted to know. He heard the anxiety in her voice.
He leant forward and kissed her lightly on the lips.