Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller

by Mark White

  Deciding to wait a while longer, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone, deciding to tell Sarah the good news about his job. Scrolling through the contacts section, he found her name and pressed call. Hearing the sound of ringing, he leaned back against the bench and looked up.

  He dropped the phone around half a second after hearing his wife’s voice, pieces of plastic flying everywhere as it smashed against the bench’s concrete base. He paid it no attention. His focus was reserved solely for the boy who was hanging by a rope from one of the branches of a cherry tree not more than ten feet away from where he was sitting. Sam recognised the boy immediately. There could be no mistaking him.

  It was Stephen Gilchrist.

  Had the bench not been properly secured, there was no doubt that Sam would have jerked back hard enough to have tipped it over backwards. His next instinct was to jump to his feet and run, but his legs weren’t having any of it. The only body-part that he was vaguely capable of moving was his mouth, which fell open as he gasped in abject terror at the scene playing out in front of him.

  The rope from which Stephen hung was wrapped tightly around his neck, so tightly that part of it had sliced into his skin and submerged into his flesh. His head drooped at an unnatural angle against his chest, mercifully preventing Sam from seeing his face. He appeared to be dressed in pyjamas and a pair of slippers, making him look so much younger than the drug-fuelled thug from the train. Even though he couldn’t see his entire face, Sam could tell it was Stephen from his shaven head and the Celtic ring on the little finger of his right hand. The wind continued to blow, causing the boy to gently swing back and forth; the limb of the cherry tree creaking under the weight of its unfamiliar load.

  Catching his breath, Sam checked up and down the path for signs of other people, but his section of the park remained eerily empty. With the exception of the dead body hanging in front of him, he was alone. Still unable to move, he drew his attention back to the boy, his brain still scrambled from the shock.

  And then, just as he was starting to feel capable of running away, the boy’s head twitched from side to side and he looked up. His eyes snapped open, revealing dirty yellow-white sockets but no pupils. Even so, Sam sensed that the boy was staring directly at him, especially when his lips parted and he grinned at him with a mouth full of uneven, serrated teeth.

  ‘Hello, Sam,’ said the boy, only it wasn’t the voice of Stephen Gilchrist but that of a much older man. ‘Recognise me, my lad?’ The boy then started laughing: gentle wheezes that developed into louder, harsher witch-like cackles. His head began rocking back and forth and from side to side as if he was trying to disentangle himself from the rope tearing into his neck. His hands went to the rope and gripped it, pulling at it as he tried to break free. ‘Help me get down from here, will you? This rope…it’s fuckin’ torture.’ Sam moaned as he recognised his father’s voice. The boy smiled, only his face had now morphed into that of William ‘Billy’ Railton.

  ‘You do remember me, don’t you, boy?’ he croaked, his hands still clawing against the noose around his neck. ‘Come over here and give your old man a hug…it’s been such a long time.’

  ‘Get away from me,’ Sam whimpered, finding his voice but still lacking the use of his legs. ‘You’re not my father…my father’s dead.’ He watched impotently as the hanging figure – for it couldn’t have been human - somehow succeeded in loosening the knot in the rope, squeezing its head through the noose and dropping to the ground with a heavy thump. Fortunately for Sam, the figure didn’t move; instead it remained lying face down in the mud like a discarded corpse.

  For what seemed like an eternity, all Sam could do was remain glued to the bench, staring at the body, waiting for any sign of movement. He was too shocked to call out for help, too confused to figure out what to do next. It was his father’s voice, he was certain of that. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in thirty years, but when it spoke to him there was no mistaking it. No wonder Gracie had sounded so desperate when she’d called round yesterday to see him. She knew something was wrong because she’d seen his father too. Worse than that, she had seen him with Max.

  Sam rose unsteadily and stood facing the body, unable to take his eyes away from it. As tempting as it was, he knew he couldn’t simply walk away and leave some other unsuspecting passer-by to deal with the problem. He reached into his pocket for his phone, cursing as he remembered what had happened to it. There was no way of phoning for help, no way of calling the police to co-’

  As if from nowhere, the figure on the ground snatched out its arm and grabbed Sam’s ankle, pulling him to the ground in a sudden, violent display of inhuman strength. Sam screamed as his head hit the path; not in pain, but in blind panic and abject fear. He struggled to free himself from the figure’s clutches, but its grip was excruciatingly tight and he was unable to move. Slowly, the figure raised its head and glowered at him. Once again, it was the face of his father, only this time there was no humour in his features; only pure evil as he pulled his son towards him.

  ‘Let me go!’ Sam screamed, desperately trying to kick himself free. ‘Please…let me go. Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry. I’m sorry!’

  ‘Too late for that now, boy,’ the figure hissed, its eyes glowing like two brilliant-white lights. ‘You should have thought about that before you and your whore of a mother forced me out of my own fuckin’ house all those years ago. The house I worked my fingers to the bone to pay for.’

  ‘I know…I’m sorry…I didn’t meant to…’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the figure said, its eyes now burning so brightly that Sam was forced to look away, ‘I’m not done with you yet. You and I have a lot more work to do. Old Billy Railton’s just getting’ started.’

  With that, the figure grasped Sam’s head in its free hand and turned it to face its own. ‘Look at me,’ it said. ‘Look at me, Sammy-boy.’

  Whimpering like a terrified puppy, Sam opened his eyes. Almost immediately, the figure groaned as a stream of light poured from its eyes into Sam’s, momentarily connecting the two of them. Sam opened his mouth to scream, but as he did so, another bolt of light shot from the figure’s mouth into his own mouth, forcing itself down his throat and into his stomach where it swirled around inside him like a thick, raging whirlpool, until eventually it settled uncomfortably in his gut like a lead weight. Sam retched uncontrollably as his body attempted to purge itself of whatever it was inside him, but nothing was forthcoming. His head was pounding as his vision blurred, and all he could do was roll around in the dirt like a rat that had been bitten by a venomous snake. The last thing he heard as the agony dragged him towards unconsciousness was the sound of his father laughing. He tried to force himself up but couldn’t. As he felt himself drift from light into dark, he thought he heard a voice, but this time it was not his father’s but Stephen Gilchrist’s: ‘You have to end it, Sam,’ the boy said. ‘He won’t stop until you end it.’

  ‘End what?’ Sam whispered, the last of his energy leaving him.

  Before he could hear the boy’s reply, a final, excruciating stab of pain shot through him and everything went black.

  PART 3: THE EVIL WITHIN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Later that day, when Tom Jackson strolled into Chapman's Design Agency after having enjoyed a prolonged lunch-break with a particularly attractive female client, the last person he expected to find waiting for him in his office was Charles Holdsworth.

  ‘Charles? What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘What time do you call this?’ Holdsworth asked, evidently unamused to have been kept waiting. ‘You’re secretary said you’d be back by one-thirty at the latest. Where have you been?’

  Tom checked his Rolex: 2.15pm. ‘Shit,’ he said, shaking his wrist as if to suggest it was the watch’s fault. ‘Sorry about that. I was…erm…I was with a client and completely lost track of time. We didn’t have anything in the diary, did we?’

  ‘Sit down, Tom,’ Holdsworth said, nodding t
o the chair across the desk from him. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

  ‘Bad news? Shit, don’t tell me we’ve lost the Pilko account. We haven’t, have we?’

  Holdsworth sighed. ‘A wise man once told me that God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think you would. It means we should listen twice as much as we talk. So for once, will you kindly keep your bloody trap shut and let me speak?’

  ‘Oh, right. Of course. Sorry, Charles. You were saying?’

  ‘Thank you. There’s no pleasant way of saying this, Tom, so I’m going to come straight to the point. I’m letting you go.’

  ‘Go? Where to?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ Holdsworth said, shaking his head, ‘But I’m afraid Chapman’s Design Agency no longer requires your services.’

  Tom’s face blanched as the message hit home. ‘You’re firing me?’

  ‘Afraid so. With immediate effect.’

  ‘But…but why? Why me?’

  Holdsworth shrugged. He’d never been one to shy away from the more unsavoury demands that came with being the boss, but neither did he take any joy from other people’s misery. ‘Two reasons,’ he said, maintaining eye contact. ‘The first is professional, the second personal. Both reasons are in themselves sufficiently serious to warrant your dismissal, however, when combined, they leave me with very little choice.’

  ‘What do you mea-’

  ‘The professional reason concerns the company’s recent performance. Not only are we failing to win any new business, but we’re barely managing to hang on to our existing clients. Someone has to carry the can for that, and seeing as you’re the sales director, I’m afraid that someone is you. I don’t know why, Tom, but you’ve taken your eye off the ball. You’ve become sloppy, and sadly I’m not alone in thinking that.’

  ‘Now just a min-’

  Holdsworth held up his hand, cutting him off mid-flow. ‘As for the personal reason, I should think that’s fairly obvious.’

  ‘If this is about Sam Railton,’ Tom said, ‘then I can assure you I’ve spoken to him and have convinced him to at least think about coming back.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Holdsworth said, pleased that Tom had just made his job easier by lying to him. ‘As it happens, I’ve also spoken to Sam, and that’s not quite how he sees it. He told me, that according to you it was the Board’s decision to fire him. He said that we gave you the clear instruction to let him go.’

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘No, Tom, you’re the one who’s lying. The Board knew nothing about your decision to fire him until well after he’d gone, which leads me to ask the question why? Why, Tom? Why on earth would you fire one of our top creative people without first consulting me?’

  Tom stood up and began pacing the floor, holding his head in his hands as his brain processed what was happening to him. How could Sam do this to me? he thought. That little bastard wouldn’t say boo to a goose, let alone drop me in the shit behind my back.

  ‘I can’t work with people I don’t trust,’ Holdsworth continued, ‘especially people who hold senior positions in my organisation. The fact of the matter is you lied to me and you lied to Sam. I don’t know why you fired him, but the bottom line is I want you out of here within the hour. You’ll be paid up until the end of the month, and I’m prepared to provide you with a basic reference should you need it.’

  ‘What about Sam?’ asked Tom. ‘What happens to him?’

  ‘I’ve offered him his job back. Furthermore, I’m pleased to say he’s accepted, on the condition that he doesn’t have to work with you.’

  If Tom wasn’t such a coward, he would have reached over the table and strangled his boss. But he was a coward, so instead, all he could manage was a half-hearted sneer that looked more pathetic than threatening. ‘You’re choosing Sam over me, aren’t you? That devious fucking bastard!’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. I would have quite happily kept the pair of you, had you not decided to go behind my back and show your true colours.’

  ‘But…but I can’t afford to be out of a job,’ Tom pleaded. ‘I’ve got bills to pay…credit cards…’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom, but that’s really not my problem. Now,’ he said, standing up to leave, ‘I suggest you pack your belongings and leave without a fuss. Please don’t embarrass yourself by making it necessary to call security.’ He held out his arm in an offer to shake Tom’s hand. ‘No hard feelings, eh?’

  Tom stared back at him as if he were talking another language. ‘Charles,’ he whimpered, accepting his hand and shaking it feebly. ‘Don’t do this to me. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything.’

  Charles stared back at him, his eyes hollow and dispassionate. ‘Goodbye, Tom. And good luck.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘So the next thing I know, I wake up to find myself lying face-down in the mud in the middle in Friar Park with a thumping headache and serious stomach cramps.’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t remember what happened?’

  ‘Not really, no. I remember sitting on a bench, and then I guess I must have fallen asleep or something. I vaguely remember having this awful nightmare.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this, but I dreamt about Stephen Gilchrist hanging himself. Only it wasn’t Stephen Gilchrist. It was my dad. I know it sounds ridiculous, but honestly, Sarah, it felt so real at the time.’

  ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yeah, I know…it’s crazy, isn’t it? Look, Sarah, I need to tell you something.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘This isn’t the first weird thing that’s happened to me lately. When I was staying at mum’s the other day I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk. I ended up at Saint Cuthbert’s Church so decided to see Lucy. The churchyard was dark and I was the only person there, but I could have sworn I saw someone standing near dad’s grave. And then on the passenger bridge at York Station. I’m sure I wasn’t alone on that bridge.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Do you think I’d make something like this up?’

  ‘Why haven’t you told me this before now?’

  ‘Don’t you think we’ve had enough to worry about? Besides, it’s probably nothing.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like nothing. I think you should make an appointment to see a doctor. Seeing things – hearing things – maybe it has something to do with your injuries.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly. I just need to rest. I’m sure I’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘You’re not fine, Sam. You need to see a doctor. What if there’s a problem with your head that they failed to spot in hospital? It could be serious.’

  ‘It’s not serious. Besides, I must have had every scan known to man.’

  ‘How can you be so sure? I’m not an expert, but blinding headaches and chronic stomach cramps don’t sound normal to me. Not to mention hallucinations and passing out in public parks. I mean it, Sam. I want you to go and get checked out as soon as possible.’

  ‘It’s probably just stress. I don’t mean to bring it up again, but finding out about you and Tom, and then getting lynched by someone young enough to be my son. And if that wasn’t enough, I receive a phone-call telling me that my attacker has only gone and fucking killed himself. I know I’m not great at handling pressure, but come on!’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Sarah said, removing the damp cloth from his forehead, ‘but I want you to book an appointment to get checked out, okay? Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Fine, but let’s wait and see if I feel any better in the morning. I need to be fit and fresh for my first day back.’

  ‘First day back?’

  Sam nodded and did his best to smile at her through the pain. ‘I’ve got some good news for you. After I dropped Max off this morning, Charles Holdsworth called me. He asked me to come back to Chapman’s, and I’ve agreed.’

  Sarah
leapt up from the sofa and cried out, clasping her hands together. ‘Oh, Sam,’ she said, bending down to kiss his forehead. ‘That’s fantastic news. Why on earth didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘That’s not all,’ he said, the feel of Sarah’s soft lips doing little to appease his headache. ‘I told Holdsworth that I’d only come back if I didn’t have to work for Tom.’

  ‘He’s moving you to a different division?’

  ‘Better than that. He promised me he’d deal with him.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way: it wouldn’t surprise me if Tom Jackson wakes up tomorrow morning without a job to go to.’

  ‘Holdsworth’s going to fire him?’

  ‘That was the deal. Probably already has.’

  Sarah sat down again, her earlier exuberance somewhat deflated. Sam eyed her suspiciously.

  ‘I thought you’d be happy?’ he said, feeling himself tense up at her muted reaction to the news of Tom’s dismissal.

  ‘I am,’ she replied. ‘I am. It’s just that…it’s just that I didn’t see it coming. Tom always told me that if it wasn’t for him, Chapman’s Design Agency wouldn’t survive. I thought he was the driving force there, so to hear…’

  ‘So to hear that Charles Holdsworth thinks more of me than Tom Jackson surprises you?’

  ‘No, well, maybe a little.’

  ‘It’s alright,’ Tom said, placing a hand on her thigh. ‘You’re not alone. There aren’t many people experienced enough to see through Tom’s bullshit…me included. Luckily for me, I guess Holdsworth has been in the business long enough to know a chancer when he sees one.’

  ‘I suppose. It makes me feel even more of an idiot for what I did to you. I’m so sorry, Sam. I’ve been such a bitch.’