by Steve Wilson
I let out a deep whistle as I read this. When I’d read about the book being discovered in the early years of the twentieth century, I had sort of believed in it, yet it still didn’t seem altogether real. Now that it had been seen again less than half a dozen years ago, it took on an entirely new perspective. It was out there still, and that meant somebody else could begin the same cycle of events that had almost given Eve Rhodes immortality. I tried not to think about the potential consequences. I skimmed through the few remaining entries, stopping when I found those for the current year.
Tuesday 9th August 2011. It is getting near. In little over a month, my final journey commences. The craving has reached a new intensity, and at times I find it hard to bear. As this is the final step along the path, I feel tempted to use my real name. But temptation can lead to disaster, and I know I cannot give in to it. I can, though, come close. So I have chosen, and Eve Haborham Rhodes will become Deborah Havers-Home for this last adventure — my full real name will be present in my last assumed name. One thing is for certain, though; I will not waste a moment in trying to make it appear that this last death is an accident. What is the point? Every time I have tried, I have failed; Ingleby’s death should have been viewed as a simple heart attack, but in my meticulous removing of the evidence I managed to wrap up the teaspoon inside the towelling. After I have selected my final target, it will not matter if I am suspected, apprehended even. I will have achieved my aim, and will be immortal.
I shuddered as I read the words. The true impact of what could have happened was only just now beginning to dawn on me. I continued reading the entries that coincided with my own first-hand knowledge.
Tuesday 13th September 2011. I know who the last one will be — a history teacher called Louise James. She is running a course that starts next Tuesday, the key day, so I will go along and meet her then. Who knows, I might even learn something during the eleven ‘incubation’ weeks.
Tuesday 20th September 2011. I almost made a stupid mistake tonight. After Louise James introduced herself, she began to talk about an unsolved murder from a century ago. I gasped involuntarily, and one of the other students — an elderly man — turned to look. Fortunately, he didn’t know who had gasped — and he certainly didn’t know why — but I must take more care. I am too close now to spoil it all by a stupid excited reaction.
Tuesday 4th October 2011. I am beginning to feel uncomfortable. Last week could have been seen as one of those coincidences, but she has done the same again tonight — concentrated on another of my murders. Two weeks, and the first two murders. Does she know? Or, perhaps, I should ask, what does she know? And what is she hoping to achieve? I would kill her now if it weren’t for the unbreakable rule of 11. I can’t switch to another, as I had to make contact with my victim on September 14th; apart from Louise James, the only other people I met that day don’t fulfil the eleven-letters rule. There are two others on the course whose names contain the required number of letters, but I didn’t meet them on the enrolment evening.
The next few entries detailed our meetings and after-class talks, little of which surprised me. But then her records explained how she was able to throw suspicion away from her and onto Trish, with my being an unwitting dupe in the deception:
Friday 18th November 2011. Ethan knows. Or at least, he’s on the way to knowing. I was waiting in the pub when he came in with that harlot Trish. She’s the sort who would throw herself at any man with a pulse. Or even some without, no doubt. I’d wondered how I could get close enough to overhear their conversation, but the pub was busy and they came and sat at an adjoining table. I realise that although he might have the general idea, it’s far too late. He can’t possibly decipher it all before the end of the month. But perhaps it’s best not to take that chance.
Saturday 19th November 2011. I tried to injure Ethan tonight. I drove towards him when he was crossing the road; I didn’t intend to kill him, of course. That would have been disastrous, and would have destroyed everything I have been working towards for over a century. The lives I must take are defined by the laws of eleven; no others can interrupt that sequence. But I wanted to put him out of action, hospitalise him for a few days. He saw me and jumped out of the way, so I don’t think he’s badly hurt. But I’m sure he’ll be shaken. And I wore a red wig, so if he did see anything he would think it was her.
Sunday 20th November 2011. Success. Ethan cannot get any further without Louise’s help. I couldn’t get him, but I did get her. She’ll be in hospital for at least a week. And, as an added bonus, I’ve taken her computer and all of her research information. She’d have to start again from the beginning even if she was well enough to work. Now nothing can stop me.
Wednesday 23rd November 2011. Everything is back on track again. It was clear last night that without Louise to stimulate the thought processes, Ethan can get nowhere. I made the right choice when I attacked her. And Trish — well, she just doesn’t have a clue.
Tuesday 29th November 2011. Perhaps I should revise the first part of last Wednesday’s entry. It seems that Ethan has been continuing the investigation, and he has made some good progress. Far more progress, in fact, than Louise seemed to have made with all the time she spent researching me. Ethan wants to go and see Louise tomorrow, as he knows the importance of the date. He doesn’t, though, realise who the intended victim is or where the murder will occur, so I can still rest easy. I managed to forestall Ethan from visiting Louise on his own; he wasn’t too happy about it. As long as I’m there, I can control events. I need to get a good night’s sleep; I have been feeling gradually weaker with every passing day, far more so than on the nine previous occasions. I even made a huge mistake tonight when I corrected Ethan over the pronunciation of my last alter-ego — how he didn’t realise I don’t know! But he didn’t, and the last doubt has gone now. It will all be over tomorrow. And then, in a final irony, I will meet Ethan’s beloved daughter. Once I am immortal, I am free. Why should the killings have to stop?
“Did you write all this, Dad? No, you couldn’t have. It mentions you. I don’t understand.” I couldn’t speak, as the final few sentences had paralysed me. “What is going on?”
Debbie had been right in only one thing; it was all over, although not in the way she anticipated. I closed the book and returned it to the satchel. I put my hand on top of Julie’s and squeezed softly. “I’ll tell you all about it,” I said. “Come and sit down.”
***
“And do you believe it all?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I was there. I saw her change before my eyes until there was nothing left but dust. I don’t want to believe it, but I have to.”
“But how could…? I mean, all those years…I don’t…and she wanted to meet me too, to…”
“I know, love, I know. But she’s gone now. You’re safe. Everybody’s safe.”
“So what are you going to do? Tell the police?”
“Tell them what? Even if I show them the diary, they wouldn’t believe me. This sort of thing just doesn’t happen in real life. Except it has.”
“What about the others? Trish and Louise? Are you going to tell them?”
I thought for a few moments. “Yes, I will. But not everything. They don’t need to know about the book, and they don’t need to know about what happened to…the aging, I mean. I’ll stick to my story that she overpowered me and escaped. The police can search for her, and that should satisfy everybody. They won’t find her, of course, and even if they realise her latest persona only existed for the last few years, they’ll never find out the real story.”
***
I left it until Julie had returned home before I contacted Trish. She had taken some time off work, trying to come to terms with the fact that a killer had been in our midst all the time, although I don’t think she fully appreciated what had taken place.
Louise was in hospital until the Friday, and Trish and I arranged to go and see her that night and return her key. As we arrived Roger was jus
t leaving, and from the look on Louise’s face when we entered I guessed that he was the R… that she had mentioned.
After I’d recounted the story, we all sat in silence for a few minutes, lost in our own private thoughts. I had mumbled something about copycat killings as I could find no way of even attempting to explain the killer’s longevity, and Louise leapt to the conclusion that the killers must have been several generations of the same family. I said nothing to try and dissuade her from that idea.
Trish had been holding my hand throughout my narrative, and she made no attempt to let go of it now that I’d finished. I enjoyed the warm feeling, and hoped there would be many more occasions when we could be together like this. After what had happened, I welcomed the chance for some normality.
It was time to leave, as Louise still needed her rest. She confirmed that Roger would be coming to see her again in the morning, and we knew she would be well looked after. As she walked us to the door Louise grabbed hold of my arm. There was a frightened look in her eye, as if she’d just realised something that we’d all missed. “She got away. That means she’s still out there, somewhere. It might still happen.”
“No, it can’t,” I said, hoping to reassure her. The deadline has passed. It was yesterday or never.”
“That’s as maybe, but what about next time? In another eleven years?”
I hadn’t considered that. Thinking quickly, I replied, “There won’t be a next time. The ritual required a killing every eleven years. It didn’t happen last night as Debbie didn’t get away from me until after midnight. The cycle has been broken. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Nevertheless, I’m going to check the newspapers and see if there are any reports of strange deaths yesterday.”
I smiled as I left the flat. “I wouldn’t expect anything else of you, Louise. But it will never happen again. You have my word on that.”
Chapter Nineteen
Afterword – Summer 2022
I am alone in my new house; it’s nice to have some time to myself, for it has been a busy last decade. Ten years! It is hard to believe that so much time has passed since it all occurred. I’m old, now, in my seventieth year. But I’m content with the way things have turned out.
The events of that night were the catalyst that brought Trish and I closer together. We became a couple, and we bought this house only three months ago — I’ve even developed a liking for Coronation Street. Trish is away at the moment, as she’s gone to visit some friends in Yorkshire. She’ll be back at the weekend.
We keep in touch with Louise — it wouldn’t be natural not to, given what we shared — and we go out for dinner every November thirtieth. Roger is always Louise’s ‘plus one’, though he doesn’t understand exactly what the reason is for the get-together. We three are still the only ones who know what happened, and I’m the only one who knows the full story. Apart from Julie, of course. And Gary. Those two have no secrets from each other.
Julie still lives in Hampshire with her husband, and now they have two children, Freya and Dylan – I sometimes think she deliberately chose their names in defiance of the ‘eleven letters’ rule. All four of them came to visit us last week, and we see them several times a year. Trish loves the grandchildren almost as much as if they were the offspring of her own daughter.
Gary now lives in London where he teaches England as a Second Language to immigrant students. I think, deep down, he would still prefer to travel the world, but on his last visit to South America, five years ago, tragedy almost struck. While in the Peruvian jungle, he was bitten by a mosquito, and contracted a severe form of yellow fever. At one point, it was touch and go as to whether he’d survive until his return to England, but once back home he made a complete recovery. The incident caused him to reappraise his life, and he made the decision to stay in England and settle down. He married Abby, one of the other teachers in the department, last Christmas, so it might not be too long before we have more grandchildren to spoil.
As for Gail and Emma, I haven’t seen either of them for years. Louise told us that Emma moved out of the flats. I’ve no idea where she ended up, but I hope that, like Gail, she was able to rebuild her life.
I occasionally think about Eve, and everything that she wrote down. Was she deluded, believing in an impossibility, or was she telling the truth? I’ve always been something of a sceptic, but this time I know what seems impossible actually happened. After all, didn’t she turn to dust before my eyes? What could be more conclusive than that? She said the book is still out there, almost as if it is waiting for fulfilment; waiting for somebody to get it right.
She made mistakes; she knew that. She tried to make a game of it, leaving clues in case anybody was clever enough to solve them. And, at the last, that was what caused her downfall. Without the needless desire to make everything follow her neat pattern, nobody would ever have known what she was up to, not even after the deed had been done. I still shudder at the thought.
I occasionally think about the diary, although I haven’t looked at it for more than a year now. I kept it in my bedside drawer ever since that night, and that was where it remained until yesterday — we were burgled while I was taking Trish to the station to catch her train. Strangely, the burglar only took the diary, although he or she had rifled through the drawers as they searched for something of value. I haven’t reported the break-in. What’s the point? It’s time to let go of the past; the future is all that matters.
Chapter Twenty
Quebec — Wednesday November 30th 2022
Mike stands outside the office of HR Director Michael Ryan, waiting for his appointment to discuss a possible position with A&M Holdings (Quebec) Ltd. He has no interest in taking the job, and is there only to meet his namesake.
He doesn’t need to work. The last few years have turned out to be very profitable, ever since his first stretch inside following the incident with that woman from the college course. He had been amazed even then at how much he learnt when in prison; it was far more educational than any schooling he had undertaken. Breaking and entering was amongst the first of his new skills.
It is strange how everything seems to come back to that course. Who would have thought, when he burgled that house a few months ago, that it would belong to two more of those people? He never forgets a face, and he shivers involuntarily at the memory of seeing the photograph of them on their mantelpiece. How gross at their age! He knew from that second that he was going to enjoy stealing from them far more than he had from any of his other victims.
And then he found that diary in the old codger’s bedside drawer. Suddenly, nothing else mattered; he knew he had his hands on the one item of real value. He could almost feel the book calling to him across the ocean.
Looking out of the window, he sees the antiquarian bookshop where he found it all those weeks ago. It was exactly as the woman had described it in the diary. He doesn’t know what became of her, but the book still throbs with vitality, so he knows it is still as powerful as when she found it more than a century earlier.
Now he has made the pledge, and all is ready. In five more minutes, he will become acquainted with his first victim. And after that — well, when he broke into that house, he noticed the names of some of Hudson’s family amongst the papers he found in the drawers. Perhaps some of the others from that course will also have family that fulfil the criteria of eleven? It will be fitting to spend the next century continually wreaking vengeance on those who blighted him.
Who wants to live forever? Mike smiles. He does.
Enjoyed Steve Wilson’s Who Wants to Live Forever?
Then turn the page for an exclusive extract from T. A. Williams’ new book The Room on the Second Floor
Chapter 1
The campus clock struck four. She went over to the post tray and started collecting the day’s letters. As she bent forward, she sensed eyes on her. Turning round, her heart sank. She saw it was Edgar Lean, lurking at the open door of her office. She wasn’t
the sort of girl who would ever want to be rude to anybody, but his habit of sneaking up on her had started to give her the creeps. Nevertheless, she managed to summon up a weak smile. Confrontation wasn’t her way.
‘Afternoon, Linda.’
‘Good afternoon, Edgar.’
‘Anything I can help you with?’ He was staring at her fixedly. His eyes were wide open, unblinking.
‘No, I’m fine thanks.’ As always, she felt uncomfortable in his presence. She nodded towards the pile of letters. ‘Sorry I can’t stop and talk. I’m afraid I’m busy.’ She turned her back on him, hoping he would take the hint.
All was quiet for a minute or two. Then, behind her, she heard steps. There was a movement and, to her horror, she felt a touch on her bottom. She squeaked with indignation and spun round.
But Edgar Lean had left. In his place, she was confronted with the tall figure of Roger Dalby, an expression of embarrassment on his face. Now, he was a very different kettle of fish. Her indignation left her and she gave him a warm smile.
‘Hi, Linda, sorry if I startled you.’ He was carrying a large cardboard box. The dog-eared label read, 12th-century records. The dust-covered box looked little younger than the contents. The corner that had bumped into her gaped open. Ancient sticky tape looked to be the only thing holding it together.