by Ann Evans
‘You're going right now?’ Sally asked, dismayed. ‘The doctors said I should be allowed home today. Will you come and pick me up?’
‘Sal, I don't know how the day is going to go. Get a taxi, would you? I'll see you back home.’
As he drove, dream-like thoughts flitted through his head, strange images, like memories, but not his memories. He shook his head, trying to clear his brain, but flashes skimmed like old-fashioned film flitting through his brain. The church, Father Willoughby, a tin of rat poison …
He almost careered off the road. What the hell was this – a premonition? He turned the car towards the church and rammed his foot hard down on the accelerator.
A stream of cars were parked along the kerbside. Mass was in full swing. He screeched to a halt, stumbling as he raced up to the closed church door. His legs felt weak suddenly, it was an effort to run. Fear, he guessed, not knowing what to expect, dreading walking into another massacre like in the care home. He could just imagine the congregation sitting rigid in the pews; sick, poisoned, dead. The old myth sprang into his head, and he could suddenly see clear as day, men, women, children, screaming, clawing at their throats as the poisoned hosts entered their bodies.
‘No!’ he threw himself against the church door. It hit the inside wall with a deafening crash. The congregation turned to look accusingly at him. Father Willoughby had the chalice in his hands, and the first few rows of people were on their feet, queuing to receive Holy Communion.
A sharp pain suddenly shot through Paul's head. ‘Jesus!’ he cried clutching his head as he stumbled forward. Father Willoughby's face paled at the sight of him. Through blurred eyes he saw the little priest step towards him.
Blinding pain now shot through every part of his body as if he was being stabbed by a hundred daggers from the inside out.
‘Poisoned …’ Paul blurted out. ‘Don't …’
Paul summoned all of his energy to knock the chalice from the priest's hand, scattering the hosts across the marble floor. Someone screamed. People were up on their feet.
‘Paul! What in heaven’s name has got into you?’
‘The cross … give me the cross.’
‘What?’
He hadn't the strength to argue. With arms wracked in pain he grabbed the priest's throat, feeling for the cross around his neck. ‘Don't take Communion … poisoned.’
Father Willoughby struggled against the assault. ‘Paul, have you lost your senses, that old story was something from half a century ago.’
‘History repeats …’
‘This is madness!’
Paul was starting to black out. ‘Not your fault … this damn thing, evil …’ The cross came away in his hands, and the pain that wracked his body made him want to scream.
Father Willoughby grabbed his arms, his face deathly white. ‘God be with us!’ he uttered.
A shudder reverberated through Paul's body. Pain vanished, the dark confusion lifted. Strength returned. Whatever had possessed him a moment ago, left him. ‘I'm sorry for being so rough, Father.’
A blank look came into the priest’s eyes, behind his glasses. Then, pushing past him, Father Willoughby ran down the aisle, vestments flapping, as if the devil itself was on his tail. Most of the congregation ran after him.
Paul turned, and dashed through to the vestry, searching through cupboards. It came as no real surprise to find a container of rat poison. He strode back through the now deserted church. The congregation had gathered outside and were staring upwards to the clock tower. Paul looked up too, and his heart sank.
The priest was clambering onto the battlement wall. Before Paul could make a move, he'd stretched his arms up to the sky and then slowly toppled forwards.
People screamed.
As the priest fell, Paul saw something streak upwards from his body. Something unbelievable; like a heat haze, shimmering, not transparent, but not solid, something unearthly in the vague shape of a winged figure – but not angelic, more demonic.
At that moment, a large bird flew directly through the shimmering haze seemingly sucking it up. One moment later, the vapour disappeared.
In the split second before Father Willoughby plunged to his death, Paul saw the expression on the priest's face change, the blankness replaced with a look of sheer terror. Then arms and legs circling wildly, he screamed briefly for God to help him. But it was too late.
The bird flew on into the forest, its crowing sounding now like laughter.
As people gathered around the priest, Paul walked slowly away. There was no point in waiting around for the police or the medics, no point at all. They couldn’t stop this evil.
25
Back at the cottage, Paul gathered together every piece of wood that had come off that tree, the early efforts of fruit bowls and ornaments, the reclining nude, dust from the barn floor … every last scrap of bark. He piled it all onto the bonfire, poured petrol from a can and lit a match.
‘Mind your eyebrows!’
Paul spun round to see Owen striding down the garden with a bag full of what he guessed were his unsold carvings from the shop.
‘What's all this about, then?’ Owen asked, handing over the bag. ‘Bit drastic, isn't it, burning all your stuff.’
Paul tipped the lot onto the fire. ‘Owen, since you've been with Juliet, have you found yourself actually believing in witchcraft?’
‘Not really, but I know it's something she likes to dabble with. Why?’
Paul explained – about Petronella, all the recent deaths, the splinter explosion at the Peace Conference and how he'd been manipulated by some sort of demonic presence that could possess people and make them do insane things such as Father Willoughby trying to poison his parishioners before leaping to his death.
Owen stood, open mouthed as sparks spat and wood flared from the bonfire. ‘And you think Petronella was in the carvings?’
‘I know she was. It’s why the doctor’s wife fell down the stairs, and the couple in their car. But it goes a long way further back, Owen. She had a hand in Helena’s death too. I know it.’
Bluebell strolled up to Paul's ankles as he talked. The idea of the cat being anywhere near a bonfire bugged him. He picked it up. ‘Let me just take her indoors.’ He returned to see Owen sitting on the stump of a tree, staring into the flames.
‘And you know, Owen,’ continued Paul, ‘I think this all stems from when we were kids, and I burned the witch's cat. She’s never forgiven me.’
‘Ah,’ said Owen, looking sheepishly up. ‘In which case, I've got something to confess.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘About that cat … the witch's cat.’
‘Go on.’
‘It wasn't you. It was me.’
Paul felt a sweep of darkness wash over him for a second. ‘Owen, come with me.’
Owen followed him into the barn.
‘See all these tools? I want you to put them into that box. I'm going to burn the lot. I'll get the axe.’
‘Really? Owen frowned at him. ‘You don't seem too upset about what I've just told you.’
‘Just do what I've told you, and we'll discuss that later.’
‘Okay, mate.’
Paul strode to the back of the barn and took the axe from the wall. Turning, he noticed Owen with his back to him, doing as he was asked. Paul took two silent steps towards him. He gripped the axe with both hands, swung it high above his shoulder and brought it swiftly down into the side of Owen's right kneecap.
A scream of agony filled the night. Owen collapsed onto his side, holding onto his bloodied leg, staring up in total shock. ‘Paul … what the fuck …’
Without a word, Paul raised the axe again and brought it down onto his left leg, almost severing it but for a few ligaments hanging on.
Owen rolled onto his stomach, begging for mercy. ‘Don't, don't hit me again. Please don't …’
Paul grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him outside, leaving behind a trail of bloo
d. ‘It was you!’ he snarled. ‘You, all this time. I thought it was him!’
‘Who? Paul, mate. Help me, don't let me die.’
Dragging him over to the bonfire, Paul lifted Owen clean off the ground with one hand. Bringing him face to face so their noses almost touched, Paul uttered, ‘You burned Theron, my cat. Now I burn you!’
With one thrust hurled Owen onto the bonfire.
The screams didn't last long.
* * *
Through Paul’s eyes Lamia watched as the bonfire gradually died, leaving just the charred, distorted and twisted remains of Owen. Darkness descended over the garden, its silence only broken when a taxi pulled up outside the cottage. A car door shut and the lights from the patio shone out.
‘Paul. Paul, I'm home. Is Owen with you?’
Time to make her scream … again.
‘Yes, he's here. I'm coming.’
She smiled as he walked through the door. And then her smile vanished.
How I love to play with humans. They are so soft and easy to break.
* * *
Paul could hear Sally screaming. The sound came from far off, as if he were in a dream that he couldn't wake from. It was insane, and he could feel the sensations of having sex. His body was being used, he could feel Sally, and yet he couldn't. As if he was on another level, out of reach, unable to control his movements. As if someone or something had taken control of his mind and body.
There was a name echoing through his head; Lamia. Lamia. Lamia.
And Sally was screaming, and sobbing, and begging him to stop. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
And then it was over.
Like in the hospital after the conference, confusion lifted, clarity returned leaving only a dull pain deep inside his skull – and shock at what lay before his eyes.
Sally hung over the sink, her clothing ripped to shreds. Wheals and bloodied scratch marks all down her back, blood trickling down her thighs.
‘Sal …’
Slowly, she turned and faced him. Her face streaked in tears, bite marks on her breasts. ‘Go,’ she said.
‘Sally … it was her.’
‘Go!’ she screamed at the top of her voice. ‘Go!’
* * *
The witch was within him. Petronella, Lamia, whatever the name, it was certainly a witch. And there was only one way of killing a witch … He stopped his train of thought. He needed to work on automatic pilot, not thinking – doing. She was within him, he had no doubt, he needed to control his thoughts, not give away any inkling of what he needed to do.
Putting distance between him and Sally was paramount, He snatched her car keys and ran out of the cottage, her sobs breaking his heart.
Outside, something caught his eye. The glowing embers of a bonfire. He could smell something, smells reminiscent of a barbecue on a summer's day. He hadn't been out here cooking. He'd been out here burning his carvings, and Owen had turned up …
His old friend's car was still parked by the wall.
Bile was rising in his throat as he walked towards the hot ashes. When he saw the blackened carcass he wretched violently. Tears streamed down his face.
‘Bastard!’ he screamed into the night.
Autopilot clicked in. Years of training, mind over matter clicked into place. Torture training, he'd always thought of it. Blanking out everything of importance. Concentrating on the mundane. Give nothing away.
He picked up the things he needed, turned and walked back to the car.
Automatically, he headed towards London. Radio on, loud. He sang along, at the top of his voice. Mile upon mile flew by.
At some point in his journey, his mobile rang, vibrating in his pocket. He took it out, glanced at the screen – Daniel Rake.
He would answer. Natural for him to answer. ‘Paul Christian.’
‘Paul!’
‘Speaking.’
‘Paul, for God's sake, man … tell me where you are.’
‘Driving.’
‘Sally rang me. Paul, tell me where you are. I'll come and get you. You're sick. We'll get you some treatment …’
He hung up, throwing the mobile onto the passenger seat. He ignored the next two calls. No more followed.
He directed his thoughts back to training. Sergeant Johnston had been a sadistic bastard to cadets. ‘Move it, Christian. Move it!’ He could feel his spittle on his face. He could feel the weight of his backpack bouncing on his spine.
Paul drove, music blaring – Sergeant Johnston bellowing in his head.
Headlights in his mirror meant nothing. London's roads were chaotic. He noted the shape, knew what make of car it was following him. Guessed who the driver was.
‘Keep it moving, Christian, you weak little runt.’
He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, weaving between the cars. Headlights followed, then were lost amongst the chaos of London's streets.
He drew the car to a halt by the river. Got out, took the can. ‘Stop snivelling Christian. Concentrate on me, Christian! You pathetic excuse for a soldier.’ Spittle splashed into his face.
An expanse of grey river ran in front of him, stone wall, stone steps, black leather shoes running down each step. No! Army boots, size twelve, and Johnston's voice bellowing, ‘Call them press ups, Christian? My mother could do better …’
He untwisted the lid from the can. The smell of petrol filled his nose and a sudden pain shot through his temples. He reached into his memories and brought Sergeant Johnston back to the forefront of his thoughts. ‘Move it, Christian!’
‘Move it, Christian,’ he repeated out loud, lifting the can, spilling the liquid over his head, soaking himself in petrol.
He heard it shriek from inside him. Felt it writhe, clawing at his arm from the inside to stop him.
Someone else was shouting his name. Rake. He glimpsed Daniel Rake and Fitzpatrick peering over the wall.
Within him, Paul felt its power explode inside, clawing at his hand from inside of him, a battle of wills as blackness swamped his consciousness. He struck the match.
‘Paul, no!’ Rake's voice rang out.
As a wall of flame shot up, Paul glimpsed Rake and Fitzpatrick running hell for leather towards him.
It shrieked inside of him. He sensed its swirling terror as flame engulfed them both. ‘Die, bitch,’ he uttered, as heat scorched his throat.
Something else appeared through the flames – his darling Helena, smiling at him, arms reaching out to take him away from this ball of flame.
Then something slammed against him, knocking him off his feet. The dark waters of the Thames rushed up to meet him, and with the shock of the cold, so another shock-wave flashed through him – an entity vacating his body, shooting out of him.
He saw it, before water flooded over his head, and as the hiss of steam rose all around him, he saw it – the shimmering haze of evil, hovering against the grey of night – winged and demonic, powerful and hateful.
Someone was shouting. Fitzpatrick’s voice, ‘What the hell is that?’
Before Paul sank below the surface, he heard another sound, that of wings beating. A raven, black as night, swooped down, flying straight through the demonic spirit, sucking it up into its sleek body. It flew on, into the darkness of the night.
No! Paul silently screamed, as the blackness of icy water swamped him, and oblivion claimed him.
* * *
.
26
Flickering lights and hospital smells confirmed to Paul that he was still alive. Slowly as his surroundings came into focus, he thought he was nine years old again. He was all wired up, his throat felt parched, and it felt like gauze dressing covered most of his body.
He looked around for the deflated birthday balloons. There were none. He glanced to his side, expecting his parents to be there. They weren’t, but Fitzpatrick was.
He jumped up and pressed a buzzer. Moments later a doctor and nurse came in, followed by Daniel Rake.
They told him th
e medically induced coma was to alleviate the pain and give his body time to heal. Paul didn’t need to ask them any other questions, he remembered everything.
There was no point telling them they should have let him die, taking the demon – witch, whatever it was, with him. It had referred to itself as Lamia. He wondered how many others Lamia had possessed over the ages. Petronella had been a victim just like him. Just a poor sod that Lamia took over to control and spread her evil.
There would be no convincing anyone, though. No one would believe such evil existed.
By now they would have discovered Owen’s body. Tears swam in his eyes for his old pal. And Sally … poor Sally.
His heart ached.
He wouldn’t get prison. Diminished responsibility. They’d just lock him up in a secure hospital and pump him full of drugs.
‘Can you hear me, Paul?’ Daniel Rake said softly.
‘Yes,’ he uttered.
‘We saw it.’
Paul stared through the slits in the gauze covering his face.
Daniel Rake moved closer to him, Fitzpatrick too.
‘We both saw it.’
Paul blinked. ‘What did you see?’
‘The witch,’ Rake whispered. ‘It was like a heat haze but in the shape of a winged angel.’
‘No angel,’ Paul said, struggling to get the words out. ‘Devil.’
‘And,’ added Fitzpatrick, ‘some of the parishioners at the church where the priest jumped, reported seeing a similar vision.’
He stared at them, a flicker of hope rising within him. ‘So, I’m not insane,’ Paul croaked.
‘No, and you’re not to blame for Owen’s death. You were possessed by some demonic force,’ said Rake. ‘I gather that’s why you set fire to yourself.’
‘It was the only way. Only now it’s free again. It would have been better if you’d let me burn. It was the only way to destroy it.’
‘As if I’d stand there and let you burn yourself alive,’ said Rake, his eyes narrowed at the thought of it. Then he smiled. ‘The Thames was bloody cold though.’