Until the End

by Rick Wood

  “Please…”

  He pulled the blade across his flesh until it met the other side of his throat. Blood sprayed like a water fountain, a squirt of thick red covering the tiles of the bathroom.

  When April discovered him the next day, the walls had been covered. The blood had dried up, but it was everywhere.

  Oscar was still watching.

  Why was he still watching?

  Because it still hurts.

  He and Julian had had a mixed relationship. But, despite the forthright nature of Julian’s conversations, he was there for him. He never left. He took care of April, and without acknowledging it, he took care of Oscar too.

  Oscar had not thought of that. Even at Julian’s funeral, he was concentrating on taking care of April, making sure she was okay. He had never really thought it to himself — Julian is dead.

  Not just dead.

  Killed, most likely by demonic influence.

  And whilst Oscar had not actually held the knife in real life, he had created this mess. Many had died as a result. Had he made different choices, Julian would still be alive. April would not have suffered losing the closest thing she had to a brother, or even a father.

  And here, watching Julian suffer the last moments of his life in front of him, he had no choice but to acknowledge it.

  He had no choice but to watch it.

  To watch what Julian may have gone through; the pain with which his life would have ended.

  And, as Oscar watched, he allowed himself to feel what he had previously fought away. All the regret, the hurt, and the repressed, conflicting feelings — they were unleashed, flooding his body with remorse and regret and a thousand other emotions he did not understand nor care to appreciate.

  He felt it.

  He allowed it.

  Then it stopped.

  In one decision, made swiftly and decisively, he stopped feeling it.

  He looked at Julian’s body, now laying before him as a corpse, and he accepted it.

  He let it go.

  Just as Om had said, attaching himself to his pain would only serve Hell more.

  So he relieved himself of the burden, despite feeling so undeserving of such liberties.

  He crouched. Put a hand on the image of Julian, on his bloody shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  He stood, and it was done.

  That part of his life was over, and he was finished with it.

  He opened the door to the bathroom, ready to walk out.

  And, as he did, he heard a baby crying.

  He bowed his head, knowing what he was about to face. While had just escaped from his first torment, his torture was only just beginning.

  THEN

  TEN YEARS OLD

  35

  It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and Oscar’s parents had granted him permission to ride his bike around the estate.

  He did this alone, like he did most things alone. Not that he minded his solitude; in fact, he quite liked it. He only felt sad about it because people called him things. Things like loner. The other day a group of boys sang All By Yourself at him, and he couldn’t understand why it mattered whether he was alone.

  But, on this particularly sunny day, he had looked forward to an afternoon by himself. Even though his parents had said he could only cycle around the estate, he had gone a little further, to a field beside his school.

  The school always looked so strange on a Saturday. None of the lights were on. No one was in. The gate was chained. He kind of liked it.

  Once in the field, he cycled to his favourite tree. It was a willow tree. Its branches reminded him of the haircut a boy at school had; floppy and messy. Still, the branches were large and drooped over him, which meant they could conceal him in his own world while he lay under it.

  He left his bike by the side of the tree, then leant against the trunk. From his bag, he took out his book and his comic. He had I Am Legend to read — a book about vampires. The main character in the book, Robert Neville, was the last man alive on earth, and no one teased him about being alone. Oscar was two chapters in, and he was enjoying it.

  He also had a Beano comic. His mum said he was getting too old for them, but he still liked it, and she still bought them for him occasionally.

  He decided he’d continue with the book. He’d enjoyed the beginning and was eager to find out what happened.

  He was only a few pages in when it sounded like someone was calling his name.

  “Oscar.”

  He looked up.

  No one was there. At least, he couldn’t see anyone from between the branches. He was fairly well hidden and, if someone could see him, they surely couldn’t tell who he was.

  It was probably just the wind.

  Even though there was only a gentle breeze, sometimes it sounds louder when pushing between the leaves.

  He continued reading.

  “Oscar.”

  It was still only a whisper, but was a little louder than the last time, and definitely sounded like someone was speaking.

  He ignored it.

  He persisted with reading, only half taking in the words on the page.

  A few minutes went by and he heard nothing else. Deciding that it was just in his head, he became more and more engrossed in his book — meaning that, when his name was spoken again, and with more gusto, it really made him jump.

  “Oscar!”

  He leapt to his knees.

  It was a boy’s voice.

  He recognised the voice.

  He dreaded that voice.

  He looked around, trying to see if he was here, trying to see if it was him.

  It couldn’t be. He was alone; he was sure of it.

  Yet, in the distance, beyond the gaps of the branches, there was something.

  There was someone.

  About his height. Not moving. Just standing still.

  He placed his bookmark in his book and put the book in his bag.

  He edged forward, keeping this figure in his eyeline, not looking away.

  As he made it closer to the overhanging branches, he could tell a bit more about this figure.

  He was chubby.

  Familiar.

  With his arms shaking, Oscar made it to the edge of the branches, and he could just about see…

  Bertrand.

  But the branches still blocked his view. He had to be sure — he had to be absolutely positive.

  He quickly brushed the branches aside to reveal whoever was stood there.

  But no one stood there.

  No boy. No figure. Nothing.

  Just a field.

  Even though he was still alone, he felt frightened. He was sure he’d seen him; he was so, so sure.

  He wasn’t taking any chances.

  He rushed back to his bike, leapt upon the seat, and cycled away — riding quickly past the point at which he thought the boy had stood.

  He did not stop until he reached home.

  NOW

  36

  The torrential hail hammered against the outside of the windows, but the inside of the house was quiet. Thea and Henry lay unconscious.

  The evil that had overcome the house had left. The noises had stopped. The stink had gone. It was empty.

  This was the first thing Thea acknowledged when she came around. The absence of what had been. The feeling of liberation, that the house was now free, and that they were alone.

  But it wasn’t good news. Even though the house was now safe, the rest of the world was not.

  She looked around. Readjusted. Took in the room.

  She was in the living room.

  How had she fallen unconscious? She didn’t remember doing so. Her last memory was of laying on the floor, but defiantly, telling The Devil that Oscar would stop him.

  She had no idea where he had taken April’s body, what he was doing, and how long this world had left.

  This was the end; there was no doubt about it.

  Oscar
had told them to keep April’s body in the house, to stop The Devil from getting out.

  They had failed.

  “Henry?” Thea said, weakly, propping herself up on her elbows and peering at the still body across the room.

  The crucifix lay beside her hand.

  “Henry, wake up,” she urged.

  She pushed herself to her knees, paused, and held herself up by her shaking arms.

  “Henry, come on.”

  Henry’s body moved a little. He groaned.

  Thea crawled across the carpet to his side. She knelt over him, pushing his body, tapping his cheek.

  “Come on,” she persisted.

  His head turned.

  “Henry…”

  His eyelids fluttered and lifted. He looked confused.

  “Henry, we have to go. We have to find April.”

  “What — what’s going on?”

  He looked around, reminding himself of where he was and what had happened.

  Thea helped him sit up. He rubbed his eyes, and she watched his face change as the memory returned.

  “We let her go,” Henry said, his voice small. “He escaped.”

  “That’s right. That’s why we have to go find her.”

  “But how will we–”

  “I don’t know, but we will, and that is why you have to get up.”

  She pushed herself to her feet, hoping that if she found more energy, so would he. She paused to let a head rush pass, then began gathering supplies.

  The crucifix. Holy water. Rosary beads.

  The items she would take into battle, just as Oscar had taught her.

  Except, this was no ordinary exorcism, and she did not know what she was about to march them both into.

  They could stay at home. They could remain in safety and watch the world end from the sofa. They could die peacefully, unlike so many others who would not be so fortunate.

  But she couldn’t. Despite the odds against them, the Sensitives were the last defence, and they had to keep battling to their last breath.

  They could not afford themselves the luxury of admitting they had lost.

  By the time Thea had gathered what she needed and returned to the living room, Henry was sitting on the sofa, massaging his temples.

  “We need to go,” she said.

  Henry didn’t look up. He buried his head in his hands.

  “We don’t have time for this,” she insisted.

  He kept his face hidden and shook his head.

  “Henry, come on.”

  “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

  Thea shifted her weight from one foot to the other, very much aware that time was against them. She knelt in front of him and placed her hands on his arms.

  “Henry, we need to go.”

  “I can’t… I’m not like you. I only beat that horde of possessed a few weeks ago because you were there. I only survived The Devil coming downstairs because you were there. All I do is hold you back.”

  He lifted his head. His eyes were red, his cheeks damp.

  “I think I’m going to go home,” he said. “If the world’s going to end, I should be with my family.”

  “I need you, Henry.”

  “You don’t. You do much better without–”

  “Would you stop it!” she snapped.

  She tried to calm herself down, then realised she didn’t want to calm down. She opened her mouth and unleashed.

  “You think I’m not scared? You think I’m not terrified? You think I am not completely and totally out of my depth here?”

  “But you’re a Sensitive who–”

  “Please, I’ve been here for about a year! The only reason Oscar keeps me around is because of the strength of my skill, not my experience. I have no idea what I’m doing, and I fully expect us to lose this battle.”

  Henry shook his head despairingly. “Then why bother?”

  She placed her hands on his cheeks and ensured he was looking at her.

  “Because what else do we do? We aren’t allowed to give up. It is up to us, and us alone, to give it one last try.”

  She took his right hand in her right hand, clasped it, used it to hoist him up.

  “Until the end,” she said.

  He looked back at her, forcing resolve through the dread and the tears.

  “Until the end,” he echoed.

  He took his crucifix and, together, they left the house.

  37

  “Hi, Daddy,” said Hayley.

  Except, it wasn’t Hayley, was it?

  As Oscar stared at this child in the centre of his living room, months old but already talking and the size of a toddler, he reminded himself of that. She had toys in front of her, Duplo or something, but wasn’t playing with them. They spread out across the carpet anarchically, as if deliberately placed to seem messy.

  She was beaming up at him.

  “You’re not a child,” Oscar told her, though he was saying it more to himself than to the thing that had masqueraded as his daughter and almost made him kill April.

  The control it had had over him… The way it blinded him to what it was doing…

  It had been unreal. Oscar had left because of it. The harm that had been done to April… He could not forgive himself for that.

  “Won’t you come play with me, Daddy?”

  “You’re not a child,” Oscar repeated.

  “What are you talking about, Daddy?”

  Oscar hated the way she talked. It was so bouncy, as if trying to perform the image of a cheerful child rather than genuinely being one.

  How had he ever been so successfully fooled by it?

  “You drained the life out of April,” he said, directing it at the child, but again, saying it more for his own observation.

  “What are you talking about, Daddy?”

  “Stop calling me Daddy!”

  “But, Daddy–”

  “Enough!”

  He turned away. He couldn’t look at it. The pain this thing had caused, the mental torment, the influence it had over him — it was too much.

  He did not want to be influenced by it again. He had to keep reminding himself what it was. He had to say it aloud, to ensure he was acknowledging it; to make sure he knew exactly what this thing was.

  “I think you’re mad, Daddy.”

  “You are not a child. You are a demon. Your name is…”

  What was its name?

  What was the demon’s name?

  “I think you–”

  “Lamia,” Oscar remembered. “Your name is Lamia. And you are not real.”

  Hayley — or, rather, Lamia presenting itself as Hayley — stood.

  “Come with me, Daddy,” she said.

  Oscar did as he was told.

  He followed her through the living room and into the kitchen.

  “Make me a milkshake, Daddy.”

  He opened the cupboards, looking for the powder. It was on the top shelf, just where they kept it. He took a glass from the draining board and opened the fridge, taking out the milk.

  “Quicker, Daddy.”

  He sped up. He poured the powder into the glass, poured the milk, and stirred so quickly his arm ached.

  What was he doing? Why was he obeying her again? He was tricked before, and he could not understand why he was reverting to old ways.

  Yet, even though he was consciously thinking this, even though he knew that he was being controlled, he was still helpless to stop it.

  It felt exactly like it did when this demon child had manipulated him before.

  He finished making the drink, turned, and handed it to Hayley.

  She was no longer alone.

  She took the drink and sat at the table beside April.

  April had no mouth.

  Her eyes stared up at Oscar, terrified, beseeching him to help — but she could not verbally request it. There was just skin where her lips should be, her teeth and tongue concealed by flesh.

  Hayley was doing this, Osc
ar knew it. Hayley was ensuring April could not object, could not beg, could not influence Oscar.

  Oscar accepted it.

  If this was what Hayley wanted, then this was what she would get.

  She slurped down the last gulp of milkshake.

  April kept looking at him, kept staring, kept trying to use her eyes to plead for help, to get him to realise that this was all wrong.

  Hayley held the glass out to Oscar. “Put this in the sink, Daddy.”

  “Yes, Hayley.”

  Oscar took the glass and placed it in the sink.

  “Get out a kitchen knife, Daddy. The sharpest one you have.”

  “Yes, Hayley.”

  Oscar opened the kitchen drawer, found a sharp knife, and took it out. He held it by his side and looked at Hayley for further instructions.

  Hayley grinned at April’s wild desperation to speak, and her lack of ability to do so.

  She couldn’t even make a sound.

  Hayley looked back to Oscar, who stood so still and obediently, awaiting her command.

  “Now kill Mummy, Daddy,” she said.

  “Yes, Hayley.”

  38

  The pilot told Lorenzo that they were ten minutes away from the airport.

  Om looked at Oscar’s body, strapped in next to him, empty and still.

  Om did not imagine the world had more than hours left. And, even if the world had more than hours — say it had days, for example — in that time this body would bloat, and blood would leak out, and it would be an almost useless vessel for Oscar to return to. The internal organs hadn’t worked for a few hours and decomposition had begun. It would not be a body that functioned as Oscar expected it to, and if it was left empty of life for too much longer it may not work at all.

  They needed Oscar to hurry.

  Om looked up, realising that Lorenzo was glaring at him. Lorenzo quickly looked away when Om caught his eye.

  “Tell me,” Om said, “have I done something wrong, or is it just me you despise?”

  Lorenzo snorted an ironic snort — as if he was saving a witty retort just for himself.

  “I did what was needed,” Om continued. “Oscar is where he needs to be, doing what he has to do.”