Fragmented Evil

by Craig Wrightson

  Still the blood continued to rise. Probing into his nostrils, swirling around the tiny cavities. His body shook wildly as he struggled to hold the breath in his bursting lungs.

  Only when the sticky blood had fully covered his head did the last oxygen escape from Dan, bubbling up through the thick gelatinous red fluid.

  As Dan became fully submerged, hidden from view, the taps began rotating in the opposite direction, ceasing the flow.

  A final drop of blood appeared at the end of the tap. It hung precariously then, unable to hang on any further, it released itself from its hold and dropped down to the waiting blood below whose surface was as calm as a millpond.

  Ripples erupted from the still blood and travelled out to the sides of the tub in small circles.

  Then there was nothing; only the faint chill remained. Waiting.

  Chapter 7

  For Pretty in Pink, life had suddenly changed two weeks before her thirteenth birthday when both her parents had been killed in a car accident. An accident that she had barely survived, though she wished that she had been taken at the same time. She had known that she was too young and that her parents would never grant her permission to attend a late viewing of an eighteen-rated movie with a few of her older friends at the local cinema but still she had tried her luck. All heads had been turned to her as the inevitable screaming match had kicked off.

  Overcome with waves of emotion, Pretty in Pink had withdrawn deep into herself. With no one to care about, she had become cold, almost to the point of uncaring. Guilt lay heavily on her shoulders. After all, it was she they were all arguing about when the oncoming car had come hurtling around the corner of the tight countryside road in the wrong lane with no lights on. They never stood a chance. The driver of the other car had been killed instantly and Pretty in Pink thanked God daily for that small mercy. Who was he to live? Let his family suffer the same as she had.

  Social Services had tried placing her in foster homes and had offered a whole range of counselling, but they all ended up with her being moved on within a few weeks. Even seasoned foster parents struggled, afraid of her long silences and dark moods.

  With no other option, Pretty in Pink had been placed in residential care. Here she met others who were worse off than herself. Some had been abused, others had junkies or alcoholics as parents. Through time she allowed the dark cloak to rise from her shoulders and tried in vain to revert herself back to the sweet, innocent teenager that she once was. This was all well and good, but sadly the majority of her new friends were already damaged to the point of no return. Soon she was caught up in their rebellious lifestyles, smoking cannabis on darkened street corners and participating in petty theft with her new-found gang of teenage tearaways. One thing followed another. Their meagre weekly allowance from the residential home was nowhere near enough to pay for the drugs they needed so they shoplifted on demand from local shops. A bottle of perfume from Boots, twenty cigarettes from the corner shop, a good vodka from the off-licence. There was always a queue of buyers for these vastly reduced goods.

  After witnessing one of the gang receive a severe beating from an enraged and frustrated shop owner, Pretty in Pink had caught a glimpse of what her life ahead could hold. Returning to school, she had knuckled down and left with decent results. Not enough for the sixth form but enough for college. A Sunday morning stroll along one of Edinburgh’s flea markets where local artists displayed their talents had ignited a yearning for photography. She had enrolled on a photography course and found she had a natural talent. The others in the class were impressed with her attention to detail but shamelessly mocked her behind her back, laughing and joking about her second-hand camera.

  Pretty in Pink had cried when she first experienced her classmate's maliciousness. She had left the college that evening and through a contact she had made from her time with her gang, went on to sell cannabis on the streets. She had not returned to the class for two weeks until she had made enough cash to purchase all the latest camera equipment, much to the envy of the others. She had unpacked her rucksack and laid everything on out on the table with a look of sheer satisfaction on her face. The mocking and abuse had been silenced for good.

  From that moment, Pretty in Pink never strayed again. She worked tirelessly to catch up on the coursework she had missed. Soon she had surpassed her peers and was winning praise from her tutors who were keen to display her work.

  She had accidentally stumbled across the website for 28 Days Later and had been drawn to the peculiar photographs posted. The emptiness of the buildings and the stillness of the shots had captivated her. She had joined without hesitation and now two years later she still felt the buzz from her trips. often carried out under the cover of darkness, with asylums being her favourite places of all. She lived for fear, she had nothing else to lose.

  Alone in the dark with her camera equipment, sneaking around St Mary’s, Pretty in Pink had never felt so alive.

  For some strange reason the decaying walls of the corridor had caught her attention.

  Everywhere the paint peeled away from the walls in layers. Hanging like autumn leaves. Many had fallen to the floor, creating a soggy footpath over time.

  She had opened all the corridor doors fully to photograph its full length, planning to capture the eerie look from different heights and positions. She planned the last shots to be taken with her pressing herself up as close as possible to the wall to capture the decadent paintwork in all its glory.

  She was just setting the height of the tripod, having first carefully fitted her Polaroid ten stop neutral density filter to her Canon DSLR camera in the hope of enhancing the colour and minimising any glare from the scene.

  Bang!

  The first door slammed shut causing Pretty in Pink to nearly jump out her skin. She looked up from her camera but saw nothing.

  Seconds later, there was another bang as the second door was shut, louder and harder this time, causing the small square viewing glass in the centre of the door to shatter.

  Bang!

  The third door shut with such force it rattled the woodwork.

  The air went still and Pretty in Pink could sense an invisible force approaching. Without thinking, she turned and ran.

  She was aware of the presence before it spoke, singing softly in her ear, 'You’re going to die, you’re going to die.'

  Pretty in Pink summoned all her strength and found herself sprinting faster than she had ever run in her short life.

  She winced in pain as she felt talon-like claws clamp down hard on her shoulders, piercing into her soft young skin.

  The singing got louder, more hysterical. 'You’re going to die, you’re going die.’

  Her heart raced as she found herself lifted off her feet, her legs still in motion as if she was pedalling an invisible bike. The force propelled her forwards towards the end of the corridor.

  Pretty in Pink just had time to cover her face with her arms as the force released its grip and she found herself being flung through an unboarded window. The glass shattered on impact and she descended into the darkness below.

  Chapter 8

  Top Dollar was not all he seemed. Ever since joining 28 Days Later a few years before, he had repeatedly broken the number one rule of the group to line his own pockets with cash. If places were discovered by other members and looked promising, he would often return alone, with the sole purpose of stealing and weighing in whatever he could get his grubby hands on.

  That was not his biggest secret. Unbeknown to the others, Top Dollar was heavily into the occult and was a true believer of Satan. The twisted history of St Mary's had fired him up. During his subsequent research he had stumbled upon old rumours of hidden and priceless artefacts, purposely sourced to worship the devil, later concealed within the chapel. No one knew of their location and no map had ever been discovered but Top Dollar had a plan.

  In a growing world of non-believers, Top Dollar hoped that the placing of a
pentagram in this sacred place, a place that had witnessed many forms of pure evil over time, would act as a catalyst in the summoning of an evil presence, who would sense his belief, give him a sign and hopefully direct him to the artefacts. This would finally give him the chance to educate the multitude of weak-minded individuals who had constantly scorned and shunned him throughout his troubled life.

  It was with this plan in mind that Top Dollar found himself outside the chapel having watched the others head off in separate directions. The door to the chapel was solid oak, normally locked by a wooden bar. The bar had been removed and flung to the floor, leaving the entrance partly open, simplifying things for the eager Top Dollar.

  The door creaked as Top Dollar eased it open with his shoulder. He paused and waited for a few seconds to see if the noise had alerted any of the others. He switched on his head torch and entered the chapel. The air was stagnant; his powerful light penetrated through the bleakness. The only other light came from high up on the wall where a small corner of stained glass window that had not been boarded up remained. From this, multi-coloured light danced in front of the altar illuminating the way ahead. He took two steps forwards and stopped. He placed his hands on his hips and leant back, drawing the historic atmosphere deep into his lungs.

  There was evidence of a small fire in the nearby corner. Floorboards had burnt away and black smoke stained the wall. Further looking around, Top Dollar saw that the place was in total disrepair after many years of neglect and frequent break-ins. The wooden pews at the rear of the chapel had been either removed or smashed into pieces to be used as firewood. The pews at the front were more intact and covered with litter and stains. The pews gave way to a small flat area that led to a small flight of steps to the altar. The altar was stripped bare of any artefacts, hastily removed when the asylum had closed. Lying on top of it was a crushed green can of Kestrel Super Strength lager.

  Behind the altar was a wall, covered in crude graffiti, mainly anti-Semitic, swastikas and SS signs. The poor quality and vulgarity of the graffiti was a common trademark for skinheads. Locations like St Mary’s, secluded and abandoned, were the ideal place for them to rebel against the system and let off some steam. The daubings had been clumsily sprayed with cheap spray paint. Sadly, the skinheads gave no consideration to those who their actions might offend.

  Top Dollar climbed the steps and glanced back out towards the chapel, imagining it in its prime, full to the rafters with inmate upon inmate all wishing to cleanse their souls before their time came to an abrupt end. He thought too of the other sermons that had gone on here, under cover of darkness, attended only by a chosen few. He wished he could have been present then, to take in all of the glory, witness the power, surrounded by other like-minded fellows. All gathered together with a shared aim – the summoning of evil.

  A quick glance around revealed that there was nothing of value on offer for him to steal. With a sigh, he removed his rucksack and set about preparing the chapel for what was most likely to be its last sermon to the dark side and hopefully the most famous.

  Using an assortment of tea tree candles, popular among photographers for enhancing photographs in gloomy conditions, Top Dollar fashioned a crude pentagram on the chapel floor. He placed the small lights at the tip of each of the five points and outlined the star with white chalk.

  Using a lighter, he bent down and lit the candles. A light breeze filtered underneath the door and the flames danced lightly in the front of the chapel. As he leant forwards to light the candles furthest away from him, the breeze became stronger, picking up the dust, driving it forwards.

  Top Dollar twitched as the breeze tickled his neck. Flicking at his exposed skin with his hand, he moved onto the last candle, unaware of what was taking place behind him.

  The dust swirl had become faster, growing in strength, almost angry.

  An apparition, taking the shape of Thomas Arkle, emerged from the swirling dust. In seconds, the transition was complete and a fully developed Thomas stepped purposefully into the eerie chapel.

  Clutching the ice pick from the original lobotomy, Thomas strode towards Top Dollar with darkened eyes. He brought the ice pick crashing down with all the strength he could muster onto Top Dollar’s exposed head, splitting his skull wide open like a ripe watermelon. Thomas released his grip and the ice pick remained firmly embedded. Top Dollar toppled, face forwards, onto the chapel floor where he remained motionless.

  Chapter 9

  The roof of the chapel, stripped bare of its roof tiles and with wooden beams rotted away by years of exposure, offered little resistance to the plummeting body of Pretty in Pink.

  It did, however, slow her descent. She crashed through the aged structure, startling a perched pigeon who flew off into the night discarding flea-infested feathers in its wake. Tumbling through a hole in the ceiling, she landed heavily on top of Thomas Arkle, sending him toppling to the floor.

  He landed in the centre of the pentagram and lay concussed. The flames from the tea tree candles flickered at the tinder-dry edges of his hospital gown and began smouldering away at the thin material.

  Pretty in Pink had been lucky. The impact of the fall had been absorbed by the unexpected presence of Thomas Arkle and although badly shaken by the whole event, she found herself lying a few metres away from the altar with thankfully nothing more than a few cuts and bruises to worry about.

  She slowly took to her feet, gently patting herself down to see if she had sustained any hidden injuries. Her mouth dropped open and she wavered as she took in the scene in front of her. A body which she easily identified as Top Dollar lay face down with what looked like an axe embedded in his skull. A pool of congealed blood was present by his head. Next to him was a man who she had never met before. They were both lying in a star shape that was decorated with small burning candles. A number of the candles had been tipped over during the commotion and lay burning on the floorboards.

  The stranger put the fear of god into Pretty in Pink. With his bald head and his body covered in scabs and sores, he resembled the devil himself.

  As she stood surveying the scene, the smouldering flame took hold on the stranger's odd-looking garment and ignited, the flames travelling up his arm at pace.

  The heat kick-started Thomas Arkle back into action and he made to stand, seemingly unconcerned about the fire that was gradually engulfing his body.

  Pretty in Pink felt her bladder empty as she found herself standing in front of the towering madman. His eyes twinkled as he took in Pretty in Pink for the first time and he clumsily stepped forwards. At that moment, the flames from his gown reached his bare shoulder. He cried out as he looked down and started to frantically pat at the flames.

  Pretty in Pink didn’t need any further encouragement. With no idea of what was happening she turned and fled, running up the aisle of the chapel as fast as she could. She had already witnessed how harsh life could be and was well aware of what lay ahead if she was to fall off the track again. She knew that she had to get out as quickly as she could, leave 28 Days Later and never speak to anyone again about the whole terrifying experience; bury everything deep in the back of her mind with the rest of her horrors of life.

  She paused to catch her breath at the doorway and looked around. A fire had started on the chapel floor and was slowly snaking its way towards the altar. The madman was now fully ablaze, his skin bubbling from the intense heat. With the flames now covering his full torso, he ambled forwards with a look of hatred etched on his destroyed face.

  Taking a gulp of fresh air, Pretty in Pink turned and slammed the chapel door shut with all her might. She saw the wooden bar on the floor and lowered it into place, firmly locking it shut.

  As the cries from the stranger became louder and faint strands of smoke started to curl under the chapel door, Pretty in Pink plunged into the darkness of the corridor in a desperate last-ditch attempt to locate the exit.

  Chapter 10

  As the flame
s in the chapel of St Mary’s escalated, Pretty in Pink watched in astonishment from the safety of the trees as the souls trapped within the asylum fragmented into the inferno as one. Their screams of pure agony were clear to hear as the billowing smoke carried them upwards into the darkness. The air became charged and as they reached the dark clouds above, a clap of thunder and bolt of lightning was released. It shook the ground, illuminating the horizon for miles around.

  Then there was nothing, only silence.

  Pretty in Pink stood for one final look at the scene, shrugged her shoulders, turned, and without a care in the world retreated back into the confines of the woods.

  The sky became calm, and the fire in the asylum slowly weakened, gradually fizzling out, leaving the ancient building standing proud once again. Like it had for decades before.

  Pure once more, absolved from sins of the past, ready to meet its maker.

  The End

  The Resurrection Men

  Hell has no benefits, only torture.

  John Milton, 1667.

  Chapter 1

  Jesmond Old Cemetery was deserted. Its gates were firmly locked. A crude but effective length of thick chain was wrapped tightly around the handle and a solid rusted padlock prevented any entrance. The piercing sharp, black spikes at the top of the gate and around the fenced perimeter discouraged any foolish attempt of entry by other means. Only one light from the watchkeeper’s cottage was lit.

  The two men hiding in the shadows opposite, crouched low and silent, waited patiently for the light to be extinguished indicating that the old watchkeeper had retired to his bed. They were in no hurry; they were prepared for the long wait.