by Alec Dunn
The glow of the moon revealed the shrivelled dead winter leaves which would shout his presence and sunken graves that could trip him. He quickly stepped over the obstacles while phosphorous tendrils of mist reached out for him from beyond the graves.
He caught snapshots of Gregor and Lucretia between the sepulchres and gravestones, none of Max.
They were still on the path and he followed behind them, off the path, at some distance; he snatched brief glimpses.
Gregor pointing at something.
Step over leaves.
Lucretia kneeling to look at something on the floor.
Hands brushing against a damp stone tomb.
Gregor and Lucretia at different graves, different tombs, reading, looking around.
He ducked behind a smaller grave to weigh up his options, pulse hammering, straining to breath in silence. This was certainly not giving the answers that he wanted. What the hell was going on? His chest heaved as he tried to calm himself and think.
He is here.
And, from behind his hiding place, the small dark grave drowning in the darkness of night, Tristan looked out.
Gregor was standing slightly back from a large, solid tomb, a horribly familiar tomb. It was the same tomb Tristan had stood in the lengthening shadow of earlier, the same tomb that had so drastically churned his mind and emotions, filling him with unreasoning fear. Lucretia was closer to it, looking carefully, looking, but keeping her distance, walking around the squat and austere tomb and now Tristan saw what it was she was looking at, or staring into.
The tomb was open.
The lid of the tomb had been lifted off and lay atop the tomb at a jilted, unnatural angle. The darkness that he could just see in the opening of the tomb seeped out like blood from a wound, like a suppurating infection feeding the darkness. Evil.
He knew the grave, the tomb, where he had paused before, where he had almost collapsed, where he had heard the scratching, belonged to Earnest Matthew Grimm, 1734 – 1786.
He dashed to a closer gravestone.
Lucretia looking around.
He ran closer, to the next shelter.
Gregor turning blindly in circles, holding his walking stick out before him like a weapon.
He dodged closer.
Lucretia wrestling with a tall figure, a figure so dark it was like a silhouette against the night, dressed in a dark suit and an old fashioned hat; Gregor was circling, shouting something, chanting.
Tristan had stopped mid graves, out in the open, captured by what he saw. Lucretia was wrenched off her feet by a hand gripping her throat, lifted by the tall figure, raised above its head by both black elongated arms; she was thrown against a grave with a sickening crunch. It twisted its body, wrapping around itself and snarled words at Gregor in an animal growl.
The old man staggered backwards and fell. It was almost comical, Gregor sitting down stupidly on his bottom in the wet grass.
The tall figure’s head snapped round like it was on a spring and it stared at Tristan, standing between the graves, in full view.
He sees you.
Tristan stepped back.
The figure was running towards him, covering the distance at impossible speed. Tristan took it in at a blur. A perverted ruin of a face glared at him, beastlike, animal. A noise building like a train approaching.
He faced his death and could do nothing.
The tall suit man, thing, beast, was upon him and Tristan could only wait. The world stopped for him. Terror stopped his movement, almost stopped his heart. He simply stood and waited for his last second to pass.
A roar filled his ears, but a different roar and the beast filling his vision disappeared – sideways. Two figures rolled on the floor: the tall suit thing and another, familiar figure. Max.
Ten : Tristan Joins the Group
The two figures crashed to the floor and rolled, thrashing and struggling across the graves and the leaves and the wet grass.
Saved from the attack of the suited thing, Tristan stood frozen. His heartbeat throbbed through his whole body. Adrenaline flooded his blood, setting his muscles to shaking and his senses on fire.
He laughed aloud.
It was Sankey all over again. Max had saved him again.
Mist and darkness and stone fractured his view of the Max and the thing. But the noises ripped through the night: snarling, thumps, gasps, ripping, cries.
From the corner of his eye, Tristan noticed the quickly approaching, silent Lucretia and the larger, slower shadow of Gregor slightly behind; there was a guttural sound – a word? A growl? – there was a violent thunk of bone as Max flew across his sight before being brutally stopped by a solid, square corner of stone. Max’s head jerked backwards to the sound of another splintering crash of bone. A darker blur flashed upwards against the darkness of the night, the suit thing bounded over graves and was disappearing immeasurably fast into the distant fields.
Tristan’s heart beat through his whole body.
He sank to his knees in relief and terror.
It was over.
He tried to take it all in, make sense of what had happened, understand: Max’s unconscious body had slumped down the square mausoleum, a dark liquid smear showed the trail of his head against the stone; Lucretia was looking out over the distant fields; Gregor was approaching him, his wrinkled face looked like a spider web of inky black lines, breaking into a twisted smile, “Ill met by moonlight, my resourceful, if reckless, young friend.”
Tristan stared at him in shock, mesmerised by his calm, utterly unbothered poise.
“I must say I am somewhat surprised to greet you in this carnal house of the damned, but it is always a pleasure to see you, my boy, always a pleasure,” Gregor’s tongue flicked over his lips and he continued. “You have been witness to our nocturnal dance macabre, as it were, eh?”
It was like they had just met in the library and weren’t in the middle of a graveyard in the depths of night surrounded by the dead and one of the graves hadn’t opened and a thing appear and there hadn’t been a fight and Lucretia hadn’t been thrown against a grave and Max knocked unconscious, left bleeding, maybe even dead and Gregor just stood there smiling, standing there, smiling and talking and not even bothered.
He hadn’t even checked on Max, hadn’t even checked if he was alive before coming over to talk and smile at him.
In his mind, Tristan heard again the sickening noise as Max’s head snapped back; something must have broken. And there was blood. Lots of blood.
“Whatever made you come here, Tristan? What indeed?” Gregor leant forward heavily on his walking stick and breathed reedily in. “You must have been a curious boy to come here, and brave too.” His smile widened. “Well done. Well done. However, have you plumbed the depths of your curiosity? Has your thirst for knowledge been satiated? Have you found the answers you were looking for?”
This was not what Tristan had expected. Congratulations for spying on them and from the very person he had come to spy on. He was confused. His numb lips parted and his numb mind asked the first desperate question that bubbled up, “Max?”
“Max?” Was there a twinkle of amusement in Gregor’s eye? “The answer?” A slight edge stained Gregor’s voice. “Oh, I think not.” Gregor performed a pretence of realisation, “Or do you mean is Max alright?” Then dryly, “I should think so. It is hard to keep Max down.” He looked to his left and Tristan followed his gaze to where Max was standing, one arm hanging awkwardly, but otherwise looking his usual angry self and rubbing the back of his head. Blood was flowing freely down his neck, “Isn’t that right Max?”
Max made a throaty noise in agreement.
Gregor’s purple, black tongue flicked over his lips, “Tristan found his way to the graveyard. He seems to be searching for answers, Max. He shows potential, don’t you think?” The black wormlike tongue rolled hungrily over his lips again, “Great potential. Perhaps I made a mistake not inviting you along. Perhaps it is time to invite him to join ou
r group.”
Lucretia interrupted, cutting loudly across Gregor, “He’s gone, Gregor, escaped us.” She sounded angry and was cold and to the point.
Gregor’s smile faded a little and he replied without looking away from Tristan, “He’ll be back.”
“He knows, Gregor, he knows we are here. It will be more difficult to find him now.” Was she blaming him?
Gregor was impatient, annoyed, “He always knew, Lucretia. This isn’t some base creature, without talent or knowledge. We can wait. There are other matters to deal with.” The smile returned to full beam, “Can I offer you a lift back to your house Tristan? I’m afraid the hour is late and you’ll have missed the last bus by now.”
Gregor’s innocent and helpful words trembled with the infirmity of age, but Tristan knew that Gregor wielded strange powers; he held secrets, he kept answers. Death surrounded the old man and rather than share his secrets or give his answers he offered a lift home. The mockery of those words burned in his ears.
Tristan’s heart thundered in rage.
It was rage that made Tristan stand up. It was rage that made him ignore his shaking legs. He wouldn’t have been able to tell if they were shaking because of the cold or adrenaline anyway. The bloody and incomprehensible violence and fear of the last few moments was washed away by his anger. What was going on? The question burst through his mouth like a tidal wave, “What is going on?” And like waves questions rolled out of him, “Just what the hell is going on? What are you doing here? What was that thing? Was that Earnest Grimm? He’s meant to be dead. Dead! What the hell is a dead man getting out of his grave for? And how did I know it would be him? How could I know? Did someone tell me he was coming? What the hell is happening?”
Tristan’s words washed away into the night wind.
If he had expected destruction from his words, he was to be disappointed. He was faced by the warmly nodding, still smiling face of Gregor, while Lucretia’s taught and strained face was now staring at him rather than Gregor and Max’s angry face was further distorted by the curl of a confused lip.
Gregor’s tongue flicked again over his lips, “Ah, very good, very good, my boy, my capable boy, what surprising potential you have.” Gregor stepped greedily towards him, his hands reached out, momentarily grasping, before he stopped himself. “Earnest Grimm you say? Well, well. Who told you indeed! Indeed! We should talk Tristan. Let’s talk tomorrow, at the library. We’ll see if we can’t make everything clear for you. Spell it out for you, if you like.”
Tristan’s anger still rumbled inside him and the mention of the library didn’t calm him, the quiet, empty library, the stale smelling, corrupt library, Gregor’s home, his den, filled with books and secrets, the spot where a boy had died, gasping for breath in a room full of air.
No.
Not the library.
He preferred it out here, in the cold, in the fresh cold air of a graveyard to the library. The cold was cutting. His mind was filled with fear and anger, but it was clear. Again, he seemed to speak before thinking, “No. We talk now. You tell me what the hell is going on or…” Gregor’s shadowed, smiling face nodded encouragement. Tristan sensed that Gregor was not going to be phased by anything he could say. The black spider web smile grinned before him. How could he get a reaction from the old man? His anger and frustration bubbled to the surface as it came to him, “Or… I am going to tell the police what happened to Joshua.”
“Joshua?” Gregor’s innocent face looked confused. His eyes didn’t move from Tristan’s. Was he trying to intimidate him?
Perhaps it wasn’t wise to threaten a murderer in a graveyard, but Tristan’s rage had overtaken his fear and caution, “Joshua. The boy you killed in the library.”
Tristan waited. How would Gregor react? How would he explain killing a young boy? Would he stutter? Would he lie?
“Oh yes, the boy I killed. A shame, a real shame, but I had little choice, I’m afraid.”
Tristan was silent. He hadn’t expected Gregor to say that. He didn’t know what he had expected, but not that.
Lucretia spoke next, “Why did you kill a boy, Gregor?”
And he hadn’t expected her to say that.
Max was next to speak, “Remember the agreement, Gregor. No tricks.”
And he hadn’t expected that.
They were all just speaking as though everything was normal. Why did you murder him? Tricks? Agreement? Where was the shock? Where was the disbelief? What the hell was going on?
“What the hell are you all talking about?” Tristan almost shouted.
“Shut up!” Max and Lucretia said at the same time. Tristan’s mouth opened and he said… nothing. What could he say? He closed his mouth again.
“Gregor,” Lucretia said, “explain yourself, please.”
“Of course, my dear, of course,” Gregor huffed, offended. He was suddenly a reasonable, elderly, dignified old man. “It was very unfortunate, really. The boy was not what he seemed to you, Tristan.
This will not make much sense I fear. It would have been better to have this conversation in the library, give you time to take it in. But it is not to be.”
Lucretia’s voice was not loud, but it was insistent, “Explain the boy, please, Gregor. Tristan will have to wait.”
“Tristan may choose to be one of our group, an important member, Lucretia,” Gregor’s feeble voice was commanding, “so I think we can treat him with the courtesy that friendship demands. Don’t you?”
Lucretia gave no response. She was impassive.
Gregor continued, addressing himself to Tristan, “Tristan, to be brief, there are things in this world that are not of this world.” Gregor sounded old and tired.
“Suspend your ideas of what you know and what you think you know. There are creatures that do not belong here, dangerous creatures, creatures that you hear of in myths, creatures that have powers unlike any you can imagine and they are evil. You are familiar with words like demon, zombie, witch, even vampire and werewolf, and these are as close as you will come to understanding what I mean.
They are not enough to describe these things, these creatures.
I say again, they are evil.”
Tristan stared at Gregor, trying to work out if the old man was making fun of him. The vision of a wide open mouth screaming silence flashed into his mind, his mother.
Gregor continued, “I am versed in ancient knowledge, Tristan. I have been taught the sacred texts and am one of the few left belonging to the Vedic order.
We are charged with a great mission.
We hunt the creatures, Tristan.
We kill them.
We stop the evil.
Lucretia and Max are learning the ways of the Vedic order.
The unfortunate boy, Joshua, who I killed, had become a vessel. He was not a boy any longer, just a shell, a puppet. His body was being controlled by a sub-creature from another realm, best described to you, Tristan, as a demon.”
Lucretia: “Why didn’t you tell us? Was it the same demon that you found inside Bradley?”
“I could not say with certainty. There was little time, Lucretia. Once it was clear what Joshua had become, I couldn’t let him escape. Just think of the unspeakable things a demon would do. A demon in the library, Lucretia! It was a danger to the school and to us, Lucretia, all of us.”
“You’re telling me Joshua was a demon?” Tristan asked in disbelief.
“Is it so hard to believe? After the events you have been witness to tonight!
Earnest Grimm walks, Tristan! Is that believable? I have known of Earnest Grimm for some time. I have been tracking the beast for a long time. The dead walking, the dead killing! Is it right? Was I wrong to stop a monster like that? And you knew, my boy, you knew it was him. You clever, remarkable boy!
Tristan, I believe you have a great gift. I believe you have the sight. Do you see things before they happen? Do you dream things before they come to pass? Do you hear the voice? Do you know answers to impossible
questions? You could be a great asset to our group, Tristan, a great asset.”
Tristan was in disbelief, “A gift?”
Gregor’s tongue flicked over his lips, hoarsely, desperately, he cried, “Do you dream the future, boy?”
“No,” Tristan was confused. Was it possible? “I have nightmares. I just have nightmares.”
Gregor had expected more, wanted more. He sank in disappointment. He was a frail, weak, old man, slumped in defeat.
Tristan’s thoughts ticked slowly on and he spoke as if to himself, “But I did hear a voice.”
Gregor’s head lifted eagerly, “You hear the voice? Excellent, excellent, my boy! You have the gift, one aspect of the gift of prophecy at least. And I can help you develop it, Tristan. I can help. All it takes is a simple ceremony. It has been a long time, but I remember, I remember it all.” Gregor stopped and looked deep into Tristan, “Tell me about these nightmares of yours.”
Tristan felt foolish, standing in the graveyard invited to talk about his dreams. It was ridiculous.
Gregor was insistent, “Tell me about your nightmares!”
Tristan spoke quietly. This was personal. It was like opening his chest and showing his insides. “There are different ones. But the one that I keep having is about my mum, my mother. She... She’s dead. She died.” He looked down at the floor to hide his emotions. “She died in London. In a squat. A drugs overdose.” The words sounded cruel as he forced himself to speak in facts. “She was a heroin addict and she died of a drug overdose.” The emotions engulfed him, threatened to overwhelm him. He stopped.
Gregor pressed for more. “And what do you dream of? Tell me about the nightmares.”
He drew in a breath and surrendered his fears, the secrets of his nightmares, “Her face, it looked like she died screaming. A man, Brian, who lived in the squat and a shadow that crawls down the wall and... into him. And he walks down and...” It was too much. He stopped talking.
Gregor drank in his words and his face lit with knowledge and he looked almost pleased. Gregor finished the sentence for him, “And he walked down and killed her.” Tristan looked up into his yellowed eyes. How could he know that? But Gregor continued. “It is a lesser demon, Tristan. There are all kinds of feeders, all kinds of monsters that have found their way into our world. The man was possessed. Your mother’s soul was taken.”