The Revenants

by Alec Dunn

  The old man seemed nervous.

  For Tristan, the excitement was long gone.

  He watched Gregor as his ancient, shaking finger traced the pages of his special, leather bound book, the book that Tristan had last seen when Joshua had been killed. Gregor held it closely to him, protective. The book rested on the library desk, well away from Tristan, who had been told to sit on the far side of the library.

  So far, all he had done was move furniture around. He had been asked to drag tables to one side and shift chairs to create a large open space in the centre. He had done the physical work, but Gregor was doing everything else.

  “Excellent, my boy. That should be enough space, eh?” The old man had looked about and his tongue flicked out nervously across his lips. He pointed out one table that seemed no closer than any of the others. “Maybe you could drag that table a little further out. We wouldn’t want to give it anything to work with, what. And the devil is in the detail, eh?”

  Gregor’s words made little sense to Tristan, but his nervous energy was contagious. Tristan moved the table further out, some sense of excitement returning.

  Gregor was now shuffling awkwardly around in a circle with a large ruler, a piece of string and a chalk. He was slowly, carefully and painstakingly drawing a circle and around it a pentagram.

  Tristan watched him shuffle the long distance across to the desk where his book rested, look carefully, and shuffle back to the chalk circle and pentagram. He bent slowly as the chalk held in his wavering hand reached down to the floor. He slowly drew a strange sign in one of the triangles.

  He stood above it and looked down, examining his work carefully, before shuffling back to his book. He shuffled across the long distance to the chalk circle and inspected his sign again. Got out the large ruler and checked its length in some way. Slowly shuffled back to the library desk and pointed at it with his shaking finger, nodded to himself and shuffled back towards the pentagram.

  “Would you like me to hold the book for you, Gregor?” Tristan asked, hoping to hurry things up.

  “No.” Gregor’s answer was abrupt. “No, thank you, my boy.” And he shuffled on.

  Tristan watched him, shuffle, look, check, shuffle, measure, shake head, make small change, shuffle, look. It was infuriating. He felt less like he was hunting something and more like he was enduring something. He couldn’t help. He wasn’t allowed to.

  He just had to wait.

  The slowly moving hands of the clock showed time passing and Tristan had to sit, watching.

  Would Gregor ever be ready?

  The shuffling, checking and drawing continued. Only Gregor’s clear tension gave Tristan any interest. Something was happening. A slow, snail paced something, but something. And every shuffling step Gregor took brought it closer. The nearer Gregor came to completing the pentagram the more Tristan’s excitement was building. But every time Tristan thought Gregor had finished, there was more shuffling, more checking, small amendments so when Gregor had shuffled across once more to stare down at the pentagram, Tristan expected more measuring, more checking, more amendments. Instead, Gregor looked up and nodded. “It is done. Our trap is set.” He looked about him to check the surroundings for a final time and then said to Tristan, “Now, if you would be so kind, fetch me the cage from over yonder, my boy.”

  Tristan looked at him, uncertainly, but stood up and brought it to the elderly librarian. The small smell of straw and animal caught his nostril and he heard a little rustling. A little pink nose was emerging as he was holding out the cage to Gregor. “Thank you. Thank you. Carefully now, place it on the floor of that triangle. Don’t step on the chalk! Place it in the centre, directly over that holding rune, if you please.

  That’s it. That’s good. Thank you.

  Now, one more thing. I would like you to place this black board and my chalk inside the cage.

  Marvellous, eh.” Gregor nodded encouragingly at him. He gave a final look about him and nodded approvingly to himself. “Well, well, we seem to be all ready. Step back and listen carefully. I need to give you a parental advisory or health warning, if you will. I am about to summon a lesser demon. We will use some of your blood to do it. Your connection to your mother’s soul will work as a key to that particular lock and give the whole ceremony a little added frisson, that little personal touch, if you will, especially for you, eh?” Gregor smiled at him and his tongue flicked across his lips. “These lesser demons cannot talk as such, but they will attempt to deceive and lie, so beware. Don’t believe it. It will say anything. It will do anything and it knows what you want.”

  Gregor shuffled back to his desk as he carried on talking, “Well, say is not quite correct, but you’ll see what I mean. You’ll see soon enough.” Gregor was locking away his large book into its drawer, keeping it safe. Tristan watched him, intrigued.

  “Stay away from the pentagram. It is a prison for the demon, but should the prison be broken it will be miffed, eh? It will not possess my body. I am protected. You are not. That was one of the reasons I didn’t ask Max or Lucretia to our private party. Should one of them become possessed, they would be a dangerous tool for the demon, very dangerous indeed.

  If it possesses you, my safest course is, I’m sorry to say, to kill you, my boy, so do not, I repeat, do not break the pentagram. Do not enter the pentagram. Do not touch the pentagram. Are you clear?”

  Tristan nodded. He stepped back from the pentagram. The tension was building now. The threat of demon possession and getting killed was certainly cranking up the tension. Gregor was leaning on his desk, still staring at him, “I hope you are, boy, for, if it becomes necessary, I will kill you without hesitation.”

  Tristan nodded again. He understood. This was dangerous.

  Gregor continued in commanding tone, “Do not talk to it. Do not ask questions. I have dealt with demons before. They are evil and deceptive. Trust that I know what is needed.

  And finally, are you ready to face it? Are you ready to face your mother’s killer?”

  Again, after a moment, Tristan nodded. “Bring the bastard on,” he said.

  Gregor began the slow shuffle away from the desk again, approaching the pentagram and Tristan, but this time the atmosphere was charged. Tristan watched his every step, feeling each second pass, waiting.

  It was about to begin.

  Gregor looked at the pentagram and at Tristan. He started muttering, as though he was talking to himself. His muttered words grew in volume. His voice became louder, more demanding. He walked towards Tristan, not the pentagram, as he carried on chanting, louder and louder. Tristan watched the old man approaching. He watched his yellowed eyes and mottled skin. He watched his stained brown and yellow teeth and flecks of spittle spray out of through his thin purple lips. He watched him reaching inside his smoking jacket and pull out a long curved knife.

  Tristan looked stupidly at the wickedly sharp blade and Gregor’s thin moving lips. Gregor was next to him now, chanting. The smell from the old man filled Tristan’s nose and mouth. He remembered what Gregor had said about his blood. Gregor pulled out his hand and thrust the point of the dagger into the centre of his hand.

  The pain was sharp and real. Gregor held his hand firmly, not allowing Tristan to draw it back. The tip of the dagger scored his hand, cutting into his skin, marking him. Again Gregor drew the point across his skin. Again the biting pain and his hand felt like it was burning. How deep was Gregor cutting? Tristan watched the blood pooling in the palm of his hand. A little well of his life’s blood was forming.

  Gregor held the knife blade flat beneath his hand and quickly turned his hand over. The blood spilled down onto the knife. It spilled onto the floor as well.

  Dropping Tristan’s hand, Gregor shuffled, holding the bloody knife blade carefully level to balance its little pool of blood, over to the pentagram. He flicked the blade away from him. Bloody droplets rained into the centre of the pentagram.

  The red spots lay on the floor, tiny dark pools, and G
regor chanted. His voice rose louder, both his hands raised up till the old man looked like a pillar. He didn’t look so much like an old man now. He looked solid and powerful and the thrill of the moment made Tristan forget the pain in his hand and the blood still dripping to the floor. He stood mesmerised, watching Gregor, watching the pentagram. Gregor’s voice reached a crescendo and then stopped. His arms fell to his sides and he stood there.

  The spots lay there.

  Tristan watched.

  The clock ticked.

  The small animal in the cage snuffled and emerged. Tristan watched it. Was it the demon?

  “Look!” Gregor’s voice hissed at him. “Do you see?”

  Tristan watched the animal closely and decided it was a hamster, not a guinea pig. He stared at it, trying to see something special, something demonic. It just looked like a hamster, a plain, ordinary, boring hamster. He glanced over at Gregor’s back, wondering if he should ask what he was meant to be seeing.

  Then he saw it.

  In the centre of the circle the red spots were evaporating. They were lifting into a dark mist that hung in the air, going nowhere, taking form. As the blood lifted from the floor, the shape became clear, a shadow like thing, dark and insubstantial. It drifted towards the edge of the circle and seemed to coalesce into darker mist as it pressed at the boundary to its cage.

  Gregor threw his arms out wide, “I have summoned you, demon. You shall answer my questions before my will is known to you.”

  A faint hissing noise seemed to come from the mist. It was an angry noise like a distant storm, howling and dangerous.

  Gregor’s back was all Tristan could see, but he heard his voice and Gregor’s voice was authority, “Do NOT try to threaten me, demon.” The windows seemed to shake as Gregor suddenly shouted. “I hold you in my power. Look upon my wealth. Look upon my power. Look at me.” Gregor threw wide his cloak to make an impressive shape. He reminded Tristan of when he was a little boy, pretending to be Batman, holding the corners of his coat and spreading them wide. It seemed a little silly to him, but Gregor must know what he was doing.

  The demon sunk a little and the hissing noise stopped. Gregor wrapped his cloak back around him and continued, “You have tasted this boy’s blood before. You have a soul. Show me.”

  The shadow circled and seemed to diffuse and come together.

  “Show me,” Gregor insisted.

  The wraith seemed to come together and before Tristan’s eyes the image of his mother’s face appeared, not screaming, but beautiful, and it moved, like she was talking, like she was laughing and smiling and alive.

  “Boy, is this her?” Gregor talked to Tristan without taking his eyes off the demon.

  Tristan forced his numb tongue to answer, “Yeah.”

  “Excellent. I want her, demon, and you will release her.” Gregor sounded clear and confident. Things were going well. Tristan stood behind Gregor and watched as his mother’s living face disintegrated into swirling shadow. “But first,” Gregor said, “I would know more of you, demon. It is time to answer my questions. We shall have a little game of Ouija, eh.

  Over there is a hamster, a little furry creature. Not your normal fare, but it will suffice for our purpose.”

  The dark shadow pressed against the circle next to the triangle where the hamster cage had been placed. The shadow seemed to be pushing hard against the circle and, like a dam bursting, suddenly streamed through into the triangular edge of the pentagram. The shadow swirled around the triangle, through the bars of the colourful cage and it disappeared. The hamster must have gone back into its nest. Tristan couldn’t see it anywhere.

  He watched and waited.

  There was a rustling noise. A little pink nose twitched and emerged and the hamster came out. There was a blackness that flickered around it momentarily and its eyes flickered. It shakily stood up on its back legs and extended a little paw. Then slowly, awkwardly, the demonic force bending the hamster’s body to perform feats it wasn’t used to, the middle digit raised.

  Tristan was torn between the horror of the moment, finding the killer of his mother, finding his mother’s soul and the ridiculousness of an angry demon giving them the bird. And it was still a hamster. It sort of looked cute.

  Gregor’s voice was mocking, “I know, I know, but it was the best I could find, my sincere apologies.

  Now, to our game. You will find a little blackboard and chalk. You will mark a tick for yes and a cross for no. Your little hands should be able to manage that, eh?”

  There was an angry chattering from the hamster, but it picked up the chalk and held the little blackboard in place. Tristan realised that his mouth was hanging open. He was stupid with amazement.

  “Good. Very good,” Gregor nodded and asked. “Are you a shard of one of the old ones?”

  The little hamster paws struggled with the large chalk to draw a shaky cross.

  “Oh, really?” Gregor sounded casual, interested, as though he was having a conversation with an old friend, “Are you working for a house?”

  Another slow, shaky cross was drawn and held up.

  “No?” Gregor sounded surprised. It was like he was enjoying a game of charades, “Then, perhaps, you are a part of one of the lesser gods?”

  This time a wobbly tick was drawn upon the little blackboard.

  “Aha!” said Gregor, triumphantly, “But which one? Which one? There are so many to choose from. She was murdered, Pluto, perhaps?”

  Another difficult cross. The marks were starting to cross over one another now.

  “Or mischief? You do seem to have a mischievous streak in you. What about Loki?”

  Another slow mark was made, but when it was held up it was covered by other crosses and ticks.

  “I am sorry, old boy, but I cannot read that.” Gregor was polite and pleasant. Was he teasing it? “Is there any chance you could clean the blackboard, please.”

  The little hamster looked about and its paws opened out to gesticulate, with what?

  “Well, I don’t really like to point it out, but you are covered in fur. You look like a duster, eh? You might as well have possessed a little dishcloth. Couldn’t you just give it a little rub with your back?” Still Tristan couldn’t tell if Gregor was teasing it, insulting it, or not. Everything was too surreal, too strange. He had never imagined that the demon would possess a hamster so how could he know if Gregor was trying to wind it up.

  Gregor’s suggestion was not taken well by the demon hamster. It chattered furiously, excreted a firm little pellet and threw it through the bars of the cage.

  Gregor seemed a little upset, “Well, really, it was merely a suggestion. There’s no need for such vanity. Perhaps you’re a shard of Aphrodite, what?”

  The hamster seemed to puff itself up. It stood on its back legs and seemed to expand. Tristan watched it trying to give itself more size, trying to intimidate Gregor, and it looked pathetic. But then it puffed out again and Tristan realised that something else was happening. Hamsters were never meant to stretch like that. The hairs of its body were getting quite spread out now. It inflated once more and the skin stretched taught, like a balloon.

  It was amazing. Its little eyes bulged and then, suddenly, POP!

  The inside of the colourful cage was even more colourful now. It looked like someone had smashed a watermelon inside it. There were hamster entrails and bits of wet fur spread across the floor and the books of the library. The debris left by the little hamster explosion.

  Gregor wiped an unidentifiable chunk of hamster from his face and flicked it to the floor. The black mist was swirling slowly, lazily around the pentagram.

  “Yes, yes,” Gregor acknowledged. “We have danced for long enough. We should get to the real business.” He turned to look at Tristan and told him, “You will leave now. This demon is not safe for you to be near. I will have to deal with it alone. Yes, I will deal with it. I have its measure.”

  “What can I do, Gregor?” Tristan had been waiting a l
ong time. He wanted to be part of the action.

  “You?” Gregor asked. “You can do no more here. But what you can do, what would be very useful to me is you can arrive here early tomorrow, Tristan. This mess will need cleaning up. I knew I had forgotten something.” They both glanced over at the polythene rolls and then Gregor’s back was to him. “Go now. I will relay all to you on the morrow.”

  Sixteen: Collision

  Tristan was at the library early. He needed to know what had happened. He felt uneasy about having left Gregor to fight the demon that killed his mother. He hadn’t slept well. His hand hurt and fears filled him. It was his fight, after all and leaving an old man alone with a demon couldn’t be right. Should he have left? Had Gregor been able to kill the thing.

  The old man had confidence and strange powers, but had he been overconfident? What would he find waiting for him through the dark, heavy doors to the library?