by Alec Dunn
Tristan pushed the door open and saw what waited for him. A mess. The bloody hamster carcass remained in the cage. The chalk pentagram was smudged and unclear, chalk trodden all over the floor. Bloody bits of hamster clung, stickily to books and shelves. And Gregor, looking tired. His mottled skin looking more sickly than usual.
Tristan stared at him, cautiously. Was he possessed?
“Tristan, my boy, welcome to our field of victory!” Gregor’s frail voice warbled.
No, Tristan thought, that was Gregor alright. Who else would talk like that? “Victory?” he asked.
“Victory!” Gregor repeated. “Hard fought, may I add. Our demonic friend put up quite a struggle. More than I had bargained for, you might say. Our struggle was titanic, a battle of wills, we were each determined to have our own way and we were closely matched, my boy, very closely matched. However, I dug deep, and pulled out a gem and, it pleases me greatly to inform you, your mother’s soul was released.
It must bring you great comfort to know that she is no longer the possession of a demon.”
Tristan smile was wide. “And you killed it?”
Gregor’s smile was thin, “Indeed, my boy, suffice to say you can rest in peace. It will not bother you ever again.” Gregor’s smile faded, “And now, as to the price, my boy, there is always a price, you know.”
Tristan was shocked. Price?
Gregor reached down and picked something up, something that glittered. He held it out to Tristan. “The key to the cleaner’s cupboard which is just down the corridor. You will need a bag for the hamster and a bucket of soapy water to clean off its giblets.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.” But even the task of cleaning gluey hamster innards didn’t put a downer on his morning. His mother was free. Perhaps now his nightmares would stop.
As he was finding the cleaner’s cupboard, he saw Max approaching with a purposeful walk. “Max!” Tristan called happily, “What are you doing in school at this time?”
Max carried on walking. He didn’t turn his head. “Looking for Gregor.” Max was even more taciturn than usual.
“Max!” Tristan’s excitement bubbled up, “We found it, the demon that killed my mum! Gregor killed it! I saw her, Max. I saw my mum!”
Max stopped walking and looked at him. There seemed to be tension. Max’s eyes glinted and his teeth clenched before he said, “That’s good news, Tristan. Good for you.” He turned quickly and was striding towards the library.
When Tristan returned with his bucket of soapy water and bags, he realised he was interrupting. Max and Gregor were glaring at each other from opposite sides of the large desk. They were mid conversation and it was a tense conversation. Max was speaking to Gregor in a raised voice. “You found his mother and she’s dead, Gregor. Tristan gets to see his dead mother. How does that work? What about my mother? When do I get to see my mother?”
Gregor shot a glance at Tristan who had stopped by the door. “Enter, my boy. I am afraid time is pressing. We have to have all signs of our activities removed. Max, perhaps we might continue our conversation later?”
Tristan started gathering up pieces of hamster: fur and bone and skin were identifiable. He tried not to thing what the squidgy red bits were. He couldn’t help but listen to Max and Gregor in the quiet library.
“When, Gregor? I want to go home. I want to see my home. I want to meet my family. When?”
“Some doors are easier to open than others, Max. Tristan’s demon was relatively easy to find. We had Tristan’s blood, a link to his mother. Yours is, well, a completely different affair.”
“Why?” Max insisted. “You have done it before. Why can’t you do it now?”
“Because,” Gregor forced his voice lower. “Because I had access to other doorways then, because I had authority, because I wasn’t an outcast, partly for helping your family, may I add, for saving your life. However, give me time. Things are coming together. We will get you home, Max. Don’t lose heart. You have a great gift and we need to work together.”
“When?”
Gregor leant over the desk and hissed at him, “When I am able. When I am good and ready. When I choose!” He returned to a calmer, more dignified tone. “Which would be a good deal sooner if I didn’t have to deal with visitors and questions from Social Services. What were you thinking, Max?”
It was Max’s turn to be defensive, “I didn’t tell her anything.”
And Gregor’s turn to sound angry, “No! No you did not, but nor did you put her mind at rest. You foolish boy, now I have another thing to deal with. Fear not though, I have already found a way.”
Anthony Singer was sitting in the living room. It was his wedding anniversary. A small gathering of candles were placed strategically around the room. It was two years since he had married the love of his life, Abbey. He looked at the large framed photo mounted on the wall of their wedding day, softened by the flickering candle light, him in a suit, top hat and tails, Abbey in a white dress. She looked beautiful. They were smiling, happy.
He looked at his watch. She was late. She was always late now. He looked at the beautiful Abbey in the photo and thought of her now. She was still beautiful; he loved her more than ever. He was worried about her though. She looked tired all the time.
Stress, she said.
He believed her, but he was worried. Her perfect hair and make-up from the photo were things of the past. She never seemed to have time to take care of herself, always trying to finish something, check something, phone someone.
It was her job. He knew it was taking over her life. Her passion and her caring nature were one of the things he loved about her. Show her a picture of a puppy or those charity adverts on TV and she would probably be crying by the end. She tried to be vegetarian because it was good for the planet. She tried to walk rather than use the car. She cared for everyone. Probably the nicest person he had ever met, he needed her. She made him see things from a different angle, in new ways.
He found her infuriating at times, but she made him a better person.
But perhaps that was the problem: she cared too much. She was too giving. That was why she had become a social worker. She wanted to make a difference.
She used to tell him that when they were talking away the night over a bottle of wine, when they were still getting to know one another. She didn’t care about money, she cared about people.
He looked about the room at the dancing shadows from the various candles. He stared at the shortening candle sticks and considered blowing them out, turning on the electric lights, killing the mood. Had she remembered it was their wedding anniversary? She had rushed out in the morning, dressed in an un-ironed blouse and yesterday’s clothes, calling out that she was late. His day had been spent planning and buying. He had taken the day off work, bought the ingredients for a slap up meal, put two bottles of Chardonnay in the fridge and started chopping and mixing.
The food was being kept warm in the oven, but he feared it would be overcooked. A bottle of wine was opened in front of him, over half empty. He looked at his watch again. The food would be mush by now.
Frustration and annoyance churned inside him. That bloody job! He hated it. He hated what it was doing to her. A shadow flickered and moved in the corner of the room and Anthony looked over at it. It had looked almost solid, but he couldn’t see it now. Rubbing his eyes, he thought Abbey wasn’t the only one feeling tired. It had been a long day.
He sat back and felt the alcohol running through his blood, soothing him. She would be home soon, he thought. Even if the food was ruined, they still had the pudding he’d made. That could go in the oven and they could have that and Abbey could have a drink. He was feeling a bit woozy, best not drink anymore. Anthony’s eyes closed and he rubbed his face with the palms of his hands.
He didn’t see the shadow creeping, like a solid creature, out from the corner of the room and slipping down the wall. It slid down the wall in little, oily movements.
Anthony yawned and settled b
ack. The knock on the door would wake him. She had forgotten her keys, silly Abbey, always forgetting her keys.
Abbey Singer realised it was her wedding anniversary when she arrived home. She turned the car into the driveway and saw the softened light behind the half closed curtains to their living room.
Shit!
It was just like Tony to get candles out for their anniversary. She remembered when he proposed. He had taken her to the local beauty spot and all their friends had been hidden. They had lit floating lanterns and he had taken her to the picnic area where lamps were everywhere.
She pulled the handbrake and got out of the car.
The front door opened and he was there, waiting. It looked for the briefest moment like he was surrounded by a rough black outline.
She hurried towards him, “Shit, Tony, I’m so sorry! I forgot. And you got out candles and... shit. I’m sorry, darling.” He didn’t answer her and he didn’t give the forgiving smile that she expected. He always forgave her. He must be in a terrible mood. The smell of vegetables and sauces wafted through the open door. “And you cooked! I really am sorry darling. I will make it up to you, I promise.”
She embraced him on the door to their home. She kissed him and his lips were flat, unresponsive. She looked into his eyes and they flickered black.
She pulled away from him, but it was too late.
Her husband embraced her in his strong arms and dragged her into their home.
Seventeen: Signs and Portents
The usual nightmare.
A wide open mouth screaming silence.
A face twisted and frozen in death. Not his mother; a young woman.
A man is sobbing, on his knees at the dead woman’s feet.
There are two flickering candles, their wicks burnt low. Other candles are puddles of wax. The man cries and rocks back and forward.
A black shadow slithers away to the window.
On the bed Tristan’s eyes flickered. He remained trapped in his dreams.
The screaming mouth hangs open. The darkness fills it. And the darkness rises up and out of the mouth.
A black scream of nothingness sounds out of the mouth drowning him.
Tristan’s head twisted, gasping for air.
The black waters of his mind wash around him and from the cold depths a massive vault rises up. It emerges from the darkness of his memories. It rises upwards towards him like an impossible stone bubble surging up from the freezing black waters of his mind.
On the bed, Tristan’s eyes rolled and strained and his head threw itself from side to side.
The vault rises quickly towards him from out of the darkness.
He is suspended above it in the nowhere dark of his subconscious. He is hanging over the dark, cold waters. The solid squat stone vault rushes relentlessly upwards, towards him, without ever reaching him.
He wants to run. His feet will not move.
He wants to turn away. He is frozen, unable to move.
He knows the ugly solid shape from somewhere, but it was still trapped in the dark waters beneath him, still rising. Always threatening, emerging, never arriving.
It rises upwards, getting closer, looming larger, threatening to become clear, but still distant.
The memory of the crypt before came to him and then it was close. His head turned from side to side, away from his dream.
The veil of water is thin now.
It is too close.
It fills his vision.
The great stone slab sealing the crypt emerges. The crypt emerges. The risen sepulchre covers his vision and it is then that the written name becomes visible in starkly ornate carved letters.
Earnest Matthew Grimm, 1734 – 1786.
Tristan cried out in his sleep. His head jerked back and his legs kicked.
The crypt comes closer still. It is risen to him. He cannot move. It is closer, close enough to touch.
And now its lid is gaping wide. It never had a lid. It is a hole leading to the land of the dead.
The crypt is open, revealing utter blackness within. The blackness is the dark of the cold waters. The blackness is the unknown. It is death.
The crypt is screaming its silence. Its gaping maw leaks poisonous, impossibly black shadows. The yawning mouth of the crypt rises to swallow him.
And he is falling into the crypt. He tries to move, but he is falling into the filthy, poisonous darkness. His legs won’t move. He is falling into… emptiness.
And then he is in the emptiness. He is alone in the blackness.
The yawning crypt is empty.
He lies in the darkness of death. He looks up at the tomb’s opening and he is looking at himself, standing outside the crypt looking down at himself. He is wearing a dark suit and a tall hat. He is himself and he is the creature.
Earnest Matthew Grimm is risen.
The darkness is risen.
Tristan cried out in the night. His arms and hands flailed uselessly, trying to protect himself from the darkness within.
Earnest Matthew Grimm, 1734 – 1786.
1786: The creature was newly born. It crawled across a floor of grey flagstones. He couldn’t stand up. His body wouldn’t respond. Behind him, a figure stood in the shadows, watching the crawling newborn’s first movements.
Much later, the streets are wet with rain. The creature is no longer new. It is strong and fast. He has killed and tasted blood. The wet cobbles echo footsteps in the night. He is hunting.
The streets are lined with old houses. Black timber frames are stark against the white painted boards of the houses. The colours shine and absorb in the moonlight. The night gives and takes, light and shadows. White for good. Black for evil. It smiles. He smiles. The knowledge of the colours makes him laugh. Knowledge and power fill the thing. The cruel feeling of arrogance is his own. He luxuriates in the power of life and death. They used to believe that the colours, black and white, would keep the witches away. Funny.
There is an echo of footsteps running, trying to escape him. Funny.
He is close to a woman’s face in the moonlight, pale and white. His own face is almost pressed to hers as though they will kiss. The face is beautiful. The face is terrified. The creature feeds. Blood fills his mouth.
A thumping heartbeat fills him with pleasure. He is filled with joy.
Blood runs down her pale neck.
She gives; it takes.
The same cobbled streets wet in the moonlight, wet in the darkness. The streets are wet with blood.
He is the creature and he is afraid.
The water on the streets turns red. The streets turn red. Blood is rising. Blood is filling the streets. Blood is flooding the streets. Blood covers the pale face, beautiful in the moonlight. Blood covers the streets. Blood rises in a flood. Blood covers the town. Blood drowns the moon.
Blood drowning everyone.
Tristan thrashed about as though in pain. His hand gripped the covers of his bed. He was filled with darkness. His mouth clenched so tightly that the muscles of his jaw danced and jumped and then his mouth opened in a sudden release. He looked like he was screaming, but no noise came out, only silence.
He dreamt on.
Arches. Stone arches. Marble arches. Statues, warm in the sunshine. Sunshine. Gold. A painting on a wall of Christ on the cross. His head is haloed in gold. The apostles. Christ in robes. Old paintings, faded. An old city, somewhere in Europe. Old buildings. Old books. Earnest looking for something. Something old. Something very old, ancient. Something created by an old one.
Streets and arches.
Arches and streets.
Hiding.
Earnest following a thin wispy grey haired old priest. He feels a surge of triumph watching the frail guardian. The poor man doesn’t know what he protects. He doesn’t have the strength to keep it.
They are in a room. It is cold.
The thin old priest’s face shows his pain. His eyes are wild and desperate. The iris of his left eye is detached and misted. The
wispy hair is sticking out in patches and matted with blood in others. The priest calls to Christ to help him. He cries out for mercy. He cries out for forgiveness. There is none to give. The old man is in a cold and dusty room tied to a chair, bleeding. It stands over him, asking questions. Earnest is standing over him, hurting him.
There is an answer, a sign.
Walking the white streets of stone again; the creature looking in alleys and doorways, searching. Desperately searching.
The blood is rising. The streets are red and he is afraid.
An ancient locket. An amulet hanging above the doorways. Stained metal. Pointed. A metal circle surrounded by five metal points. The answer. He feels it is the answer, but doesn’t know why.
And they are in Rome. The Vatican. The door is guarded. The door is guarded. He can’t get out. Even with the amulet, he can’t get out.
And Tristan’s consciousness was present. He was dreaming. He was waking up. He was dreaming about the creature and he needed to know more.
The doors.
It is afraid.
The creature, he, is afraid. Of the doors?
It wants to find a door, needs to find a door.
But he was waking up. He could feel the bed beneath his sweating body and his mind separating from the monster’s. He could feel his own flesh and thoughts. Without knowing how or what he collapsed his mind inwards in desperation and…
Budapest. The door is unguarded. An old passageway, forgotten. A way out?
The creature is holding the amulet, opening the door.
But through the partial opening tentacles snake in, grasping. They are like moving intestines, seeping and raw with hunger. The doorway opens to hunger and pain. Something is on the other side and it is trying to find a way in. And Earnest Matthew Grimm feels fear. Earnest Matthew Grimm is afraid.
He is terrified.
He closes the door desperately.
It is impossible. There is nothing through the door but writhing hunger and the snatching tentacles to feed the hunger and…
Tristan’s consciousness spat itself back into his flesh. He lay not daring to move. A tiny fragment of snatched dream like a dust mote caught in a sunbeam drifted in his memory. He didn’t even dare to breathe.