Face of Evil

by George Morris De'Ath

  Lydia shakes her head. “The police will come,” she whispers, massaging her wrists, getting to her feet, which she can now see are encased within sequinned shoes. “There’s no way out,” she adds.

  “Oh, Lydia,” Finley coos, like a smitten lover, “you forget who you’re talking to. I am the master of evading detection. Even you wouldn’t have found me if I hadn’t lured you here, hmm?”

  Lydia looks up at him, her eyes wide. Impressed. No, awed. Sell it. Make him believe. “How…”

  “By the time they arrive, we will be long gone. And this house, full of… bitter memories, will be nothing but ash.”

  “And then?” Lydia sounds desperate, as though she really wants to believe.

  “I will make you a master of disguise,” Finley purrs, “like me. You can be whoever you want to be, wherever, whenever. You can kill whoever you want to kill, any way that you can dream of. I will help you fulfil your potential, and,” he cradles her cheek in his hand, “in time you will become beautiful and terrible. The angel of death.”

  Lydia’s heart swells. Her breath catches as she gazes into his wild eyes. Is she still pretending? The desire, the hunger, it feels so real. And before she knows what she’s doing, she is kissing him passionately, their arms around each other, hearts pressed tightly together, beating as one.

  Then they break apart, and Finley doesn’t notice that she is holding his gun until the first shot rings out. The euphoria on his face turns to surprise as the bullet rips through his chest and he staggers backwards. Lydia fires again; once, twice, three times. Finley’s body hangs momentarily in the air, suspended in time, then crumples to the floor with a sickening thud.

  Lydia drops the gun and dashes to Alex, kneeling down and touching his face gently with her fingertips. “I’m so sorry, my love,” she whispers, a single tear rolling down her cheek and falling onto his bloodstained chest. “This was all my fault.” She strokes his hair tenderly.

  The thumping and thrashing of Finley’s death throes fades to silence, as Lydia leans down and kisses Alex on the lips for the last time in the cold midnight glow.

  Forty-Three

  Blood Lust

  Lydia rises slowly, the weight of her grief like a great stone inside of her, and returns to the body of Finley Devere. She gives him a kick just to make sure, then retrieves the knife from his trouser pocket.

  She cuts Alex free of the chair and lays him down flat on the floor, covering his bloodied chest with his own leather jacket. The softness of it beneath her fingers reminds her of their kiss on the rooftop, and she has to fight to hold back more tears. There will be a time to grieve, but she needs to draw a line under this saga first.

  Lydia looks around for her clothes and phone. Both are gone. Finley must have hidden them somewhere she realises. Her clothes were not essential, not right now, she could manage the draping dress, at least until she found a phone. Maybe the one in the hallway works. She turns around to find the way out of the attic and freezes, her blood running cold. Where Finley’s body was a moment ago, now there is nothing but a pool of blood, and footprints leading to an open hatch in the floor.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she whispers. She could wait up here for help to arrive, or… “No,” she says out loud with a shake of the head. “Enough.” Picking up the gun from the floor near Alex’s feet, she follows the footprints to the hatch and begins to climb carefully down the wooden ladder attached to it. As she begins to take her first steps down below, she feels a slight tug pulling her back. It’s the damn dress, caught on a nail from the ladder. Still pointing the gun with steely determination and on high alert, Lydia proceeds to pull and tear the bottom of the dress, allowing her to hunt with absolute free mobility.

  The first floor corridor is straight, and narrow, with doors on either side. Lydia looks down at the carpet for signs of blood, but the trail ends at the bottom of the ladder. “How did he manage that?” she mutters, irritated. No matter. She will be methodical, as she always is. Lydia reaches for the first door handle and grips it, the cold metal sending a shiver from her fingers right the way up her arm. “One,” she counts in her head, “two, three.” She turns the handle and pushes the door open. Beyond is a bedroom; neat, pale, dusty. Unused for many years by the looks of it. Jason’s parents’ room, maybe? She is about to move on, when a thin, rattling voice carries through the air.

  “I will break you, Tune…” it hisses. “I will make you quiver with fear. I will show you exquisite pain. I will cut that mask from your face and show the world what you really are. Only then will you be allowed to die.”

  “You blew it,” Lydia calls out, scanning the room for the source of the voice. “It’s over.”

  “Your arrogance is the most predictable thing about you,” Finley whispers. It’s coming from the bed. Lydia shoots the duvet twice. Silence, then hoarse laughter fills the air.

  “Come out, you coward!”

  “Come and find me…”

  Lydia edges to the bed and rips off the covers. Underneath, a two-way radio. She clips it to her thin shoulder strap, then checks the en-suite cautiously. Nothing. She moves to the next room, takes a deep breath, then bursts in, gun first. This looks like a boy’s room; small bed, blue curtains, baseball pictures on the wall. Random items dotted over surfaces. It doesn’t know whether it wants to be cluttered or tidy. Jason’s room?

  “I have big plans for you,” hisses the radio.

  “I’ve got plans for you too,” Lydia murmurs, hefting the pistol and moving to the next room.

  Three doors later, the first floor is cleared. Lydia creeps to the staircase and begins to descend, eyes wide and alert.

  “We could have been something beautiful,” Finley breathes through muffled static. “We could have had a future, but you ruined it.”

  Lydia edges along the wall, peering into the living room opposite. It looks just as she remembers; window smashed, chair broken beneath it, creepy doll staring accusingly at her from the floor. “You asked for it,” Lydia mutters at the doll, creeping carefully through to the kitchen. It’s a large room, traditional, wood and tile. Everything clean and orderly. Everything in its place, from gleaming pans to wooden chopping blocks. Atop the central island sits a vase of fresh flowers… and a telephone. Lydia glances around, pistol held high, as she inches towards it. She picks up the receiver. The line is dead.

  “Are you really just going to leave your boyfriend up there?” asks the rattling voice. Finley sounds breathless. Maybe if she just leaves, he will die. No, Lydia thinks. She doesn’t want to take that chance. This has to end tonight. She retraces her steps back to the hall. There’s only one room left to check. She takes a deep breath, turns the handle and pushes the door gently. Beyond is a large dining room table bearing a single bowl of fruit. Wooden cabinets either side loaded with fine china and cutlery, but nowhere a grown man could hide.

  “Where the hell are you?” Lydia mutters. The soft thump of foot on carpet behind her makes Lydia flinch and spin around, firing off a round in the process. Finley lunges towards her, eyes wild, a mixture of blood and saliva foaming between his lips. In his hand is a large kitchen knife, and he swings it in her direction, stabbing and flailing frantically. His waistcoat is undone, his shirt torn and bloody, a single strand of lank, greasy hair stuck to his face. Lydia backs up, firing off two more rounds and then two hollow clicks. “Shit!”

  Finley seizes his opportunity, hurling himself forwards and knocking Lydia to the ground. She kicks out at his face and crawls desperately through the nearest door, finding herself awkwardly positioned on her stomach at the top of a set of hard, stone steps leading down to the basement. In the second Lydia hesitates, wondering whether to crawl down or try to stand up, Finley seizes her by the bare ankle and raises his knife, grinning and exposing a bloodied set of teeth. Lydia thrashes around frantically as Finley tries to slide on top of her, pinning her down. With a sickening crunch, her knee connects with his jaw, and as she scrabbles to get away, th
ey both go tumbling down the stairs, landing at the bottom with a painful thump.

  Lydia recovers her senses first and scrambles to her feet. The lights are working down here, bright bulbs hanging loosely from the ceiling, illuminating the sheer, brutal horror of what she now sees. Seven bodies, intertwined in sick, unnatural ways, eyes gouged out, faces torn away, bones protruding from their rotting skin. A wave of nausea surges through Lydia and she gags hard, while on the ground nearby Finley stirs.

  Lydia dashes to the stairs, but as she reaches the top, she feels that bony hand around her ankle again. She kicks out hard, connecting sharply with Finley’s face and his neck snaps back with a sickening crunch. Lydia stares for a second. Is he dead? Then slowly, horrifyingly, he turns his face back towards her with a broad grin, eyes bulging. Lydia kicks out again and wrenches herself free, reaching the top of the stairs and slamming the door behind her. It traps Finley’s groping fingers with a crack, then begins to swing back again. Lydia sprints straight ahead towards the broken window at the far end of the living room, but half way there a huge weight collides with her, knocking her to the floor.

  The carpet burns her flesh as Lydia squirms and fights, desperately trying to break free of Finley’s grasp. But he has the advantage now. Using his sheer weight and strength he straddles her and pins her down, grinning maniacally as his good hand slides up her body and tightens around her throat, bony fingers slowly choking the life out of her. Lydia’s nails sink into his flesh, but to no avail. Her face glows pink, then red hot, her lungs burning, brain swimming. She knows she is about to die.

  As Lydia’s weakening hands claw desperately at her attacker’s face, something crimson ignites in the moonlight streaming through the window. Her mother’s ring. Summoning her last remaining strength, Lydia clenches her fist and slashes at Finley’s face, opening a gushing wound over his cheek and eye. Finley screams and releases her. Gasping and fighting for breath, Lydia rolls onto her side and spots the iron poker on the floor just a few feet away. Stretching out with her fingertips, she grasps hold of it and swings it around hard, connecting with Finley’s head and sending a spray of blood cascading through the air. He collapses like a sack of potatoes, and Lydia raises the pointed iron implement high in the air to deliver the fatal blow. But something makes her hesitate. If she kills Finley, she will never know the whole truth. The world will never know. She won’t be able to finish her book.

  She stares down at him, the monster that killed her true love, and the deadly weapon trembles in her hands as she fights every impulse she has to smash his brains into pulp. Is that who she really is? What she really wants? Finley believed so. If she kills him, does she not prove him right? Where would she go from there?

  Lydia grits her teeth and screams as the darkness within swells and churns, and threatens to overcome her. She fights it so hard she feels like she will black out. But then it subsides, and she feels as calm as she has ever felt in her life.

  Hating herself even as she does so, Lydia drops the poker. She reaches down and takes hold of his wrist. His skin is cold and clammy and the touch of it makes her shudder, but he still has a pulse. He’s alive. Then she notices the handcuffs, dangling now from his trouser pocket. Lydia snatches them up and rolls him over with her foot, pinning his arms behind his back and cuffing his wrists together. She drops the key into her bra, grabs him by the collar and hauls his limp body to the front door.

  Outside the snow is still falling. Lydia heaves Finley through it and, with a huge effort, packs him into the trunk of her car. Then she stands, still in that awful dress and stares at what she’s done. This is a terrible idea. What if he comes around before she gets to the police station?

  What are your options? asks the voice in her head. You need him. You need this.

  “Right,” she mutters to herself. “Screw it.”

  Lydia slams the trunk shut and throws herself into the driver’s seat. The roar of the car’s engine is the sweetest sound she has ever heard. She drives furiously through the open fields, wheels spinning and brakes screeching, through the twisted woods towards Traveller’s Bridge. Only when she sees its low, grey walls ahead does she allow herself to slow down, to take a breath and think. Don’t slip on that ice now and go sailing into the river, she thinks to herself. Don’t you dare mess this up now.

  She flicks the heater and a blast of warm, welcome air begins to return her to life. The horror of what she has just experienced already starts to feel like a bad dream. She relaxes a little, hands loose on the wheel, gets comfortable in the seat, and reaches for the radio dial.

  In the split second that she is distracted, a huge grey wolf looms out of the darkness on the bridge ahead. Lydia screams and wrenches the wheel hard to one side. A violent crash sends the car tumbling over and over, landing each time with a sickening crunch. Her head thuds, and spins, and cracks… and finally comes to rest inside the battered metal coffin. And all is silent again, as the gentle snow continues to fall in the peaceful winter night.

  Forty-Four

  The Price

  Searing pain shoots through Lydia’s head, her brain drowning in thick, white fog. The coppery taste of blood fills her mouth and spills out, warm and sickly, over her cheek and ear. Her body throbs like an electric current, every rhythmic pulse threatening to burst her apart at the seams. She’s dizzy. Disoriented.

  As her consciousness gradually returns, she realises that she is upside down. She tries to move, but everything hurts. It feels like every bone in her body is broken, every inch of flesh bruised.

  You’ll die if you stay here.

  Lydia opens her eyes and sees her hand twisted against the steering wheel in front of her. Some of her nails are broken, but her ruby ring looks undamaged. She peers into its black depths for a moment, thinks of her mother, and with an almighty scream manages to push herself out through the shattered window onto icy stone covered with inch-deep snow where she lays for a while, staring up into the black night as the blizzard continues all around her.

  Get up. Get up. GET UP!

  With a roar of pain, Lydia hauls herself to her feet and staggers, clutching her aching stomach, falling onto the side of the car and fighting to keep her feet. The car has crashed into one low wall at the side of Traveller’s Bridge, overturned and spun across to hit the other, knocking holes in both.

  “No…” Lydia stares at the popped-open trunk and an icy fear grips her heart. “No, no, no…” Holding on to the car for support, she edges around to get a clearer look inside. “NO!”

  Finley is gone. Lydia looks around frantically, blazing pain wracking her stiff neck every time she turns it. The trees all around are silent. The freezing water far below a distant whisper. Where are you?

  Suddenly a tormented scream pierces the frigid air behind her, and before she can turn around something heavy falls on her back, knocking her down. Icy fingers scrabbling at her neck, gradually squeezing it shut as Finley’s mangled, bloodied face looms into view. Lydia grabs his wrists tightly and he screams, yanking one hand clean away and loosening his grip with the other. Lydia seizes the opportunity, raising her feet underneath Finley’s body and kicking out hard, flipping him up and over her head. He lands with a crack on the ice but rolls over and springs unsteadily to his feet, blood pouring from his mouth full of broken teeth. He’s cradling his right hand in his left, which still has the handcuffs hanging from it, and Lydia can tell from the angle at which it’s bent that his wrist is broken. He broke his own wrist to free himself from the cuffs. Finley’s breathing is heavy, his movements tired, laboured. But he has a wild animal’s will to survive at any cost, eyes glowing with a hunger that Lydia recognises only too well. The hunger for blood. For death.

  “You’ve ruined everything!” Finley hisses. “All I wanted was for you to understand. To see the world as I do.” Lydia tries to reply, but it hurts even to breathe. Her lungs are empty. Her throat dry. “You’ve wasted my precious time,” Finley growls, “and for that I will paint this b
ridge with your blood!”

  He lunges for her. Lydia tries to run, but slips on the ice and lands hard on her face. Her insides feel like they’ve been through a blender. She has nothing more to give. With a triumphant yell, Finley yanks her to her feet by her hair and slaps her hard across the face twice, each strike like a bullet to the cheek. Lydia kicks out wildly towards Finley’s bleeding gut and connects. He screams and releases her, and she falls to the ground again, scrambling to get away. She reaches the broken wall on the far side of the bridge and peers over to the river below. How had Jason survived that drop? It must be a hundred feet high.

  “You think you can beat me?” Finley screams, staggering towards her. “I’m the Krimson Killer! I’ve snuffed out more meaningful lives than yours in my sleep! I tricked the whole world, and gave it some of the most beautiful art it will ever see. And I will never, ever, stop.” Lydia braces herself, but Finley does not go for her. He’s just staring at her with those deranged eyes, grinning his malevolent grin. She follows his gaze to her leg, fresh blood trickling down it. Is she cut? Her back hurts, low down, like she’s been punched. Her legs are giving way beneath her. Right before they buckle, Finley lunges drunkenly forward and grabs her, spinning her around and throwing her through the car’s windscreen which shatters with a deafening crash. Lydia gasps for air. She is in so much pain. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Hot, wet tears form in her eyes and trickle down her frozen cheeks. This is it. She is going to die.

  Finley reaches for the car door to wrench it open, but something stops him. A reflection in the glass. A person. He roars and spins around, but there’s nobody there. He looks back to the window and squints through fast-fading eyes. A handsome young man smiles serenely back at him. His brother, Jason. Not the Jason Lydia knows, but the healthy, clean-shaven Jason from before he went to Mortem.