The Mark of the Damned

by Daniel Willcocks

  He pawed at his tired eyes, his mind flashing back to his late-night visitors. Maybe on this occasion he wouldn’t argue back. What was a few hours at barely minimum pay anyway? If he was this tired tomorrow, he’d barely last the full day.

  “Over and out,” he called down the radio, switching it off with a flick of his thumb. He gathered his things and left the store.

  He had expected the streets outside to be empty. For Farside shopping center to be near enough desolate, but as Quinton traveled home he was surprised to see that rest of the shopping center was as busy as it ever was on a weekday afternoon. While all other shops were bustling with custom, Evergreen’s remained empty.

  And, yet, that wasn’t the strangest thing to happen to Quinton that day. While travelling home, he couldn’t help but notice that the traffic was considerably lesser than he’d experience at this time of day. Usually the roads were choked, and Quinton would have to wrestle with lane-switchers and horn-blarers, just to get clear out into the suburbs where the streets were quieter. Now, however, every car Quinton met at a junction allowed him to pass. Every stoplight turned green the moment he saw it. A couple of times cars actually pulled over into the hard shoulder as if there were bright lights and a siren crying out from his car.

  When he arrived at Sarah’s house, it was twenty minutes earlier than usual. She met with a smile, threw her arms around his neck and gave him a coy wink. Her lips found his as she dragged him into the kitchen, and there they ate a plate of Quinton’s favorite – spaghetti and meatballs. The dishes had already been washed and after dinner, despite how tired Quinton felt from his lack of sleep, Sarah dragged him into the living room and tore off her clothes to reveal a set of Quinton’s favorite negligee beneath.

  “What’s gotten into you?” he laughed.

  Sarah shook her head, her eyes darting to Quinton’s tattoo. She ran her hand along it and gripped his bicep firmly. “What do you mean? I just missed you, is all.”

  Their lovemaking lasted nearly an hour, with Sarah making a joke that Quinton should hurry before her parents came home. When they reached their climax, they lay, gasping and entwined on the sofa. Quinton’s mind was a blurry haze, his exhaustion catching up with him. He stroked Sarah’s hair as she curled up on his lap and he thought about telling Sarah about his experience with his father’s study and the horrors within. He even managed to get as far as uttering her name before she turned her beautiful blue eyes up at him and he realized in that moment how stupid and farfetched the whole thing would sound. She was at peace. In a state of happiness he hadn’t seen for some time. Why ruin the moment with talk of the dead and the dilemma Quinton was facing?

  “I could hold you forever,” Sarah said.

  Quinton smiled. “Same here. Although we should probably get dressed before your parents finish work.”

  “Good shout,” Sarah grinned.

  Quinton couldn’t help but notice her reluctance to let go of his arm.

  It was dark by the time that Quinton headed home, his head filled with flashes of—

  hellbeasts

  —Sarah’s naked body. He stared longingly at her house as he drove away, wishing he could stay with her full-time. Unable to wait until they had a place of their own and could finally be a real couple. Living together in the big city.

  Soon… Quinton thought. Soon…

  Though Quinton had no idea just how soon that moment would come.

  ‘You will never long for ever again. Anything you wish will be yours, and everything you want will be obtainable. As long as you serve Her, she will pay you in kind. As long as you are here for Her.’

  Quinton shook his father’s words from his head and drove on home.

  6

  That night, Quinton was awoken once more by the sensation in his arm. An alarm clock he hadn’t asked for, set to a time that he wished he could change.

  And, once again, Quinton found his feet leading him towards his father’s study. His mother’s gentle snoring coming faintly from her bedroom. Despite his exasperation at being woken, he smiled, finding some comfort in the knowledge that his mother was finally getting some restful sleep.

  It didn’t take long for Quinton to take his place in the room. For the sensation in his arm to spike as the pentagram flared on his arm and on the wooden beams of the floor. Only, this time, Quinton took a step back and sat cross-legged on the floor, patiently waiting for his father to arrive.

  He formed from the shadows. From the farthest reaches of the room, materializing from nothing. His appearance still a mangle of flesh and meat, but to a lesser extent today. His clothing covering the worst of the scratches.

  “You’re late,” Quinton said dryly.

  His father grinned. “You’re here.”

  Quinton let out a deep breath. “Can I just ask: is this going to happen every night? The waking up because of this tattoo thing? Because, if it is, can I find a way to turn this off?” He knuckled his eyes. “I’m useless when I’m tired.”

  “I remember.” A simple response with little elaboration.

  And then, as if there was nothing strange about their situation at all, as if they were merely sat across the kitchen table on a Saturday morning eating Cornflakes and drinking coffee, he said, “How was your day.”

  The words were simple, the intonation kind, but they jabbed Quinton with a kind of pain that he hadn’t known was possible. It had been hard knowing that his father was gone from the world. To know that he would never see or speak to him again. On the day his mother had delivered the news, he had been in pieces. A blubbering mess on the floor, cursing the universe for all that it had done. For the unnecessary cruelty it brought unto others in claiming a man’s soul for itself.

  But, over the weeks that had followed, Quinton found a way to internalize his emotions. To put on a blank mask and hold himself for his mother’s sake. To be there for her.

  Quinton finally felt something inside him break. Felt a morbid catharsis as warm tears flooded down his face. He sobbed and sobbed for what felt like hours, his father patiently waiting across the room, head cocked, that crooked soothing smile on his face.

  When Quinton at last wiped his eyes, his father said, “I know how difficult it’s been for you, son. I really do. I’ve been through it myself with both of my parents. But it gets easier, I promise.”

  “It helps when your father reappears as a ghost in the middle of the night,” Quinton said, laughing despite himself.

  His father chuckled. “That’s true. Although, I’m not sure this qualifies as a ‘ghost’ per se. Maybe a ghoul or a poltergeist of some kind?” He raised his arms, a menacing expression on his face, and gave a weak, “Woooooo.”

  Quinton snorted, wiped his nose on the back of his non-marked arm.

  “I suspect it’s also easier when your inner desires are granted, and you’re given everything that you could have asked for throughout your day?”

  Quinton looked up at his father. “What do you mean?”

  “The traffic? The job? The sex?” Again, in that casual, nonchalant tone.

  Quinton flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t think we know what’s going on in the surface world? You think I’m not informed of what’s going on with my own family? You’re on a journey, my son. And I’ve been granted permission to help guide you along your way.” He nodded towards the pentagram. “See, they’re not all bad down there.”

  A sudden realization dawned on Quinton. “So, the customers in the supermarket… That was you?”

  “Well, not ‘me’ exactly. It was never me. But the forces below were somewhat involved.”

  “And the traffic? The stoplights?” Quinton’s face grew scarlet. His voice lowered to a bare whisper. “The sex?”

  His father nodded, a brimming smile on his face.

  “Ew!” Quinton exclaimed.

  His father’s face dropped. “No! No… it’s not like that. I didn’t… y’know…”


  “Watch?”

  “Right.” For the first time since they had reunited, his father struggled to meet his eyes. “I can’t see anything down there, I’m just aware of what’s going on and I know how exactly this contract works. Anything you long for or want will come to you – to a certain extent. You can’t end world hunger or make a twenty-year-old leggy popstar fall in love with you—”

  “—Dad—”

  “—Believe me, I tried,” his father winked.

  Quinton chuckled quietly; his eyes cast towards the pentagram. The light had begun to pulse again.

  “So, you’re telling me that anything that I want can be granted by this… contract that you signed years ago on my behalf?”

  “Almost,” his father corrected. “I signed it on my behalf. You see, at the time me and your mother were down and out. We were newly-weds with little in the bank and not a lot in the way of career prospects. There’s something about this town that sucks you in. Once you’re here, it’s difficult to ever leave.

  “And still, after I eventually did manage to get a promotion at my old job, we decided we’d surrender to the town entirely and try for a baby.”

  Quinton performed some quick mental arithmetic. “That would have been years before I was born.”

  His father’s face straightened. “That’s right. See, I never told you this before as I hoped that it was an anomaly in our genes, some kind of deformity or weakness that remained only in mine and your mother’s blood, but despite years of trying for a baby, we could never conceive.

  “We tried everything possible. We were only a young couple starting our lives together. We saw professionals, we tried herbal remedies, we spent the best part of two years booking appointments to see anyone we could who might give us better news. But luck was not on our side.”

  His father’s shoulders dropped. The pentagram pulsed with increased fervor. Quinton’s heart quickened at the sight of it, yet he chose to avert his attention to his father’s weary eyes.

  “Eventually we gave up. Your mother’s gynecologist told us that she had an ‘inhospitable womb’, and that my… gentlemen, were slow off the bat and would likely never fertilize. Hope went. It was all over. We moved on and thought nothing more of it. We loved and we laughed, but there was always a hole in there that couldn’t be filled.”

  “But you did have children. You had me.”

  Quinton’s father nodded. The pentagram pulsed and fired miniscule sparks. The floor began to warp and bend, releasing that same haunting growl once more. “She provides for those who show her loyalty. I signed that contract in a heartbeat, bought in by the powers offered. She gave us a child – the most perfect child we could have asked for. You.”

  Quinton heard the snarls from way down below, felt that same pull on his chest as he did before. An immense pressure pulling from the center of his ribcage.

  “Argh,” he cried, feeling his body fold. He resisted, tried to straighten his back. He could feel Her weight as if pulled by an invisible string. “What does She want? What do I need to do?”

  Quinton’s father’s voice raised. “What any creature tossed in a prison for eternity would want, of course.” His eyes widened as he said the word, “Freedom.”

  His father knelt by the edge of the void, trying to catch Quinton’s eyes. “Each night She gets a little closer. Each day She’ll call.” His words came now as if shouting through a wind tunnel. An underground train pulling in at the station and sucking his words away. “The more time you dedicate, the further She’ll climb. Offer your life, son. Relinquish control and bind yourself to Her. Your soul acts as Her safety rope. Your strength absorbed into Her, enough to help Her gain purchase. For years I’ve dedicated my life to Her eternal struggle, only once managing to see Her in all Her glory, in those final days before my passing. Her glorious maw penetrating the hole. Her claws gripping the floor for dear life. A final push and she would have made it…” His eyes cast down into the pit. “But I was too weak.”

  Quinton felt as though his chest were on fire. His arm prickled with obnoxious energy. He tried to speak but found his focus needed to remain on the job at hand, lest he release control and found himself tumbling down into the void below.

  “I was the anchor. You are the anchor,” his father leered. “Help Her and your rewards will be beyond your wildest dreams.”

  Quinton gritted his teeth, felt a surge of strength and shouted, “I can’t. I can’t!”

  “You can,” his father smiled. “And you will. Each day your strength will grow. Each day Her power magnifies. Trust the process and you will live an eternity of happiness. As I once did,” his eyes locked onto Quinton’s, “and as I do now.”

  Part II

  Bound in Bounty

  We feel most alive when we are closest to death.

  —Nenia Campbell

  1

  The month of October waxed and waned. Despite the lateness of the year, the sun remained in full force. The skies were blue, and clouds floated wispily by like dandelion spores.

  The town was getting ready for Halloween. A time of year when the close-knit towns and villages found a real sense of community. The shops were strung in cobwebs and decorated with pumpkins. Store clerks were dressed in orange, with corn syrup and red food coloring trickling from their lips. Their clothes shredded and torn. Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ played so often on the radio that people had already begun to grow sick of hearing it.

  “C’mon man, this is the eighth time this morning.” Gabe rolled his eyes, reached over and changed the radio station. Jackson’s rolling bass line was replaced by the tinny voice of a weather woman, claiming that the late-year sunny blitz they were experiencing was like nothing the town had seen before. Reports were coming in of sunflowers and buttercups springing from the ground, while several trees had been spotted reaching full bloom.

  “I like it,” Quinton smiled, his grin reaching ear-to-ear. His elbow rested on the ledge of the open window and he reveled in the cool breeze blowing on his face. “Makes a change to have the windows open in October. Little bit of sun never hurt anyone.”

  The woman reached the end of her monologue and a man with a deep, cheery voice segued in.

  “Thanks for that, Kate, and for those of you rejoining us at KYOTY Radio, ‘Hello’! Since this is the season of spooks and thrills and we have only one week to go until Halloween, let’s get those earbuds ringing with one of our season’s most popular jams…”

  “Oh, please, God, no.”

  “…the master of thrillers himself, ‘Thriller’ by the late Michael Jackson.”

  Gabe slammed his hand against the car’s radio system. The sound cut off entirely, replaced instead by the gentle hush of the wind blowing through the windows.

  “I mean, I get that it’s Halloween, and all, but there are other songs, surely?”

  “It’s the Halloween anthem.” Quinton replied. “What else could they play?”

  Gabe shrugged. “There must be loads of Halloweeny songs; ‘Highway to Hell’, ‘Super Freak’. You know, I think I’ve only heard ‘Ghostbusters’ once this year.”

  “It’s still a great song.”

  “Man, even ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’ would make me happy. That train wreck of a song would be perfect for Halloween.”

  Quinton looked at Gabe from behind his sunglasses. For the first time in weeks he felt okay. Better than okay. He felt… happy. Powerful.

  He turned to the radio, gave a small wink and thought about what he wanted.

  To his glee, the car radio turned back on and switched automatically to KYOTY Radio. Immediately the car was filled with the thrumming bass of the mid-section of Thriller.

  “What the hell?” Gabe roared at the dashboard, slamming his hand once more on the button. His attention taken away from the road so instantly that he had to slam his foot on the brakes to avoid crashing into a car which had stopped in front because of a red light. Their bumpers stopped inches from each other. Wh
en the lights turned green, the man in front accelerated quickly, sparing a glance at Gabe through his rearview.

  Gabe took a steadying breath, color now in his cheeks. “Dude, I’m sorry. I don’t know what just happened.”

  “Something wrong with your car?” Quinton shrugged.

  “Shouldn’t be. I only just had it serviced, it’s been purring like a kitten all week.”

  Quinton grinned, watching the bypassers stare at them as Gabe hit the gas and drove on.

  They arrived at Betty’s Diner a little after the lunchtime rush. As they walked in, Quinton spotted the table they had sat in before, a little over a week ago when the tattoo had first appeared on his arm. Although the diner was near empty, they were led to a separate table over by a big glass window looking out onto the diner’s parking lot.

  “Man, I love this place,” Gabe said, staring out at the azure sky. “What with the weather, it really makes you feel like you’re in America, right?”

  “Sure,” Quinton replied, his attention caught by a woman on a nearby table trying to soothe a bawling baby.

  She looked on with exasperation at the bundle in her arms, her whole body attempting to quiet the baby like a crack addict dealing with a withdrawal. Her hair looked like frayed carpet. Her clothes baggy and stained. Across from her, her husband sat glassy-eyed, numbly prodding at a hunk of meat with his fork.

  The sound was excruciating. The handful of other customers in the restaurant glanced irritably their way as they tried to enjoy their food.

  Gabe followed Quinton’s eyes. “Well, maybe apart from that shit. Makes you almost glad you can’t have them, doesn’t it?”

  If Quinton was pissed off by the comment, he didn’t show it. Instead, he closed his eyes and imagined the woman and the baby sat quietly at the table. The baby fast asleep in the woman’s arms while she breathed a sigh of relief and managed to enjoy a meagre ten minutes of conversation with her husband.