The Mark of the Damned

by Daniel Willcocks

  Quinton took Sarah’s hand. He hadn’t realized how much he was shaking.

  A deep inhale.

  A gentle shake of his head.

  Quinton would hear that squealing sob in his head for the next one thousand years…

  2

  Quinton stood by his bedroom window and watched the children play outside. His attention had been caught by their squeals of excitement, and now he watched them chasing each other around the fields beyond his garden, a small girl with pigtails, and two boys tossing a ball over the top of her.

  Autumn had given way to a crisp winter. After the record-breaking heat that had carried them through November and into December, the natural way of things seemed to have finally caught up. Grey clouds shrouded the sky and the last of the orange leaves had waltzed to the ground like coloured pencil shavings.

  Quinton knew why, of course. His mind hadn’t stopped turning over with the ‘why’ of it all. Ever since the day that the medics referred to as ‘the accident’ – but Quinton knew better than that – he had stopped trying. Had given up on his wishes and abuse of power and let life be as it may.

  Neighbors and family stopped by to say hello and wish the pair well in their new house, but there wasn’t a single person who hadn’t sensed that something was wrong. A shadow hung over the house, broken only by the occasional dragging of Sarah’s bare feet as she floated from room to room, lost and forlorn, still unable to process just exactly had happened, and where it all went wrong. They were a pairing. A ghostly duo caught in the throes of an eternal silence. Quinton had stopped trying to cheer Sarah up, because he knew that it wasn’t over. None of it was over. Not yet.

  And what could he possibly say to make it all better?

  On a particularly grey Friday evening Quinton found himself at the front door. He had had no intention of answering, but the relentless ring of the doorbell caused something inside of him to stir for the first time in weeks. An emotion other than helpless despair – anger.

  When he flung open the door, his anger quickly subsided. It was Gabe. Stood with his hat in his hands. Rain dripped from the curls of his hair and into his eyes.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  They stood there staring for a long time. Gabe cracked a sympathetic smile and said, “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  Quinton nodded. Gabe threw his arms around Quinton’s neck.

  They soon found themselves at the kitchen counter, the kettle bubbling away behind them. Gabe took the brunt of the domestic duties, quietly navigating his way around a kitchen he’d never visited before as if he had lived there all of his life. That was the thing Quinton liked about Gabe. He just got on with stuff.

  He placed two cups of coffee on the counter. “Where’s Sarah?”

  “Straight to it, then?”

  “I don’t mess around.” He smiled, that sympathetic tilt of the head that made Quinton think of his father.

  He sighed. “She’s around, somewhere.”

  “Taken it hard?”

  Quinton nodded. He sipped his drink, feeling the burn against his lips. It was a relief, to find a distraction in physical pain that might detract from the mental. “She’s like a ghost. She hardly sleeps, she barely eats. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Move back home?” Gabe suggested, the words innocent enough.

  Quinton furrowed his brow, a spark of suspicion in his eye. Unable to believe what he’d just heard.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” Gabe took his own drink, blew it, and sipped. He gave a small yelp and smacked his scorched lips. “Dude, how did you not burn yourself?”

  Quinton shrugged.

  Gabe placed his cup down. “Well, I just think it’d be best, you know? You two have moved all the way out here with no support networks, no friends, and no family nearby. Your nearest familiar is forty-five minutes away, and you two have just lost a kid.” He placed his hands in the air as if surrendering. “I’m sorry if that sounds a bit abrupt, but I’m worried about you two. You need family around you right now. People who love you.”

  In that moment Quinton saw the visage of his father, broken and slashed, standing in the corner of the kitchen, dripping blood on the floor.

  You need family.

  Quinton snarled. “Did he put you up to this? I bet he did, didn’t he? Anything to pull me back. Anything to drag me back into the misery. What?” He no longer shouted at Gabe, but at the figure in the corner. “It isn’t enough to take my child to prove a point, you have to drag us back, too? Isn’t the baby payment enough? Can’t we call it quits?”

  Hot tears fell down his cheeks. Gabe turned to see who Quinton was shouting at, and immediately lowered his eyes, abashed by what he was seeing.

  In the space where Quinton had seen his father, Sarah now stood. She looked spectral, her skin pale and damp as though it were made of wax. Her hair clung to her scalp in an oily mess of knots and half-assed attempts at grooming. Her eyes were red and blotchy, her lip curled into a sneer.

  Quinton’s heart dropped. Sarah turned and glided from the room, her feet hardly making a noise as she exited without a word.

  Gabe hugged his arm. He looked from Quinton to the door, then pulled his car keys from his pocket and span them on one finger. “Dude. Let’s go for a drive.”

  They were on the road and out of the city limits in minutes, Quinton actually making an effort to use his curse (what point was there calling it a ‘gift’ anymore) to curve traffic and give them free reign of the road.

  “You’ve got to tell me what the fuck happened in there,” Gabe said, cutting through the bullshit. “One minute we’re talking, the next you’re screaming at your girlfriend. That’s not you, man.”

  Quinton rested his chin on his hand. Fields rolled past them, most crops already pillaged by the hands of farmers in a desperate bid to cultivate their harvests before the cold set in and made the lands barren.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. These are hard times.”

  “They’re all hard. Look, we all go through shit. Some of us more so than others. But staying in that environment isn’t healthy. You’ve seen it yourself. You’ve seen what it did to your mom when your dad, well… you know.” He paused, muting the radio as the tinny drumbeats of Aerosmith’s ‘Crying’ came over the speakers.

  Quinton didn’t reply, just watched his breath fogging up the glass. He could see the city from afar as they crested the hilltop, the road spreading before them like a silk grey ribbon.

  “The truth of it all is that bad things happen to good people. There’s no sense about it at all. It’s a part of life, as sure as I know my Dad is going to forget my birthday and Uncle Harry is never going to kick his smoking habit before the cancer gets him. Some things you have to learn to move on from.”

  Quinton opened his mouth to speak, but Gabe interjected.

  “I’m not saying now. God only knows that what you’re going through might be one of the toughest of them all. But I’m saying that you need to know there’s hope. Things will get better. Sarah needs someone there for her who can keep their head above water. That’s not you right now. You don’t have to abandon this house, just give her the chance to go back to her family for a bit. Go back to your mom. She’s worried sick about you. Says you’ve been avoiding her calls.”

  “My battery died,” Quinton said flatly.

  “That was three days ago.”

  Quinton remained silent.

  Gabe sighed. “That’ll explain why I couldn’t get through to you either.”

  The silence lingered between them. Gabe shifted his grip on the steering wheel.

  “Just go home,” Gabe said. “Please.”

  It was in that moment that Quinton knew more than ever that the curse had found Gabe, too. He didn’t know how or why, but he had never been more convinced of anything in his life. The tattoo on his arm began to prickle – its first sign of life since the crash. He closed his eyes and stared at the darkness, t
he image of the pentagram burning like fire in the shadows of his eyelids. Three of Gideon’s words spiralling through his ear canal.

  God only knows.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go. But I’ll tell you one thing, where I’ll be going, that’ll be the last place on Earth you’ll be able to find God.”

  Gabe eyed Quinton curiously, let the comment pass, and followed the road.

  Quinton tossed and turned until he could no longer stand it. He was almost certain that Sarah wasn’t asleep. Her back rose and fell in shallow beats; her white day-dress crinkled around her giving Quinton the impression of an angel made of wax left to melt in the midday sun.

  His mind had never been more active in his life. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see it. He could see Her.

  His arm was on fire. Clearly the patience She maintained in waiting for Quinton to return was finite and limited. She had made Her point now. Had proven Her power in removing the gift She had blessed them with, and now She wanted him back.

  And, by God, she would have him.

  Quinton had taken Gabe’s advice and made all the necessary arrangements. But he had made some modifications for himself, knowing that, no matter what was to happen tonight, it would all be over one way or another. He knew he was taking a gamble. He knew he was laying a lot on the line, and, though he knew that he would be protecting Sarah in the long run, that certainly didn’t make the next step any easier.

  The draft blew steadily into the room, the curtains lazily drifting from their rail. Quinton rose and tiptoed to the wooden dresser where he kept his underwear and eased out the drawer. He grabbed the letter inside and held it in fingers that were both clammy and shaking.

  Did it really have to come to this? Was there really no other choice in the world than the one Quinton was about to make?

  No. This is the only way.

  Quinton turned, placed the letter at the end of the bed and stared at Sarah one last time. Soaked in every last moment that he could of the girl he had lusted after through his formative years. The girl who had kissed him in line for the cinema when he had been too scared to make the first move. The woman who had celebrated his victories and been there for the toughest moments of his life.

  Toughest moments of my life so far…

  The woman who he couldn’t dream of ever walking away from, but who he now said a thousand and one goodbyes to in the dialogue inside of his head. His darling. His sweetheart. The mother of his child short-lived.

  Because of Her.

  Her eyes were open, staring at the wall like marbles under a magnifying glass. She turned her head and caught his eye.

  “Where are you going?”

  Even her voice was hollow. An echo through a broken chamber. If there was any life left in her, he couldn’t see it. Perhaps when her parents arrived tomorrow morning and made use of the guest rooms they’d be able to bring her round again. Rekindle Sarah like the dying ember of a campfire long forgotten. Stoke and billow her back to the great flame that she once was.

  Quinton’s lip quivered. “I can’t sleep.”

  Though her words didn’t betray her, her eyes did. Understanding swam in those pools like carp in a koi pond. “Lie with me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  Sarah didn’t cry. Didn’t show any outward emotion. She gave a minuscule nod of her head as though she somehow understood the finality of it all. The million and one thoughts racing around in his mind. She returned her attention to the spot on the wall. “I love you.” Her words soft, barely audible.

  “I love you, too.”

  When she turned again, he was gone.

  3

  Quinton blinked and he was home, standing in front of the painted black door.

  A sudden flood of memories came back. Standing and waiting for his mother to open up after days of playing across on the football fields and making bird’s nests out of cut grass. Knees scuffed and green from sliding around and doing what boys do best. Chasing minnows in the stream, socks soaked and freezing from the chill breeze as it floated over the rolling hills and caused his toes to curl.

  In those days he had felt taller than his short stature should have allowed. Now he felt smaller than he thought possible. The weight of what was to come unforgivingly pressed down on his shoulders, causing his shoulders to slump and his legs to shake.

  He fit his key silently in the lock and half-turned the handle. When his father had died, he had installed a security alarm to the front door. A small trigger that buzzed when someone came into the house to alert any and all residents that they had someone new in their presence. After several days of well-wishers setting off the gadget, he had learned the trick to keeping it silent. A half turn. A gentle nudge. Squeeze through like Indiana Jones in a chamber of relics.

  All was deathly silent, which was surprising. Given Quinton’s final day at the house, he had expected to hear Her roars and cries from halfway down the street. The damned—

  damned

  —creature yowling and hollering, hungry for Quinton to provide the rope for which it could climb. A lion, frenzied and foaming at the mouth, rabid, ravenous, fighting for its final breaths as its blood-crazed eyes found his and it attacked. Roared and ripped, claws as long and sharp as scythes tearing through flesh…

  What would happen if he never walked back into that room? What would happen if he spun on his heels and dashed for the street, running until his feet turned to bloody stumps and he was away, miles out into the cold wilderness. Would it shrivel and die with no willing victim to fuel its fire? If he killed himself, what would happen, then? Would the creature find a new host? Spread the misery to a new family and break and shatter them to their very core?

  Yes. Maybe all of those things.

  Maybe none at all.

  The curse was upon him, and him alone. If he ran, he knew that it would only catch him. Even a snail can catch up with the fastest cheetah in the end. When the world ends, and their energy is sapped. Even then…

  Even then…

  Outside his father’s study door now. Still no noise other than the gentle inhalations of his mother further down the hall. The sound a hushing lullaby to the house itself. Quinton rested his clammy forehead against the painted wood, unaware until that point that he was sweating. Although he couldn’t hear them, he knew they were there. Could feel them waiting expectantly, like a bubbling discomfort that leads to a stomach ache. You know it’s there and you’re helpless to fight it. Just bow down, lean into the wind, and accept your fate.

  Quinton opened the door.

  There he stood.

  4

  “Son.”

  “Father.”

  He stared into his father’s eyes, the pupils swollen and engorged. There were no whites anymore, they were nothing more than large black beetles nestled into his sockets, taking up residence in the alcoves where his kindly eyes had once been.

  The heat, too. Pulsing in swathes across the room. A dizzying, sickening heat that he had never felt before. An angry heat, as if the temperature had its own cognisance and wanted its revenge. Turn up the oven, dear one. Let’s see how long it takes to make him sweat. Make him boil. Make him melt…

  “I’m glad you returned.” No emotion. A drone’s voice. Nothing more than a cog in a machine. “It is better this way.”

  Quinton felt something flip in his head, a primitive button pressed and now he was running, running, running. The heat tore and swirled around him as if he were caught in the very center of the convection. His fists worked their own agenda, Quinton only vaguely aware of the sound of cracking bone and pulping skin. The feeling of his father’s face beneath his knuckles. The sound of teeth clattering to the ground like loose change. It felt good. The release like pricking an airbed with a needle. A slow, satisfying relief that would, no doubt, leave a hollow after-taste in the air. But it was something. At least it was something that Quinton could control. Could do, inste
ad of have done to him. His father put up no protest, just took the poundings. Remained silent until Quinton’s knuckles were cut and bruised. Until his face was nothing more than a bloodied mess on the floor. A melon dropped from a great height and torn into pieces by the weight of the fall.

  It was only when Quinton became aware of the whites of his bones, the domed knuckles revealed through the flays of skin now shredded across his hands, that he slowed to a stop. He felt like a giant hydraulic machine winding down. Not sudden. Never sudden. Just moseying to a grinding stop after the power died and the momentum dissipated.

  Quinton fell backwards and sat. A wave of shame washed over him, mixed with that all-encompassing anger. Unable to believe what he had just done, but glad all the same that he had done it. His father was the reason all of this had happened. If it hadn’t had been for him he wouldn’t be trapped in this nightmare. Left with the broken husk of the woman he loved. Childless and desperate to be free.

  To his surprise, his father rose from the floor and got to his feet. No sign of pain. His chest rose and fell lazily, as if, perhaps, he had just come back from a light walk and was a touch out of breath.

  “Feel better?” he asked. Again, that monotonous drone devoid of any real emotion.

  Quinton couldn’t believe his eyes. His father’s face began to pull itself back to rights, moving as if time was rewinding until all was well once more.

  “No,” Quinton snorted. “I don’t feel better. You took everything from me. My chance at a family. My chance to escape. My chance at happiness. You took it all. Before I was even born, you took it.” His lip quivered; hot tears stung. “And you never even bothered to tell me. I looked up to you. I idolized you. You were everything to me, and now I know that I was secondary to you, you selfish prick. You had yourself in mind your entire life, and it didn’t matter what the cost, as long as you got your way. You got everything you ever wanted. And what do I get? A zombified girlfriend and a dead… A dead…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word. He paused and took a steadying breath. “You ruined everything for me, for the sake of… what? Helping that… Hell—