by David Dwan
The young priest finally recognised what he was looking at. “Oh, Jesus.” The creature had the remnants of a faded dog collar on its neck. No, he looked closer, this wasn’t a disguise in the conventional sense. The white collar was actually part of the desiccated creature’s skin. It must have taken on the physical form of a priest as part of its own body.
His free hand went inadvertently up to where his own collar would have been if he hadn’t removed it earlier. Now he knew why they distrusted priests so much.
“Yeah,” Hauser said seeing his reaction. “The son of a bitch took on the form of their local priest, sick bastard. Someone they trusted without question. Christ only knows what it would have done to them all if I hadn’t shown up.”
The German shook his head before continuing, trying to dislodge the memory or remember it, Ross wasn’t sure. “You see, Ross. That’s what these things do, they take great delight in perverting what you hold dear. You had never seen a more devout group of people. Christ how this thing must have jerked off on their pain. It sapped the faith right out of them. These things...”
He gestured to the box. “These things and the scum that create them don’t care about anything but causing suffering, and the longer the better. They’re authors of pain, just for pain’s sake.”
“But you stopped it,” Ross said.
“It had all but changed into what you see there when I got in. It was taunting and abusing those poor children. I was too late, it had already mutilated one... The fucker was wearing the poor lad’s entrails like a garland of flowered around its scrawny neck.” His voice trailed away and Ross thought he heard the old man bite back a sob at the memory.
Ross thought back to the fiesta and the puppet show. Kids in cassocks, death creeping all around them as they prayed for help. He winced inwardly and came away from the monstrosity in the box. It wasn’t hard to imagine those weren’t ribbons exploding from some terrified child’s guts when that nightmare attacked.
“Miguel Torres?” Ross said turning to Hauser. It was his turn to wince this time as even in the near darkness Ross could see the look of horror in the old man’s eyes as he nodded.
“How is this possible?” Ross asked. He thought back to that disgrace demon time, to poor Father Winthorpe fleeting the building and the abomination inside, and the three others who had gone before him. He felt a stab of guilt at not fully believing it was anything but an elaborate illusion.
He glanced back over to the box, the lid was still open, then without asking his feet to move, he was back over to it. He moved to close the lid, but forced himself to look down at the creature curled up inside on last time.
“Christ only knows,” Hauser said. “And He isn’t telling.”
Ross closed the lid and screwed his eyes shut. A mixture of the thing inside and the puppet from the square seemed to be burnt onto his retina, lest he ever forgot what he had seen here.
He desperately wanted to quiz Hauser on his part in all this. How did he know these things existed? How did he know to come here when he did, or turn up in England just in time to save that sick opportunist Michael Davis? But in the end, did that really matter? What he really needed to know was; “Can you help me fight this thing?”
“Once,” Hauser said wearily. “Truth is this thing Davis has shouldn’t even still be alive. It was created to get him, make him suffer for whatever reason, then kill him and disappear back to whatever hell it came from.”
“But you’ve fought it before, trapped it.” Ross said.
“I sold Davis everything. The charms to hold it, even one to subdue it. Truth be told most of the trinkets he thinks are useful don’t mean anything at all.” Hauser smiled at this but it didn’t last. “I just wanted out of it all. Since I killed that thing,” he nodded to the box. “Which damn near did me in. I just wanted to retire. The people here offered to look after me for life after I saved those I could. For life, Ross! And believe me that was the first, best offer I’d ever had in that transient life I’d found myself in. I knew it was only a matter of time before I got too slow, too old or just too damn sloppy and then I’d be the one withering away in a box somewhere.”
“You have nothing left?” Ross asked with a sinking feeling.
Hauser shook his head. “That thing in England was my last. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Davis has everything, mostly useless, but everything and I was glad to sell it to him.”
A long silence fell between the two men. Ross looked up at the brightening morning sky. For inspiration?
“Don’t go into that house,” Hauser said after an age.
Before he had come to Mexico that would have been an easy request for Father Shane Ross to agree to. But after what he had seen here over such a short period of time, the children, that surreal fiesta the grave of poor little Miguel Torres; Born May 2004 died September 2013 in the most horrible of ways. And not to mention that creature in the box that had caused so much torment. Ross wondered if Mendez had known all along what he would find here, and the impact it would have on the young priest.
Because although in the end Hauser could give him no silver bullet or ancient wisdom that he could use to defeat the creature. He was at least now armed with the knowledge that Minx was all too real. And all said and done wasn’t that really the purpose of his visit here? Meeting those who had actually been touched by this evil but that come through it?
Innocents corrupted, but who had somehow come together for comfort and healing and thus defeat that monster’s legacy. To move past it and on with their lives without ever truly forgetting poor Miguel and what true evil lurked in the world.
He thought back to the fiesta again. Was he now the puppet in this sick carnival of internet horrors? If he was, and he did go into that house armed with nothing more than faith and the good book. ‘Sometimes faith isn’t enough’. He knew it wouldn’t be sweets spilling out of his broken body live on the internet if he failed.
‘Don’t go into that house,’ Hauser had said. It was good advice but advice he knew he could ultimately not take, despite every fibre in his being screaming at him to heed it.
Indeed, to his credit and despite his obvious hatred of the church, Hauser then spent the next two days of Ross’ stay at the village trying again and again to talk him out of this foolish endeavour. It became clear to the young priest that the German had taken a shine to him and the feeling was mutual. During the last few hours before he was due to return home Hauser had even tried to persuade him to stay in Mexico, out of the reach of the Vatican, Mendez, and above all demon time and its twisted star.
It was a tempting offer especially out here away from all the fear and doubt. Santuario and its inhabitants made for a compelling argument, that much was true. Perhaps he mused as he prepared to make the long tortuous journey back to Europe and his appointment with Minx. He would return here when, if, it was all over and of course if he still had body and soul intact.
‘Don’t go into that house.’ If he had said it once, Hauser had said it a thousand times since the revelations at the church. But Ross’ response each time had been just as repetitious.
“I have to.”
TWENTY-ONE
When the lawyer in the expensive looking suit had turned up unannounced to visit farmer Joe Martinez with an offer to hire out his unused two acre field, he had assumed it was for some kind of outdoor concert. Not that he cared one way or the other. The field had remained over grown and untouched for almost a year ever since the bottom had fallen out of the Spanish housing market and he had thus been unable to sell the land to what had been, before the crash, quite a few interested developers. But now it was all but useless in the current climate despite being situated as it was only ten miles or so from Barcelona.
So when the lawyer had appeared on his doorstep a week ago Joe had taken one look at this out of place towney and had decided on the spot to ask for five thousand euros and see just how much the man would try to whittle him down.
In
truth Joe would have happily accepted three, so he had been nearly floored when the man from the city had come straight out and offered him ten thousand euros in cash and no questions asked for exclusive use of the field, and the dirt road that connected it to the main highway for seven days tops.
Christ, thought Joe, they could hold a pagan orgy for that kind of money for all he cared, complete with ritual sacrifices.
The two men had shaken hands on the deal and the lawyer had returned the next day with a simple contract and the ten thousand in cash. The lawyer had assured Joe with a glint in his eye that was so common with his kind in Joe’s experience. That the contract was merely to protect their investment and that once they had finished they would not be filing it anywhere official so although it remained unsaid. Joe was free to keep the whole ten thousand with no need to bother the tax man.
Within a day of the deal three tractor drawn gang mowers had turned up and made short work of turning the over-grown field into a near perfect bowling green. Joe watched on in quiet bemusement as a small army of workers then arrived and began constructing a dozen or so prefabricated buildings around the outskirts of the field followed by four large articulated lorries carrying all manner of equipment.
From where Joe spent his days idly watching the commotion from up on the hill which over looked the field. He had been amazed at the swiftness the construction had taken shape and it had been only three days into the operation when the field now resembled a small densely packed temporary village.
Huge spotlights where then erected followed by a large grandstand flanked by two smaller seated areas either side all looking down on an as yet untouched clearing. Miles and miles of cables snaked from large generator trucks and weaved their way between the buildings. Yes he thought this must be some kind of festival complete with what looked like a large outside broadcasting set up. Perhaps to show the concert live on TV he thought.
Joe was contemplating calling his sons both of who were in their twenties and living in the city to see if either knew who might be the headlining act. When strangely as the construction seemingly neared its completion instead of a stage, a small section of the crew broke off and began to erect what looked like a two story rickety old house in the clearing which was quite clearly the centre of all this attention.
The only stage he could see was a low one some twenty feet wide and only a foot or so high which led up to the strange house’s porch. Once this was all completed a line of yellow and black warning tape was then placed around the house.
That night as a large security fence was put in place around the outline of the entire field, Joe watched as the lighting crew tested the massive lighting set up and four giant screens flickered into life. Mostly they showed shots taken by the various camera men dotted around the venue as they rehearsed, conducted by some unseen director, probably up in one of the stilted prefab buildings situated at the rear almost out of sight.
Yes Joe mused, whoever this band was it looked like they were going to put on one hell of a show.
Finally the largest screen flashed up two multi-coloured English words in a dizzying array of rapidly changing fonts.
Demon time the band was apparently called.
Joe Martinez had never heard of them.
TWENTY-TWO
Jeff Miller, demon time’s director for the last two shows, sat in the middle row of the newly constructed main grandstand and watched as a dozen or more casual Spanish labourers milled around clearing away the construction trash that had built up over the last few days. They were just now finishing sweeping the small stage that would host Dex Dexter and the Demonettes.
He looked up at the brightening mid-morning sky and a smile played across his face as he contemplated the day’s work.
Yes, demon time was the best and worst directing job he had ever had. He got to travel around Europe and who knows? Maybe beyond in the next few months as the show went from strength to strength. Take today, they were setting up this travelling insane asylum in the small Spanish coastal town of Calella which was only a dozen miles or so from Barcelona.
The show was in two days, which gave him ample time to rehearse his set ups for the coming madness. The job was well paid (for the internet anyway) and Miller had almost total creative freedom to film the show as he saw fit.
Sure the producer Michael Davis could be a difficult prick at times and something of a control freak when it came to the production and logistical side of things. But once the location was chosen and the construction began, Miller was then allowed to take over and let his talent shine. After all he was the best damn live director working outside the mainstream and Davis knew it.
These were all ticks in the good job column, but then sitting down there in the shadow of the grandstand was the big red tick in the bad column. The house.
Even in the Spanish heat, Miller felt a chill as he looked down on the house. That two story child’s nightmare of a structure just plain scared Miller. He had only set foot in it once, on his first day and had steadfastly refused to ever enter it again. Even when, like now, that twisted little fuck Minx wasn’t even in residence.
They were just finishing up bolting the last section of the elaborate set into place. The rickety looking (though actually quite sturdy) front porch.
Even from where he was sitting, and in bright daylight he could feel his guts churning in fear. It was a childlike fear, like some half remembered trauma from his past. He knew damn well everyone felt the same. Just some more so than others even though no one would speak of it out loud. Even the hard core construction crew whose sole responsibility it was to build and tear down the monstrosity before and after every show felt it.
They were just better at hiding it than most Miller guessed.
Sure the building had been designed to resemble some kind of classic haunted house of horrors. The roof and walls just off kilter. Its façade weathered to look like it had stood at the gates of hell for a thousand blood drenched years.
Yes it was an impressive piece of set construction there was no doubting that. But it was something more than the mere look of the thing. It seemed, at least to Miller’s over sensitive nerve endings, to almost radiate for want of a better word. Evil.
You could physically feel it, it was as if all the corruption and blind acidic hate that emanated from that pitiful creature when it was in residence, had somehow seeped into the very wood, glass and steel of the place.
That creature has contaminated it until it was more than just a set. It was a living, breathing charnel house. And it terrified him.
The walkie-talkie clipped to his belt spat out static snapping Miller out of his daze. He unclipped it.
“Boss?” It was Keeler, Miller’s head gaffer, who along with his team were in the house setting up the lights and ten remote control mini cameras Miller had instructed them to place in key areas to best capture the mayhem when the action kicked off inside.
“Keeler, how’s it going?”
The gaffer’s voice was more static than words but he could just about make out what he was saying.
“Nearly ready for a camera test. You know you could always come on in and lend a hand?”
“Fuck that,” Miller said under his breath. Then he brought the walkie-talkie back up to his mouth. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, Keeler.”
The director stood and looked out over the nearly completed set up. A set of electricians were working on the two massive spotlights that would light the house come nightfall when they would do a whole technical run through with the cheerleaders and that clown Dexter.
But thankfully not the main star of the show. That thing wouldn’t be put in place until the very last possible moment and only by Davis himself. A job he was welcome to as far as Miller was concerned.
“I’ll be in the production gantry thank you very much. Come see me there once you’ve finished. I want to see how that shithole looks from there.” Miller said into mouth piece.
“Wil
l do,” Keeler replied and the walkie-talkie fell silent once more.
Miller clipped the walkie-talkie back onto his belt and began to make his way over to the exit stairs at the back of the grandstand. But even with the house out of sight he could feel its presence like rancid breath on the back of his neck.
TWENTY-THREE
In the house itself, John Keeler tucked the walkie-talkie into the side pocket of his baggy combat trousers and took the IPad out from under his arm and tapped the screen.
He was rewarded with a shot looking down on himself standing in the middle if the large downstairs room from one of the cameras mounted in the top right hand corner of the set.
He waved to himself and then selected another camera in the room which was low down by the door. He nodded with satisfaction that meant all the cameras in here were fine.
He was about to flick the IPad to standby when he caught a glimpse of what looked like an out of focus figure on the screen just over his left shoulder. He froze and let his hand holding the IPad drop as if not looking at the image and what it had captured behind him might somehow not make it so.
But he had seen something, hadn’t he? Perhaps it was a misplaced shadow on the wall or some stain he had not noticed before. He closed his eyes and held his breath and waited for whatever it was to make a sound, shift slightly anything to make its presence flesh.
“Fuck it,” Keeler spun around gripped with a sudden cold fear. But was confronted with nothing more than the blank back wall of the room. No twisted creature, no ghost. Nothing but a large patch of fake (at least he assumed it was fake) greenish black looking mildew.
“Christ,” Keeler cursed under his breath and gave a slight shake of the head. It wasn’t unusual to get spooked when you were working in the house. Everybody did at one time or another. But this just felt different somehow.
Keeler slowly approached the stain on the wall. And as he drew closer he could see it was almost pitch black with no hint of green as he had first thought. He tried to think back to the last time he was in the house. Just after the last show when they were stripping down the lights and cameras. Had the stain been there then? No he didn’t think so, but he reasoned it may have been added by the set dressers after the last show to add (as if needed!) a more sinister look to the room.
