Count to Ten

by Mark Ayre

  “I think you’ll be able to help.”

  “I’d certainly like to,” he said. “For a start, we can cut away all the boring bits and get to it. I’m assuming your interest revolves around what happened to my grandfather in 1955. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “So, let me ask… how much do you know, and what is your interest?”

  Thirsty, Amira wished she had brought a drink. Knowing she would never accept one from an Unwin, it had been the obvious move.

  Deciding to follow Richard’s lead and cut to the chase, she said, “I know your grandfather, in 1955, was possessed by a demon. As for my interest…”

  Richard leaned forward. “Yes?” Hungry to know.

  “After your grandfather’s possession, your great-grandfather accomplished something incredibly rare. Almost unheard of.

  “My interest: I want to know how he did it.”

  Twelve

  Excited by the topic, Richard leaned in.

  “When you say my great-grandfather achieved something “incredibly rare”, in regards to my grandfather’s possession. I assume you mean rarer than the possession itself?”

  “Much rarer,” said Amira.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Don’t do that,” said Amira. “We were doing so well without the games. Everything straight forward and on the table. You know why I want to know. Only question is, will you help me?”

  There were always games. Unwin knew whether he was going to help Amira. Rather than answer, he leaned back in his chair, exhaled, and steepled his fingers. Like an amateur dramatics’ player, he exaggerated the trappings of deep thought. Amira resisted the urge to comment.

  “Before I help,” he started, backtracking once he realised what he’d done, clarifying. “Before I decide whether to help, I want to hear what you know about my grandfather.”

  “Why? Don’t you know it all?”

  “I do, but no one else does. If you’ve found out what no others could, I would be very impressed. I want you to impress me.”

  Reminding herself she needed his help, and if she had to play a little game it wasn’t the end of the world, Amira nodded. Besides, she did like to impress people. The information had been hard to dig up. She was impressed with herself.

  “I suppose the story starts,” she said, “with your great grandfather: Nicholas Unwin.”

  It was not a long story.

  In late 1939, Nicholas Unwin had left his pregnant wife to go to war. Once victory was assured, he rushed home, excited to see his boy for the first time.

  What he found broke his heart. Richard Unwin was five and blighted by numerous degenerative diseases of which he would never be rid, and which would surely kill him. More than one doctor claimed he would be lucky to reach his eighteenth birthday.

  Having felt a deep, undefeatable love for his boy the moment he had seen him, Nicholas swore he would do whatever it took to save his son’s life.

  As would Harvey Michaels, over sixty years later, Nicholas fast dispensed with conventional medicines. Soon after, he also ruled out natural remedies.

  Ten years passed before Nicholas discovered the secret that might save his son’s life. By 1955 Richard, now 15, was on the cusp of death. Having revised their estimates, the doctors claimed he might struggle to reach next week let alone manhood.

  Desperate, Nicholas and his wife, Richard’s mother, moved forward their plans to save their son. Aided by Nicholas’ uncle, they began to chant. In one final, desperate attempt to save the boy, they called forth an ancient, evil power.

  Being cruel and aggressive, the ritual killed Richard’s uncle and put his mother in hospital for several weeks.

  Partway through the ritual, a heart attack killed the boy.

  Regardless, the demon came, resurrecting Richard.

  At first, it seemed as though their prayers had been answered. Nicholas grieved his brother and prayed for his wife, but could not help experiencing joy at his son’s recovery. All the degenerate diseases were gone. Richard was healthier and stronger than any child his age.

  Until Richard went to sleep, and the beast took over, all seemed well.

  On the first night after the ritual, a man was killed walking home from a pub. On the second night, a party of four were murdered over dinner at home. On the third, there was an attack on a party two doors from where the Unwin’s then lived. Fourteen people were killed.

  Survivors who fled this last party when the killing began testified that the teenage Richard Unwin had perpetrated the massacre.

  Fearing not only what the townsfolk would do to the boy after finding out about the murders, but that they were telling the truth, Nicholas left his hospitalised wife. He took his son to the isolated farm that belonged to his family, where his parents had lived together most of their lives.

  Amira said, “the angry mob followed. There isn’t much detail on what happened when they got here.”

  Richard smiled. “You’ve more detail than I would have thought possible. You are something.”

  From his seat, Richard rose. Amira twisted in hers as the handsome farmer stepped across the room and stopped by the window. Over the rolling fields, towards the town she had recently left, he pointed.

  “Late at night,” he said, “they came. Marching towards the house. Nicholas wanted to keep his son inside, but the demon was in control. The possessed Richard went to meet the mob. There were thirty of them. Half would scurry home. The bodies of the remainder littered the hills for days. Richard returned to his father, unscathed.”

  “And was betrayed,” Amira took up, “by that father.”

  Richard turned to look at Amira again, nodding solemnly. “That was certainly how the demon viewed it. How much do you know of what happened next?”

  “Not as much as I would like. Nicholas Unwin’s wife ended up in New York, more than ten years later. In 1969 she was hit by a car. For three days she hung on in hospital. Before she died, she spoke with someone. Told them a story. Most of what I’ve told you, and a little more.”

  With another look at the window, as though expecting again to see the angry mob, Richard turned away and came back to his seat. He did not sit.

  “What more?”

  “Nicholas Unwin was a clever man,” said Amira. “Well, not clever enough not to get his son possessed, but he was desperate, so those actions are understandable. The clever bit was his realisation that everything might nor come up roses. When he researched the ritual, he also discovered the recipe that would create a blade that could kill a possessed being. He must have found it, which is incredible. It took me long enough, and I have Google.”

  “What’s Google?” said Richard, smiling. “Just kidding.”

  Amira ignored the joke. “It wasn’t just the recipe and the first ritual, though. Knowing he could never destroy his son, somewhere, he dug up another spell. One he could only have used in a very specific circumstance.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Now Amira stood. She did not like being lower than her counterpart. Last time she had told someone that, she’d ended up in hospital with a bullet in her hip. To Richard, she said nothing, only continued her story.

  “In almost every possession case I’ve seen, when the demon enters the host, the spirits bond, and the host is eradicated. The demon takes over, absorbing everything the host was. In only a couple of cases has this not happened. In these, the demon and human do not bond, but body share. The spirits aren’t entwined, and that means one can extract the demon from the host’s body.”

  She opened her hands in a ta-da pose and smiled.

  “Am I right?”

  Richard smiled. “Just so.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that. Know why?”

  “Do tell.”

  “Because it means I can save my friend.”

  Thirteen

  “What do you believe caused the cases of your friend and my grandfather to differ from the others? How did they miss out
on proper possession?”

  Insisting he required a drink before they could continue, Richard had moved to the kitchen. Perhaps because he didn’t trust Amira not to pass a bloodthirsty or floral painting out the window for later stealing, he insisted on her company.

  “Impossible to say,” said Amira. “But I have a suspicion.”

  “Please tell.”

  It was a long room, narrow, with more stone floors. A surface ran the length of one wall. An island split the kitchen and dining areas. Amira spied a huge oven, a fridge, a chest freezer, a full block of knives, some pans, but no microwave. The ultimate modern convenience.

  “Before my friend was possessed, she was stabbed. My theory is, as her attackers dragged her onto the symbol, as the ritual began, she bled to death, as your grandfather died of a heart attack.”

  “Now that’s interesting.”

  “Isn’t it just?”

  A long wooden table dominated the dining area. Amira passed this and followed Richard into the kitchen; leant against one of the counters as he pulled a bottle of red wine from the holder beside the fridge.

  He said, “You think their demise affected the spell?”

  “Between their cases and others, it’s the only notable difference. I believe once the ritual starts if it’s performed correctly, it finishes. As there are no reports of demons possessing the dead, I don’t think that’s possible. Therefore, upon meeting a useless body, the ritual rectifies the situation. It returns the proposed host to life.”

  “Which ruins the result?”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it? The demon enters as the host soul reignites. For some reason, the bonding can’t take place under those conditions. The two remain as two, whole, allowing for individual withdrawal. That’s how Nicholas saved your grandfather.”

  Twirling the red wine, Richard proved the bottle’s cork was in place. No one had tampered with the seal. Placing the bottle in her hands, he reached into a drawer and withdrew two huge red wine glasses.

  “Will you take a drink with me?”

  “You might have bought an empty bottle, filled it with poison, only then adding cork and wrap,” she said.

  “You’re a suspicious girl,” said Richard. “But you don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t. Still, as our discussion continues, I should keep a clear head.”

  “We have little more to say,” said he. “You have almost the whole story. The blanks I can easily fill. Most important to note is you’re correct. My great-grandfather performed his little trick. Stole Richard’s demon. Have you worked out what happened next?”

  “Nicholas was never heard from again.”

  “Precisely,” smiled Richard. “A demon spirit, ripped from its host, will not evaporate into the ether. Nicholas discovered if one fails to make provisions for said spirit, it will at once re-bond with the vacated host. Now, share a drink with me.”

  Between them, on the counter, sat two glasses. Amira supposed there was every chance Richard would kill her this night, but she did not believe he had poisoned the wine. She tapped the rim of the closest glass.

  “Excellent.”

  As Richard tore the wrap from the cork, Amira said, “So Nicholas became the spirit’s new home. But before performing the first ritual, to possess Richard, I guess he’d made the killing blade. Unable to murder his son but blighted by morals, he must have called the spirit into him and, as it latched onto his soul, stabbed himself through the heart. Something like that.”

  “Something like that. You’re quite right.”

  The cork popped. Amira had always loved the sound of wine filling a glass. She hoped this wasn’t a sign of alcoholism.

  “The ritual of extraction is far easier than that of possession,” Richard said. “It requires only one chanter for a start. Problem is you need separated spirits, as you said, but not only that.” He passed her a glass. “You need someone willing to take the demon. A rare set of circumstances.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Who will take your friend’s demon?”

  “I know of a man on the cusp of death. Already, he has proven himself willing to engage supernatural means to prolong his life. Gladly, he will seize the offer to house my friend’s demon.”

  “Presumably you won’t reveal your intention to murder him as soon as the demon enters his body?”

  Amira didn’t answer. Richard laughed and held out his glass for cheers.

  “You are formidable,” he said when Amira clinked him. “I’m so glad to have had the pleasure.”

  “As am I.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “You’re a liar. Drink your drink.”

  Still, it made her nervous. Because she needed Richard, because Richard held the cards, she lifted her glass and drank.

  Whatever the vintage, it was delicious. Amira said so.

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Will you help me?”

  She expected more games. Instead, with a charming smile, Richard said, “yes. Let’s free your friend.”

  Fourteen

  Constructed from one giant slab of uneven, unvarnished wood, from which descended four huge legs as thick as the trunks from which they were crafted, the dining room table was as unsightly as its chairs were uncomfortable. One tree, under the guidance of a carpenter of lazy disposition and Heraclean strength, might have birthed the set. If so, a mighty oak it must have been.

  While pondering the genesis of the table and chairs at which she sat, Amira enjoyed a glass of red wine and tolerated the homeowner’s conversation. Once their first glasses were empty, Richard departed to locate the proffered information, asking only that she top their drinks before he returned.

  Besides this, she examined the room. Amira liked her kitchens and dining areas awash with natural light but was surrounded by interior walls. Even mid-summer, mid-day, a roast could be prepared only under the glaring, unnatural tube bulbs. Amira loved cooking. In such conditions, she would find only depression.

  Having no culinary intentions here, Amira switched focus to escape routes.

  At either end of the room was a door. The one through which they had entered and through which Richard had departed led into a familiar corridor. From there she would find entrances to the living room and entrance hall, amongst other, unknown, places.

  Glasses topped with delicious red, Amira rose, massaged her rear, and passed the island to the second door.

  Jet black, solid, it screamed forbidden and, as such, Amira expected it to be locked.

  But it wasn’t.

  On the other side, a phonebox sized hall presented a second black door to Amira’s left, and a white door opposite. The right wall alone was unblemished by exits. The repulsive three by two foot painting of a wasp killing a spider was no substitute.

  Based on previous experience, Amira expected the black door would be unlocked. Therefore the white would not be. Naturally, it was the other way around. As had the black been, the white door was heavy but swung outward beneath her palms with little resistance.

  Beyond the white door lay a hexagonal conservatory. Clear glass panels and deep wooden beams. Furniture more comfortable than anything Amira had yet seen in the Unwin residence.

  Double doors offered escape into a small garden. Encasing the well-kept lawn was a semi-circle of ten-foot hedges. At the semi-circle’s centre-point was an arched path through these hedges, acting as spyglass onto the miles of land owned by the Unwins.

  The doors would be locked, but on the windowsill beside them sat an ornate dish. In this dish, a key.

  Aware Richard would not be gone long, Amira rushed across the room and slid the key into the lock, twisting.

  Relief bloomed as the door opened, releasing her.

  Richard was about to provide what she needed, at which point she could walk out, get in her car, and drive away.

  Perhaps the constant ache in her side, courtesy of the bullet, was the reason she believed she might need an escape route. In any case, better to
have and not need than need and not have.

  Closing the door, she slid the key into her back pocket. Returning to the dining room, she took her seat less than a minute before Richard returned, dropping a time-worn notebook onto the table, closer to him than Amira.

  Silence followed. Richard sipped his wine as though sampling, as though they hadn’t previously drunk a glass each, and gave an appreciative sigh. His motives were transparent. He offered nothing because he wanted her to ask.

  “Is that it?” she said when she could resist no longer. To prevent her left-hand grabbing for the book, she gripped the wine glass stem. Her right remained by her side, hovering over her bag.

  He nodded. “Here is my great-grandfather’s accumulated knowledge. Both rituals as well as the concoction to create the killer blade. I know you said you’d already found that.”

  “I did, but it’s untested. It’ll be good to see if our findings match.” Before she could ask him to hand it over, she bit her tongue.

  “I’m going to let you take this,” he said, pressing the book’s cover.

  “I appreciate that,” said Amira, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “I want something in return.”

  Amira said nothing. This declaration failed to surprise. Free lunches were like unicorns, and suffering Unwin’s company in this strange, isolated place was not payment enough to earn her friend’s life.

  To save Mercury, Amira had promised herself she would do anything. If Richard wanted money, she would conjure any sum. If he wanted to sleep with her, she would close her eyes and think of England. Some requests would be harder to stomach. In her experience, the least tolerable outcome of any situation tended to be most likely. Afraid of what he might ask, she said nothing, awaiting his terms.

  He wasn’t ready.

  “Before you sign the deal, so to speak,” he said. “In good conscience, I must warn you; I don’t think you’re helping your friend.”

  “No?” She wasn’t interested in his opinion, but he wouldn’t be pushed. The only way to the notebook was his way. For now.