The Devil's Dead and More Tales

by Marius Renos Dicomites

  Where was it?

  There had to be an end to the nightmares – she didn’t want to see its face, not alone in the dark. If she could keep her eyes closed – no matter what happened, keep her eyes closed –

  Kara’s body went rigid as the creature brushed against her shoulder; but she couldn’t stifle a moan as its hand swept across her face – and it reached out and grasped her arm, scraping her skin with its skin, digging its nails into her flesh, pulling her onto her knees. Squirming with revulsion, she struck out blindly, and was about to claw at its hand to force it to release her, when other sounds crept in around them,

  There were more of them.

  They were hunting, shifting in all directions like a pack of rabid animals as they searched - feet kicking the ground, hands scraping stone, rocks tumbling as they crashed recklessly into the walls. They knew she was there – they weren’t going to give up until they found her.

  But there weren’t more creatures. These were people. Standing close to her, only feet away, their hoarse, guttural whispers reverberated off the walls, undoubtedly human yet incoherent. With a sudden realization, she resisted the impulse to call out for help; their secrecy unsettled her. They had no means of light – they wouldn’t leave themselves so vulnerable if they were searching for the creature; and they wouldn’t be so calm - there weren’t any signs of urgency or caution in their actions.

  Kara bit deep into her lip as one of them dropped to the ground beside her – she could hear him breathing fast and hard, and then between pauses in his breath, liquid dripping profusely onto the rock. He was close – at the end of her arm, it seemed. But what was he doing there? He had to know the creature was in front of him. He had to -

  Her heart thumped in her chest as the outline of a figure emerged from the darkness in front of her. Twisting her head to the side, she made out the flickering glow from a light in the near distance; on a straight line, as though passing through a tunnel, it was drawing steadily closer. Soon there would be nowhere to hide. It was only a matter of time before she was exposed.

  Using her whole body, Kara made another effort to loosen herself from the creature’s grasp. It responded by strengthening its grip, cutting off the circulation – its nails pierced her skin. A spasm of pain shot through her arm but she knew she couldn’t cry out – they would hear her; and she could only watch as more vague, restless shadows crawled out of the receding dark.

  There were ten of them. They were on their knees, clustered together around the creature – stooped over its body, holding onto it with trembling arms, their heads bent down at strange angles.

  Kara winced and screwed her eyes shut as the creature twisted her arm and threw her back, pinioning her to the ground while the rest of its body convulsed and thrashed in all directions – it was being lifted into the air.

  But what were they doing? They had to know she was there – she was only a few feet away. Soon they would turn her attention to her. Even with her eyes shut, she could see the darkness was lifting. She had to open her eyes to look. She had to know what was happening.

  Inside an open, circular space, a diffused light flickered constantly between dark and light – over malformed faces which, in their own way, were worse than the creature’s – sunken eyes squirming back and forth in their sockets; white lesions with swollen or loose-hanging flesh – some open and exposing bone; mouths drawn back over teeth that had been bent and pushed out of place.

  They clung steadfastly onto the creature as it squirmed frantically to free itself. Some of the men held knives, and they worked the points and edges purposely into the creature’s skin and flesh – the others clamped their mouths over the wounds as they gushed blood and fed with a nauseating hunger. Convulsing with agony, the creature jerked at her arm again, and this time they both screamed.

  Her scream jolted her from her sleep; she heard it as she sat bolt upright in bed, covered in a cold sweat. "Enough," she breathed out, grasping the bed sheets and flinging them to the side. “I've had enough."

  "Kara, are you okay?"

  She tried not to move away as he touched her arm. "Yes," she said, without looking at him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Try and get back to sleep.”

  “I will. I'm just going to get some water."

  Nodding, his eyes half closed, he rolled over onto his side, and was asleep again before she got out of bed. She didn’t even stop to put on her robe. Leaving the room, she switched on the light on the landing, and shook with relief as the light dispelled the thick gloom around her.

  But she had no intention of going back to sleep, not with the dream waiting for her to return so it could reach its conclusion. It couldn’t go on. There had to be something she could do or take to suppress the nightmares, and she wasn’t going to sleep again until she found out what it was.

  It was only two o’clock.

  She went down into the kitchen and busied herself with making coffee, thinking about tasks she had to take care of later in the day, seeing Rachel, work she had to do the following week – anything normal to occupy her thoughts; but every thought turned and went down the same path, to a dark place where men with blood-stained faces fed on a creature that couldn’t exist.

  Television.

  Taking her coffee, she went into the living-room, and, turning on the light, wondered if she were still dreaming, scarcely conscious of the cup slipping from her hand, the coffee scalding her leg.

  There was someone in the room.

  It was a woman. She stood stock-still at the window looking out into the garden, her hands pressed against the glass, her shoulders leaning forward as though she were straining to catch sight of something. Her hair was tied back. In the cold, she wore a thin, cotton dress, and she was bare-footed.

  The intruder should have heard her enter the room, but made no effort to acknowledge her; an apathy that subdued her initial surprise and the subsequent apprehension, and provoked an anger in her instead.

  "What are you doing in my house?" she demanded, stepping forward.

  "There's someone out there," the woman answered, deliberately keeping her voice low, her eyes fixed steadfastly on the outside.

  “How did you get in?”

  “Can’t you see him?”

  Ready for the slightest movement from the intruder, she threw her sight beyond the window and searched for anything out of place. The branches of the trees beyond the fence at the back of the garden swayed and stretched against a bruised sky. At ground level shadows smothered or blurred the detail - one object conjoining with another, no longer individual parts. Despite the indistinctness, she was certain she would have detected someone in the garden – even as a shadow.

  “You’re mistaken,” she said evenly, “there’s no one there.”

  “He’s coming,” the woman persisted, with a catch in her voice.

  “Is someone after you? Do you want me to call the police?”

  “He’s going to get in.”

  Kara frowned. “I told you, there’s no one there – no one.” She crossed the room and joined the woman at her side. “If you need help, I’ll see what I can do, but this is my house – I want you out. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  The woman’s hands trembled against the glass. “We have to hide.”

  Whether the stalking danger the woman perceived was real or imaginary, it was palpable in her mind and the fear was genuine. Impulsively, she peered out into the garden a second time, strained to catch a movement – a waiting presence - in the thicker shades. There was nothing. The woman’s apprehension was infectious, that was all.

  “I’m going to call the police now,” Kara said, stepping back as she speculated whether the intruder was unbalanced or on drugs. “You had better leave.”

  "We’ve got to hide," the woman screamed, and clutched hold of her arm before she had the chance to move away. In that instant, emerging from the darkness, appea
ring to take shape as it drew nearer, a man's face pressed up against the window - a sickeningly familiar face, with sunken eyes and bruised flesh. The woman dragged her back as shards of glass exploded into the room. Losing her balance, Kara stumbled back - her arm was caught painfully behind her shoulder as she struck the floor. The woman released her and shrank into a corner of the room as another shower of glass fell over them, and the man climbed through, holding a knife with a jagged edge. Crying out, Kara leapt to her feet - and found herself staring at an empty room.

  The intruders were gone. The window was intact. It was as though none of it had happened. But something had happened. She was wide awake – there was her cup of coffee on the floor – her arm was still bruised. It wasn’t a dream or her imagination.

  "What's happening to me?" she said aloud, afraid to look at the window in case the man’s face appeared again. "What's happening to me?"

  “You don’t believe me.”

  To his credit, he had listened patiently, standing there with his arms folded and his back to the living-room window, not once tempted to look out into the garden when she came to last night’s incident; instead, averting his eyes, restraining himself from saying anything, waiting for her to reach the end.

  “You’ve been under a lot of stress recently.”

  Her eyes roved over him. “What has that got to do with it?”

  “You had a nightmare last night, didn’t you?” he went on, keeping his voice level.

  “Yes – ”

  “Just before your hallucination.”

  “The nightmare had nothing to do with it.”

  He raised his hand. “I’m just trying to understand this.”

  “You’re saying I imagined what happened,” she refuted.

  “Your mind was probably in a suggestible state after your nightmare. Isn’t it a possibility?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t have nightmares the other times,” she answered. “There’s nothing wrong with my mind. I can distinguish between reality and fantasy, and I know something happened here.”

  “Do you honestly believe the whole village is haunted?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she cried with frustration.

  “Do you regret moving here?”

  The question took her by surprise. “Why would you ask that?”

  “I wonder whether you’re looking for reasons to leave,” he said, studying her. “It might all be subconscious. Are you happy here?”

  Kara shook her head. “Okay, yes, at the moment I’m not sure we made the right decision,” she admitted. “But that’s because of what’s happening.”

  He came forward and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Maybe you should see someone.”

  “I expected more from you,” she responded, pulling back.

  “I’m trying to help.”

  They both looked away as the doorbell rang. “It’s Rachel,” she said quietly, and left the room.

  He didn’t want people to know.

  The truth dawned on her when he brushed aside Rachel’s offer to come back another time – standing at the door, she had picked up on the strain between them and hesitated. Pretending nothing was wrong, they moved onto trivial conversation with fixed smiles and laughter – he was on his way out, so it wasn’t for long.

  There were no intimate goodbyes between them before he got into the car. Kara looked at Rachel as he drove away. “Adrian thinks there’s something wrong with me,” she confided, unable to hide her disappointment. “He wants me to get help.”

  Rachel took her hand and squeezed it. “It’ll be okay. All this doesn’t fit into his world. He needs proof.”

  “Proof,” Kara choked out, struggling to breathe. “The only proof we have is what I’ve seen – what no one else has seen.”

  Rachel smiled. “You’re wrong,” she said. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

  “There are others places to look.”

  Watching Rachel type on the computer keyboard, Kara placed their coffees on the desk and sat down beside her. When Rachel had suggested doing research, her first thought had been a library, not on the computer in her home office.

  “Just because the old village has been erased,” Rachel went on, “it doesn’t mean there’s no historical records of the place, or a record of what happened to those poor people you saw die – we have to keep looking until we find something.”

  Kara studied the screen. “Online newspaper archives?”

  “The records on here go back to the early 19th century,” Rachel commented. “But of course we’ll only have information considered newsworthy.”

  She leaned back awkwardly in her chair. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Well, what’s the alternative?” Rachel didn’t look round; her eyes were fixed on the screen, scanning one page after another. “If you do nothing, the hauntings aren’t going to stop, Kara – you know that.”

  “Yes,” she answered reluctantly, thinking it might be good if they didn’t find anything now. If it was in her mind, it could be treated, and everything would be fine – they could keep their normal lives in their perfect home –

  “Actress, Mary Forester, from West Blackstone,” Rachel read. “Never heard of her – wait, here’s something about the coal mine closing. It stopped being profitable – closed in 1938.”

  An unwelcome thought came to her. “Prior said the village died when the coalmine closed,” she said.

  “Yes, that’s what he said,” Rachel responded. “I’m beginning to wonder now.”

  Kara regarded her curiously. “What do you – ”

  “I’ve found something,” Rachel cried, slamming her hand down on the desk.

  Kara leant closer and stared at the screen. Surprisingly, it was a small piece, but it was there – the truth was there in front of her:

  Police are investigating a number of killings and disappearances in the village of West Blackstone which they believe took place in the early hours of Tuesday evening. The killings have been described as ‘senseless and horrific’ by Newbury police. A search is underway for survivors.

  “Strange, that’s the only reference,” Rachel said. “It’s not even in a national newspaper. An entire village is attacked and it hardly gets a mention – how can that be?” She paused. “Kara, are you okay?”

  “Then the whole village is haunted,” she said, remembering Adrian’s accusation. But it was accurate – the deaths had happened, and the confirmation she been hesitant to unearth sent an ice-cold tremor through her, then something else. “He knew,” she exhaled breathlessly, with a sudden realization. “He knew.”

  Rachel frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Prior,” she cried. “That bastard knew about this when he sold us the house. He must have done his research on the place before he bought up the land – he knew and he didn’t tell us.”

  “Yes,” Rachel answered simply, lowering her head.

  Standing, clenching her fists at her sides, her sight was drawn back to the screen to read the words again. “He’s going to tell us everything,” she said steadily. “We’re going to make him tell us everything.”

  "Why did you lie to us?"

  There wasn’t a trace of a reaction. He couldn’t have failed to recognise she was upset when she entered the office with Rachel, yet the artificial smile remained rigid on his face. But this was his way of dealing with complaints, she comprehended, staring down at him as he busied himself with the papers on his desk; the feigned innocence was a ploy to hide behind and give him more time.

  “A pleasure to see you both,” he said cheerfully, choosing to ignore the accusation. “I hope you’re enjoying your homes.”

  She had no intention of playing his game. “Why didn’t you tell us people were killed here?” she demanded.

  His brow creased. “Where did you hear that – has someone been talking? I really wouldn’t give credence to any confused stories about what may or may
not have happened in the past – it’s just someone trying to cause trouble.”

  “We read about it in a newspaper,” Rachel answered, watching him carefully. “We know it happened. Who else knows?”

  Still smiling, he glanced down at his desk. “Another village in another time – why should it matter to you? I don’t understand why you’re so keen to rake over the past. Leave it alone.”

  “We had a right to know people died in our homes,” Kara insisted. “You should have told us.”

  “Not in your homes,” he corrected her. “You’re both living in new builds.”

  “But you built over the old homes, didn’t you?”

  “There was hardly anything left of the old village,” he said. “I still don’t understand – ”

  “There are things happening here,” she yelled at him with frustration. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “What have I done?” he asked calmly. He eyed her expectantly. “What’s wrong with your home?”

  “We’ve….” Kara faltered. Said out loud, the whole thing seemed ridiculous. But what else could she say? “We’ve seen…things,” she went on. “The people who died here.”

  He laughed. “I’m sorry – not very professional of me, but – well what are you saying? Are we talking about ghosts - you’ve seen ghosts?”

  “I don’t care whether you believe me or not,” Kara said thickly. “The fact is you lied to us. You must have known what happened here when you sold us the house. We could sue you.”

  The smile faded. “You could try,” he responded, blunt now. “I doubt you’d get very far.”

  “And we’re going to tell everyone else in the village.”

  “Go ahead.” His eyes narrowed on her. “It appears to me you’re the only ones who have a problem with your homes – there’s been no complaints from anyone else. Okay, people died here, and that’s tragic. But it happened a long time ago. What is there to gain from dredging it all up?”

  “I don’t want to live on a graveyard,” Kara answered, “and you don’t have the right to erase the past.”

  “I didn’t erase anything,” he said. “That was done long before I got here. The village was gone. The people who lived in it were dead. No one cared then – why should you care now? The whole thing’s better off buried.”