The two men entered the enclosure. Surviving the fire, there was hardly anything left of the face of the man they had left to die - charred, fragments of skin broken away, flesh burned to the bone, eyes exposed in their sockets. Staggering, knees buckling, the damaged remains of his countenance contorted into a grimace, he lurched toward them in agonised convulsions.
But not the other man.
As he rushed forward, Rachel prised the knife from her hand, wheeled around and thrust it into his shoulder as bore down on her with fingers clenched into claws. The knife went deep. But it didn’t even slow him down. Striking her across the face, clutching her neck before she could recover, he lifted Rachel into the air, yanked the knife from his shoulder and held it up.
"Now," Kara pleaded. "Now."
With a gasp, she threw herself back as her arm was released. Exhausted, slumping against the wall, she could only watch as the creature squirmed and stretched tremblingly to its feet – without warning, lunged at the man who held Rachel and tore into his throat with its teeth – clinging and gnawing its way further as he released his prisoner and collapsed to the ground – feeding on his flesh, clamping its hands onto his head and ripping it from his shoulders.
The other man turned to run. Hurling itself at him, the creature stabbed its fingers into his eyes and dragged him to the ground, ripped away any flesh the fire had left behind.
The creature’s eyes roved over her as it sprang to its feet – she winced as it sent its thoughts into her head – and then it swung round and bolted into the tunnel. Rachel ran over to her and helped her to her feet. “Kara, we’ve got to get out.”
"It's okay," Kara reassured her. "It's okay."
“They’ll be back.”
“No,” she responded calmly. “They know it’s free.”
There were no sightings of the creature or the other murderers as they left the coalmine and made their way back to the village, which had been thrown into chaos by the night’s events. They passed police cars and ambulances. Her ruse to bring the police out had succeeded, and reinforcements had been called when they realized what was happening. There was evidence of the clashes all around them – medics dealing with the injured; in one road, pulling a sheet over a body - pools of blood on the ground, doors smashed down, a car driven into a store as someone attempted to escape. The villagers were in shock. People rushed past them. In some places they huddled together.
Ten people had been killed. There could have been many more, but at the same moment the murderers had inexplicably stopped what they were doing and fled in terror.
Adrian sat up in the hospital bed and smiled as she entered the room. Returning the smile, she sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand. "The doctor said you can go home tomorrow."
His smile faded. "I’m still not sure about living here after everything that’s happened.”
“I told you everything’s okay now,” she said patiently. “They won’t come back.”
He studied her. “Are you sure they’re all dead?”
“Yes,” she answered, still smiling.
It was a lie. He wouldn’t understand. He thought the creature had killed its captors and left the village. But it was back in the mine. The entrance had been sealed up again with rocks – no human hands could open it. Inside, tied up amongst the corpses and bones of their dead, there were nine men, who cowered as the creature they had mistreated decided which of them to feed on. There would be no release for these men. They would remain immortal for as long as the creature chose. But it had no reason to kill them when it could feed on them forever.
After the Apocalypse
He didn’t realize what was happening at first.
A flash of white light burst through the parting in the curtains in his bedroom and lit up the room, and then he heard his housemates calling out to him to come outside–excited, chattering voices. Living in a household with students, he expected rowdy behaviour from time to time, and on other occasions he had managed to separate himself from it when he needed to.
Not this time.
Another flash of intense light illuminated the room. Curious, he climbed out of bed and went over to the window; as yet another burst of light came through, he threw the curtains open–and was out of the door as soon as he caught sight of the spectacle in the sky.
In his pyjamas, he rushed out to joined the others in the street, and gazed up with a mixture of surprise and fascination at an alien night sky, at more searing lights tearing explosively through coal-black clouds–everywhere, with only seconds between each one, turning the night into day. It was like a fireworks display, the best fireworks display he had ever seen.
But then the whole sky opened all at once.
He convulsed with shock as the light exploded through the air and blinded him for an instant. There were screams all around him. As the light bled from his vision, he felt liquid streaming down the side of his face. He rubbed at it with the palm of his hands; a surge of nausea almost brought him to his knees as he looked down at the blood dripping profusely through his fingers. Turning his attention to the others around him, he saw that a few of them had fallen to the ground–smoking, bleeding, scorched heads opened by fire.
“Get inside,” he screamed at the others who were still standing.
But it was too late. There was another explosion of light, and this time it wouldn’t stop. Searing into his eyes and mind, consuming everything, taking everything–there was nothing else.
And then it subsided.
The air was discoloured. The roofs of some of the houses were on fire. Swaying where he stood, his mind all over the place as it struggled to absorb what had happened, he jerked his head back. The black clouds were fusing together. Where they still parted, he could see the lights had been replaced by a dull glowing red.
In the distance, there were screams for help. The people around him were working their way through the shock; listening reluctantly to the stifled sobs, the hushed voices that seemed to be afraid to go any higher, he made his way awkwardly and unsteadily through them to join one of his housemates. “It’s over now,” he said inadequately, and winced as the wounds he had suffered on his face and head momentarily swelled with a throbbing pain.
“I suppose it is,” Robert responded listlessly.
“What are we supposed to do now?”
His friend turned and regarded him curiously. “What do you mean?”
“We have to get help.”
There were no words–only a look of pity as Robert pointed past him. Uneasily, he turned, and cried out as he stared down at a body with his clothes–the only part of himself he recognized, because his face had been burnt away, and the side of his head was open and bleeding.
“No,” he whispered.
“Come on,” Robert said, pulling him away.
He shook his head. “No,” he cried. “No, no–”
“This is all there is now,” Robert said harshly. “This is it.”
His mind was reeling. He touched his face. “But I can feel pain.”
“At least we can still feel,” Robert replied, turning his back to him.
It was there now, a sickening resignation. “What do we do?”
“We wait,” came the answer.
“For what?”
“For an end to this.”
There was nothing else to do. Nodding, he sat down on the pavement, looked up at the sky, and waited
The Undead
He could hear her.
Smothered, blinded by the dark, straining against her restrictions, her splayed limbs caught and paralysed, somehow she still managed to leave her body behind, slip back into the house – searching, a disembodied voice shifting restlessly from one room to another, frantic echoes resonating in every part; and then sinking, barely coherent – deteriorating to a faint, relentless whisper, a suffocated scream. It was too weak to find him.
Scanning the room, he crawled out from under the bed, and made
his way cautiously to the bedroom window. Staying on his knees, he lifted his head just enough to afford him a view of the piece of land behind the tree at the back of the garden. The ground hadn’t been disturbed. It was okay.
Getting to his feet, he unlocked the door and stepped out onto the landing. The lights were on – all the lights had to be kept on in the house now; if anything came at him, he wanted to see it coming. No one would get the chance to hide and wait. But there was something else, though, something new.
He could hear voices.
Standing on the landing, looking down over the banister, he flinched as he caught a familiar figure below him on the ground floor hurrying into the kitchen. “Who’s there?” he shouted, refusing to believe his eyes. “Who is it?”
The voices grew louder. There were two, and he recognised them both. They were arguing with each other in the kitchen. It had to be the kitchen. It was impossible, but he was listening to an argument he had taken part in – it was a perfect recording. He knew what was about to happen.
Someone was about to leave.
He had to see everything. Although he didn’t understand what was happening, he was more curious than afraid – what was there to be afraid of when he knew the outcome of this fight? But he moved quietly as he descended the staircase – his hands trembled as they gripped the handrail. I could stop this, he thought, listening to the voices screaming at each other. But he didn’t want to stop it – the alternative was unbearable.
He wasn’t going to let her leave.
He stumbled off the last step, and, with a lurch, wheeled himself round so he was facing the kitchen. Standing there stock-still, with clenched fists, he watched with a mixture of cautious curiosity and bewilderment as the familiar couple in the kitchen continued to argue violently. There was no turning back now. They had gone too far – reached a point where every failure from their past had become a weapon for recriminations. Nothing was off limits because they wanted to hurt each other in any way possible – to see the hurt they caused each other.
“You’re not going!”
“I am going. You can’t stop me.”
“This is all your fault!”
He caught his breath and took an unconscious step back as the man struck the woman with the knife. He knew the man was supposed to be his mirror image, but he scarcely recognised the countenance – it was enflamed, contorted with a crazed rage. He was…he was afraid of himself.
Reading his mind, his mirror image spun round to face him. Averting his eyes, he started to move back, and for a moment he was falling – his legs trembling and buckling beneath him. He should have kept his head down, because when he glanced up the murderer grinned at him and raised the knife.
Gasping for breath, he bolted toward the front door and fumbled awkwardly with the lock – and snatched his hand back with an unwelcome realization. He couldn’t leave the house. He would bring attention to himself. People would ask questions, and he would bring attention to himself, and they would find out. He had to be invisible. He had to stop – stop - think, he had to think. The mirror image – ghost, phantom, whatever the hell it was - it was a figment of his imagination. It couldn’t hurt him. It didn’t have the power to hurt him.
Defiantly, he turned back. It was in time to witness his grinning phantom grasping the dead body’s arms, dragging it laboriously through the kitchen door and out into the garden. As the phantom gradually drew away, he moved guardedly closer. There was blood over the kitchen floor. “No, no,” he muttered angrily, and, snatching a kitchen towel from the table, dropped to his knees and scrubbed at the blood. He realized it couldn’t be real - he had already done this. But it was everywhere, wet, staining his hands – he couldn’t get rid of it. He had to get rid of the evidence. Grimacing, he stood up and went to the sink. Squeezing the soaked towel, he glanced sideways, and froze as he caught a vision of his phantom through the garden door.
Standing rigidly over the spot where they had buried his wife, his phantom stared down as a hand with clawed fingers broke out of the ground, and proceeded to claw away the earth. The ground swelled, collapsed and fell apart. Crawling from the earth, his wife trembled violently on her hands and knees. Uttering an agonised, drawn-out scream, she jerked up her head to look at his silent phantom. In response, his phantom shuddered into life, and reached out to help his wife stand up. Together, side by side, they proceeded to make their way back to the house.
He had to hide. Straining for breath, he stumbled clumsily out of the room. As he reached for the stairs, he was stopped in his tracks as a figure appeared through the tinted glass on the front door and the doorbell rang twice. He held his hands out in front of him and studied the bloodstains. He couldn’t answer the door, and he couldn’t go any further knowing somebody was standing there, waiting to come in. He was about to sit on the stairs, wait for whoever it was to go away, when he heard footsteps in the kitchen; and the phantoms, much louder than the last time, began to argue with each other again.
The voices unnerved him. He could hardly hear himself think. He knew they weren’t real; but if they weren’t real, he wouldn’t hear them. They were too loud. They had to stop. They had to -
“Harry, it’s me,” the figure called out, ringing the doorbell impatiently. “It’s Tom. Are you okay? Open up.”
They’re not real, he insisted inwardly, making his way to the front door. Tom won’t be able to see or hear them because they’re not real.
Careful not to show his bloodied hands, he opened the door. The concern on Tom’s face made him suspicious. It was obvious this wasn’t just a casual visit; something was wrong.
“Hi Tom,” he said faintly, listening to the voices behind him.
“Are you okay?” Tom said, instantly drawing closer to the door. He paused. “Anne and I...” he said hesitantly, “we heard you and Mary arguing last night. We’re worried about you both. Is everything okay, Harry?”
“Yes,” he replied simply, studying Tom’s curious reluctance. The voices were hurting his ears. They couldn’t be inside his head. Was Tom uneasy because he could hear them as well? If he could hear them…he could see them.
“Where’s Mary?”
“You’re not going.”
It was going to happen soon. “Mary,” he echoed, waiting for the moment.
Tom looked past him. “Yes, is she okay?” he asked with concern.
“This is all your fault.”
“Come in,” he said hoarsely, standing aside to let him through. Smiling cheerfully, Tom walked past him into the passage. Closing the door, watching Tom peer into the kitchen and up the stairs, Harry lifted the large, steel-framed mirror from the wall. The screams had stopped. As Tom turned around to face him, he brought the mirror down onto the man’s head.
He had to be patient – not yet, he had to wait. Wait.
Cowering, he watched his phantom clutch hold of his wife’s dead body, and drag her across the floor of the kitchen, its body convulsing with every movement. It was the moment he had been waiting for. Bringing his arms under Tom’s shoulders, clasping his hands together around his chest, he proceeded to follow his phantom with his own dead body.
But not all the way. He dropped Tom’s body in the middle of the garden. Keeping his head down, refusing to look at his phantom’s actions behind the tree, he fetched the shovel propped up against the wall beside the kitchen door. As he returned to the body, penetrating glimpses of his other self behind the tree persisted – it had already begun to dig into the ground. Inhaling sharply, he forced the shovel deep into the earth, and began to race against himself.
He was too slow – or his phantom could have been too quick, because when it finished digging he was only a few feet into the ground, and now it was just standing there, waiting, looking down expectantly as the body it had just buried proceeded to claw its way out.
Time had run out. He was thrown into a panic. Dropping onto his knees, he rolled the body inside the hole, and then
frantically scraped the earth over it with his hands. He knew it was only a matter of time before his dead wife and his other self would begin to make their way back to the house. They were going to start it all over again – every sickening detail – as if he could forget what he did. Stop, stop, when were they going to stop. He had to get back in. He didn’t want to be out in the garden when it started. He had heard and seen enough – he was sick of it. He had to get back in. He –
He stifled a moan as the phantoms started their walk back to the house. Sweeping a mound of earth over Tom’s face, scarcely covering it, he leapt to his feet, and the thick, pounding dread almost crippled him as he staggered back to the house. In the kitchen, a vague, desperate thought made him slam the door shut and lock it – and then stand back anxiously as he saw the phantoms approaching through the clear glass in the doorframe. But the door couldn’t possibly stop them – he knew that; and he was ready to move further back into the passage as they passed effortlessly through the obstruction.
They didn’t pause.
Actors taking their positions, ready to play a scene they had played countless of times before. Their harsh voices resonated around him as they instantly launched into their quarrel – magnified and distorted into grating, drawn-out, piercing shrieks. Clasping his hands over his ears, he watched in agony as the violence between them escalated. The words were still exactly the same, but both were already stained with the blood from the deaths that had been played out before – their eyes had now lost their colour and gleamed black.
He noticed his phantom picking up the knife at his side. He didn’t want to see what happened next. He was about to run, when he caught another presence through the window; there, in the garden, convulsing, rising unsteadily into the air, swaying as it began to make its way towards the house.
Frantically, he threw himself around and into the passage, and stopped at the front door again. But he couldn’t do it. He didn’t want to leave the house – it couldn’t be left empty now. There were too many secrets waiting to be exposed, and the dead would follow him out into the open. He had to keep watch over them. He had to stop them from getting out. They had to stay hidden, and he had to stay quiet, very quiet, just stay quiet.
The Devil's Dead and More Tales Page 8
