Dancing With Devils

by Scott Webster

  Everything started crashing down on me and my throat started to close, I entered a full-blown panic attack. Air struggled to enter my lungs, I clutched my throat, undoing the top buttons on my shirt to try and trick my mind into thinking that I wasn’t choking, wasn’t being strangled. I reached out to the nearby trinkets, trying to grab anything to help me find my feet, then I noticed it: the old walking stick. The thudding against hard floors started to play in my head and I lost consciousness.

  I awoke, unsure how much time had passed. No vivid dreams, nothing. As I came to slowly, I didn’t even move from the floor, just looking up to the ceiling, trying to take it all in. It was impossible.

  Everything that brought me to this moment was like a giant sick game being played and I was the pawn. I was truly a man who had lost everything. My wife, my unborn child I found out about in the most harrowing way possible. I had no biological family to speak of, my foster parents had left this world. I had two friends: Michael, and Kirsty.

  I was a broken man, not even afraid to admit I couldn’t even weep in that basement, conflicted and torn between helplessness and whether there was even a point in pushing on.

  I had Michael’s service weapon, I placed the end of the gun in my mouth and as I went to pull the trigger, felt my entire harrowing life flash before my very eyes. I pressed the trigger and it clicked. Nothing. In a twist of fate, the gun didn’t fire. I removed the barrel from my mouth and sat up slightly to inspect the gun. It made no sense whatsoever; as the clip wasn’t empty.

  Michael was a stickler for keeping his gun immaculate, so a jam or misfire from an unmaintained weapon wasn’t the case. Suddenly, a bang went off. A hang-fire shot out of the barrel and through the mannequin’s head, creating a satisfying hole through Father’s head. Something I had always secretly dreamt of.

  I could have attributed the hang-fire, an extremely rare occurrence with any weapon to whatever God, or Gods I cursed as not being out there if people like Arthur could walk the street. Something clearly shone on me that moment, and whether budget cuts within the department caused us to get in bad ammo, whether the incessant rain we’d had for weeks had caused the rounds to go wet, I couldn’t tell and frankly couldn’t care.

  Looking at the hole in Father’s head, aka the missing face of ‘Xavier Hardiman’ attached to a mannequin; the stroke of good fortune amidst the recent heartache was enough to rejuvenate me. Despite hitting rock bottom, I failed in my attempt to kill myself.

  I had failed to let Arthur win outright.

  I stood up, kicked the mannequin over, spat at the ground and left the basement, deciding I still had something to live for: justice, revenge, vengeance, time would tell.

  I was going to the ruins of Fort Rose. I was going back to the beginning. I was going to find answers.

  Chapter Eleven

  Images of flames were still scorched in my mind. Through the eyes of a child, I witnessed people I cared about, burn. I was surrounded by pain growing up but witnessing death in such magnificent balls of flame was a lot for my young mind to take, mentally draining and defeating me.

  I truly believe that a small part of me died that night, irrespective of the beatings, the loneliness, and the sadness I had gone through. I hadn’t had an opportunity to process death properly as I hopped between Miss Battersby’s house, Madam’s cupboard, and finally Fort Rose.

  The flames purified any other pain, allowing me a chance to soak in death. That night, I mourned the loss of brothers and sisters, as well as previous losses inclusive of my parents and even myself.

  My life was truly owed to my foster parents, Henry and Isabella. I was quite ashamed having reached the point where I pulled the trigger of a live weapon whilst the barrel was in my mouth. That said, there was something freeing about failing to kill oneself despite an actual well-aimed attempt.

  Fate intervened and invincibility was quite a trait. My anxieties seemed to stop; the depressive thoughts stopped. I failed to kill myself in that basement, but I killed my demons. I felt new and alive. Had that round of ammunition been fine, had the hang-fire not occurred, I wouldn’t be driving to the scene of my childhood; the scene of the flames. The heat, the burning imagery of the flames were quelled with my rejuvenated freedom.

  It didn’t wash away the loss of my wife and unborn child, but it made me feel free to act upon the actions of Arthur Henderson. I was ready for what I was going to face. I knew that I could face him without another panic attack, without helplessness intervening. Like a phoenix rising from ashes, a new man, I felt like I was about to start a new chapter. Without delaying the inevitable, I just had to finish the last chapter, absolutely and without remorse, whatever my decision. Arrest or kill.

  My phone rang again, and I answered. It was Michael. He told me that a tip off had taken the Chief and him to an abandoned warehouse. That it was Arianna. I knew her fate but didn’t share. The only thing I did know was that Arthur wasn’t there. I ended the call without exchanging much in the way of words. Michael tried to ring back, so I threw the phone out of the car as I made my way to the orphanage, free from shackles, smirking in anticipation. If Arthur wasn’t at that warehouse where my wife’s body was, I had a reason to believe where he would be.

  I parked the car about a mile down the road from the orphanage. It was practically a huge ruin now, untouched. It had never been bought, renovated, or seemingly touched since the fire. I had never thought to return, appreciating the ties it held to my mental state. The ties back to my childhood.

  My foster father, Henry, was dead against the idea when it was suggested in therapy, insisting there was another way to help me. He spoke with such passion and regard for my well-being, I remember it was the moment I truly respected and loved him. I finally felt safe.

  With the pistol in my hand, I crept up to the building. It was still as ghastly as memory served. The hallways were empty, dusty, and desolate. I crept through the halls, silently clearing the rooms with the pistol in front. Some rooms were impossible to see all the way through, though I was confident they were clear. One particular area sparked memories, as I realised I was going to the old dormitory we stayed in.

  The thick frame for the double doors stood intact, with one of the old doors charred and barely hanging from the dingy hinges, and the other having burned and crumbled to dust. I pointed the pistol in, looking around. The old blackboard eerily gleaming from the corner, lit up by moonlight, the furthest part of the dormitory largely untouched by flame. Nothing had changed from what I could remember.

  My older self wished I were breaking in to the room a few decades earlier, to save my brothers and sisters, united in tragedy.

  A sound in the distance rattled me, though a large cat-like rat was the sole perpetrator of the disturbance, it was left undisturbed, just in case there was something, or someone here. I worked my way around the hallway, clearing the way forward, being sure not to make a noise.

  That’s when the hall branched out to the old pathway to the garden. I fondly recalled Mallory treating me and tending to my twisted ankle the very moment I was lifted up and threatened by Jack, the Gardener.

  A light could be seen from the old cabin in the garden. For all that was scorched in the orphanage, the cabin outside in the garden was largely untouched by flame, just old and tattered. In the distance down the garden was the remains of the old garden, still showing a cross, made from wood, in the soil. I thought back to George; the boy I fleetingly witnessed disappear on my first night, was buried there. The Gardener’s threat about him being good for the soil.

  Every stained, harrowed memory flooded back to me from my time there, but it didn’t slow me or strangle me, it fuelled me. The lights from the cabin were dim, some of which flickered through older cracks in the wood. It was elevated somewhat, a detail I hadn’t recalled from childhood, in an Aspen cabin design. As I crept closer trying to mentally imagine whether this was the correct building or not, my thoughts were interrupted with some whistling.

&n
bsp; My heart started thumping with excitement, feeling that I was close. Using the faint whistles as a bold theme-tune of encouragement, I realised I was a step ahead now. My prey was unaware of my arrival. My target had no idea I was nearby. I tried to peek through one of the cracks where light was escaping but it was far too small to see anything, other than some shadows dancing.

  The whistling got louder as I worked my way around the edge of the cabin. Climbing up ever so slightly from my kneeling position, I tried to peer in one of the windows and based on the height, struggled to see in.

  All I could see was the shadow reflecting from the lanterns or candles that were illuminating the property. It had to be him, though his face was obscured, I couldn’t see. The window was firmly closed and too high anyway, so wasn’t a suitable point of entry.

  There was no way to get under the property that was immediately visible so I couldn’t break the wood and try to find a trap door, as that would alert whoever was inside. I had to climb the porch and head to the door. Now or never. Kick down the door, start firing and ask questions later.

  I stood at the bottom of the stairs, mentally counted like I always did as a child. One, two, three. Then crept up. A slight creak on the first step halted my progress. I waited a few seconds, keeping a close eye on the windows for movement. Nothing happened, so I continued, the slight creaking averting my eyes to the windows again. That’s when I realised, I was no longer a step ahead. As I motioned past the final step on the porch, I fell into a different trap. I tripped a wire, that rung a small bell. The occupant was clearly paranoid to the last moment.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” the voice said. “Come in and talk.”

  I burst through the door, pointing the gun firmly in front of me. I looked forward, clear. I looked right, clear. As the gun turned to the left, from behind the door, my arm was stopped, and I was disarmed by a familiar face.

  The face looked back at me and would have seen nothing short of utter confusion.

  “Hi, Seb,” the voice spoke, rendering me speechless. “You got my message then?”

  He waited for me to respond and I simply couldn’t. He was stocky, bald, and I recognised him. This wasn’t the person I was expecting.

  “I half expected to hear your car coming up, in its old-fashioned glory, but then again… you always were a sly one,” he said.

  “Wha…?” I forced out, unable to finish the word. I didn’t feel in danger, so started to relax.

  “The messages I left you obviously brought you here.” The man laughed and turned his back to me, heading towards a small table with seats either side. As his back was turned, I noticed the birthmark on the back of his head again.

  “You. You fixed my car that day. I bought you a drink in the bar. Al, right?” I said.

  “Alex, yeah. You’ve got it,” he said. “I’m so happy you got my messages. You always liked secret messages and codes, didn’t you?” Al said.

  “I don’t understand, I was expecting to find someone else here, Al. What are you doing here? This doesn’t make sense,” I responded, incredibly confused.

  There was no Alex in Fort Rose that I remembered. He sat at the table and I stood at the doorway, the gun at my feet having been disarmed from the surprise attack. He motioned for me to sit down, and then noticed me assessing the room, the chairs at the table, and caught me looking at the gun.

  “You don’t need to do that, I’d rather you didn’t force me to have to defend myself,” he said calmly, though I didn’t feel threatened.

  “I don’t understand. You shouldn’t be here. Arthur should. Arthur Henderson led me here,” I exasperatedly retorted.

  “No, little brother,” the man said, and that was it. I knew who this was. Only one person ever referred to me as little brother. Robert. This was Robert? How?

  “Robert?” I quizzed.

  He exhaled, incredibly relieved at the fact I knew. The fact I guessed who he was. I had never seen a birthmark on Robert, ever. Then again, he was bald now. There was no reason to ever assume it was him, or to expect him to be anything other than ‘Al the mechanic,’ who kindly fixed my car.

  “I’ve waited for this day for a long time, little brother. I’ve missed you. I don’t know if we should, you know, hug it out or something?” he suggested with a laugh, but it fell on deaf ears.

  I was still too confused. I sat down at the table, pondering everything. I was so blinded by desire to find Arthur, that everything I pieced together, I tried to make it fit. I forced every crime scene to be Arthur Henderson because of the twisted God-like symbolism left behind.

  “You probably have a million questions, and I have a million answers. You look very confused, little brother, so I’m just going to talk. You can interrupt me at any time, and I’ll answer, okay?” Robert stated, as if he were still the dutiful older brother. I could only nod my head in agreement.

  He started to talk, and I barely listened, confused as to how this moment even came to be. It wasn’t at all what I expected. I tried to run every scenario through my head. Arthur had only killed Sebastian McColm? As the other crime scenes were decorated with hints and clues. Jane Doe didn’t make sense though, as that branded the individual a liar? My mind was ready to blow. I started to tune into Robert.

  “As much as it pains me to say, I was responsible for a lot of hurt. I started that fire that night. I seized an opportunity to tear the place down. I know our plan was to run off into the night, you, my sister, and me. Something in that cage made me change. The things they inflicted on me, Sebastian, were cruel. They shouldn’t have happened to anyone. I took a lot of it over the years, to protect my sister and I ultimately caused her death. It hurt. When I watched them pull her body out of the fire that night, it broke me. I didn’t speak for years; I was put in an institution. I was cared for better than anyone ever cared for me in this dump.”

  I still couldn’t believe it was him. My hardened stance softened with the knowledge that this was my big brother. I mentally and physically struggled to cope with the fact he was here. It didn’t make sense, and reflecting on everything in that moment, I struggled to accept that he had evolved into a ruthless killer.

  “I don’t understand why you are here though. Why did you do all this to meet me? You could have knocked on my door?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t. I was afraid. I was ashamed. You were the only person I really cared for after that night and I honestly didn’t know how to face you. I didn’t know how you’d react if you knew it was me. That’s why I left the messages. I figured if you followed the clues, played some games like old times, you’d have followed them to me,” Robert said, almost proud he had delivered death.

  “You killed people, Robert, just to say hello to me? I’m…” I had to think carefully about my next words given I had come here with an intent to kill Arthur. “I’m a detective, an upholder of the law.”

  “I killed Father for you. For us. The bastard that took us in and hurt us. You should be thanking me.” His voice raised as he stood up and looked down on me. Realising his action, he sat back down and calmed himself.

  “What about the other body, who was that?” I asked.

  “You mean the bitch that had every opportunity to save us. The bitch that put me in a mental home instead of protecting me? My darling mother, of course.” He spat physically as he thought about her.

  It broke me to know that all this time, Jane Doe was Mallory. The amazing woman that acted like a shining star in my time at Fort Rose. I’d read her thoughts, her mind, her diary. She was as much a prisoner in that place as we were.

  “You don’t understand, Robert. Father–”

  “Don’t fucking call him that,” he blurted out loudly.

  “Cyril, Xavier Hardiman, whatever his real or fake name… imprisoned your mother too.”

  I told Robert about the time I escaped the bedroom to look for him. I worked my way in to the ventilation shaft to see my real father’s watch, and I read his mother’s diary. He seeme
d mildly guilty at the revelation his mother tried to save herself, tried to save her children, and ultimately, had made attempts to try and save us. All facts he genuinely didn’t know, had chosen to ignore, or just didn’t care about.

  My heart sank for Mallory. I’d never so much as taken the time to think about finding her, though I would have liked to. I talked to Robert about attending therapy growing up, and I had blocked a lot of what happened in our childhood out of my mind. I told him about the occasional dreams I had where snippets of that night would come back to me, though I struggled to piece them together. We acted like brothers for that short time.

  He told me he barely spoke a word for almost twenty-seven years, that he re-lived the moment Alexia was dragged out of the flames in his own dreams as a constant reminder of his guilt.

  “I thought I killed you that night. It wasn’t until I was in the institution’s break area that the TV was on, and you were on the news. Your name struck with me immediately. Your face, your eyes. That’s when I knew I would work at getting out of that place. I spent over a decade proving I was sane just to get out. You were my prize. That is why I was so afraid to talk to you,” Robert admitted, proudly, yet sorrowfully.

  “But why go to the lengths of killing Mallory and Cyril to get my attention? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I’ll admit, there was an element of personal vendetta in there. I was angry with my mother as I was certain she abandoned us, left us in this dump I’ve miraculously found myself back at. I was furious. If she cared, she’d have taken me in, regardless of my mental state. Fucking Cyril on the other hand. That was admittedly, for the sheer enjoyment. He inflicted so much hurt on us all over the years. The beating he gave Erin, if you remember.”

  I nodded, appreciating exactly what he was referring to.

  “That was nothing compared to what they had done to me. I was beaten, I was cut, bruised, raped, filmed, paraded naked; all for a quick buck, and some twisted sexual gratification for faceless strangers and willing bastards I barely knew. I vowed to get them all. I vowed to snuff out every last one of them. It took me years to find some of them. That bastard Gardener, he was all cooped up in a home. I got some fake ID; let on I was a nephew of his and checked him out under the guise I was going to care for him or send him to a better hospital. I brought him back here and kept him in that fucking cage downstairs. Can you believe it? It’s still fucking here! Anyway, he didn’t remember much but he did give me a few names. Shame really. Alzheimer’s was a gift for that bastard. I wanted him to know why I was doing what I was doing. He cried when I dug up George’s body and he realised for a split second who I was. I killed him and buried him in his own fucking garden.”