by G D Sheehen
“Will you invite me to accompany you?” she said without moving her lips. The voice was shrill, barely recognisable as a girl’s.
“Pleasures beyond your imagination can be yours.” She bore her dripping fangs and hissed.
Then a torrent of screams emanated from deep within her core. Philip was momentarily blinded. She grabbed the back of his head and moved in for her feast. Philip pushed back with all his might and managed to break free. He turned and ran towards the direction he’d entered the alley. The long-limbed, creature from his dream stepped out from the shadows and blocked his path, extending his arms and legs to make him three metres tall. Philip ran as fast as his aching legs could take him and, on reaching the end, barged through the entrance with such force he went tumbling hard across the street, landing with a bang of his head halfway to the other side. He stumbled to his feet moaning in pain. He looked down the alley and saw it was empty and well lit up by a wall light half-way down.
8
Philip had a restless night, never falling into a deep sleep and constantly revisiting the alley, hearing those voices and seeing the creatures that haunted him. Snippets of stories from his youth flashed before him giving hints as to the origins of the visions but not revealing why they were chasing him all these years later. He yearned to make amends with Rodge and talk about their past, try to pin down where things had gone so wrong. A plan to talk to Walsh about it and possibly come to terms with the behaviour that so afflicted his adult life was the result of his tormented night of half-sleep.
Philip sat by the cliff’s edge working on another one of his stories. A red biscuit tin lay on the grass beside him containing all the stories he’d written up to now. Rodge came along to their summer hangout and enquired as to what Philip was writing.
“It’s about a demon hunter who finds out where monsters are hidden by figuring out riddles in his dreams. Then he pursues them and tries to defeat them and kill them before they can possess any more children.”
“Sounds cool. What’s it called?”
“Cloudcrawler.”
“That’s a deadly name. Can he have a partner? You could call him The Rodgenator.”
“I’ll try to work a sidekick in somewhere.”
“What do you mean sidekick? The Rodgenator and Cloudcrawler are partners.”
“Okay then. Partners it is.”
“He should have a cool catchphrase and always gets the girl at the end.”
“Is it okay if he falls in love with a demonic princess?”
“Is she a fine thing?”
“Of course.”
“Then it’s okay. But he makes her see the errors in her ways and she becomes good.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of she sucks all his blood from him and he becomes a night crawling vampire. Then he becomes Cloudcrawler’s arch enemy and they constantly battle for the souls of all the villagers.”
“I like that twist.”
Philip puts his notepad into the box with all his other stories and pictures. They go down to the beach to skim stones, a competition Philip could never win.
First thing in the morning, Philip went to the chemists’ and, relieved to find it opens until noon on Saturdays, picked up his prescription. He explained his work situation saying it would be difficult for him to get there on weekdays to pick up his prescription. The chemist was apologetic but assured him that she couldn’t give him the medication in bulk due to legal reasons. She gave him her phone number and told him to call any day if he was running late and they could make alternative arrangements. Philip was thankful and left feeling reassured. He put his sleepless night down to missing his medication the previous day.
With no other plan for the weekend, he decided to take a walk past the charity shop and see if Sharon was working. The day was overcast and blustery and the air had the heaviness of impending rainfall. The streets were much quieter than on weekdays and, despite the cold breeze, he enjoyed the walk along Drumcondra’s streets.
He went into the shop and it seemed deserted. He scanned the bookshelf and saw there were several books he was interested in reading. He picked up a tattered Clive Barker novel and started reading. Sharon appeared from the back room and was startled at first to see him standing there but quickly broke a smile, genuinely pleased to see him.
“Oh, hi there. I didn’t hear anyone come in.”
“Ya. I was just wondering around and thought I’d pop in and check out your books. Ye have some great ones here.”
“You like horror novels?” she asked looking at his choice.
“I sure do. I was obsessed with them when I was young.”
“How about you? Do you like horrors?”
“Sometimes. But I prefer crime and suspense.”
“Ya, I like crime novels, too.”
She reached up to the shelf and pulled down a book.
“This one is good. It’s a mystery with some occult elements.”
“Night Film. I haven’t heard of it. I’ll definitely give it a try.”
She handed him the book and their fingers grazed. This gave Philip a tingle.
She wore blue jeans, a grey jumper and had her curly hair tied back tight, and Philip was even more taken with her beauty than their previous two meetings.
“So I was wondering. Would you like to do something sometime?”
“Do something?” she said raising one eyebrow in a teasing way.
“Ah, you know. Go to the cinema, or for a bite to eat or something?”
“God, you’re a smoothie, aren’t you?”
“I’m burning up here, man.”
“I’d like that. Maybe I can teach you how to use chopsticks properly.”
They chatted for a few minutes and Sharon recommended a few more books to him. They arranged to meet on Sunday evening on O’Connell Street and try a traditional Sichuan restaurant she’d heard about from friends. Philip left the shop bumping into a rack and knocking down some clothes on the way out.
9
Philip was strolling through the fields on his way to the cliffs. He passed the rocky mound that was known locally as ‘The Devil’s Grave’ for reasons that confused him due to all the conflicting accounts of the ‘Legend of the Banished King’. I wonder if Mr Richards has a story about it?
The mound was a few feet high and had an exposed rock surface that looked like a large boulder buried deep into the ground. Were they trying to keep something in or out? It conjured in his imagination a ghastly demon with whom Cloudcrawler could chase and do battle.
His story idea was that Cloudcrawler was an agent of the Otherworld, sent by noble gods to hunt down and destroy demons of Celtic lore. He rode a black horse with burning red eyes and used a crossbow to slay his prey. The story of the Dearg Due Mr Richards had told him and Rodge had given a host of ideas for his Cloudcrawler adventures and he hoped to get more. Today he planned to visit Mr Richards alone so he wouldn’t be distracted by Rodge’s over-eagerness to see Eve. He knew Rodge had chores on the farm that day so wouldn’t be angry he was left out.
When he got to the Georgian manor he was disappointed to find the gate was locked with a thick rusty chain and a padlock the size of his fist. He was turning to walk away when he noticed a brass doorbell shaped like a half sun and half-moon inscribed with Celtic designs mounted on the grey pillar. He contemplated having a try and assumed that nobody was there anyway. He pressed the bell and left out a high pitched yelp after receiving an electric shock from it. An amazed afterthought struck him on seeing the blue bolt of energy between his finger and the brass button. He waited for a full minute and gave up on hearing one of Mr Richards’ stories for that day.
“Who’s there?” crackled a woman’s tinny voice over an intercom that was nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was tucked behind the mass of ivy on the towering gate pillar.
“It’s Philip Quinlan from the village. Is Mr Richards’ there?
“Ahoy there, Philip,” came Mr Richards’ voice after a long pause
. “What can I do for you, young man?”
“I want to know about ‘The Legend of the Banished King’ for a story I’m writing.”
“You’ll have to speak a little louder Philip.”
He repeated his words much louder this time.
“That’s splendid. I most certainly have a copy of it somewhere. Wait five minutes and someone will be down to let you in,” he replied and the static cut out.
Philip trembled with anticipation and had a small notebook and pencil in his pocket at the ready to write down ideas after hearing the story. Whilst he was daydreaming about the exciting proposition before him, a large black dog bolted towards the gate and stretched its paws high on the bars and growled and barked viciously at Philip. He fell backwards and landed on his behind. His heart raced as the dog rattled the massive iron gate. Its eyes teared, its mouth foamed, its muscles clearly defined through its short fur. Suddenly it whimpered and sprinted away at the sound of whistling coming from the direction of the house. Philip picked himself up and soon heard the loose stones on the driveway scratching and crunching together. Evelin Richards came into view and greeted him blankly.
“Are you sure your parents know where you are? Maybe they’re worried about you.”
“It’s fine. They’re both at work. They allow me to come out by myself.”
She fumbled with the key in the lock, her hands trembling like on a bitter winter day.
“Shimmy it gently,” came his voice over the intercom causing her to seize up and steady her hand enough to get the key in. She eventually opened the lock and pulled the gate open just enough to let him in.
“Really, this is no place for a young boy like yourself. His stories are not suitable for someone so impressionable.”
“Thanks, Mrs Richards,” he said and rushed in past her, trying his best to ignore her strange behaviour. Many rumours circulated in the village about her mental wellbeing and Philip was beginning to wonder if maybe there was some truth to them.
“I didn’t see the dog the last time we were here,” he said as they headed towards the house. Rounding the bend, Philip had an idea of how to work the peculiar driveway into a story. A strategic driveway that banished demons by blocking out the view of the residence, preventing them from summoning the master of the house and requesting permission to enter, a permission that would grant them the freedom to strike without otherworldly retribution.
“The dog?... Oh yes. That mutt comes and goes… I do wish we could get rid of him.”
“You mean put him down?”
“Put who do-. Yes, the dog. Put him down. It’s only a matter of time before he takes a chunk out of someone.”
Philip looked up and saw the net curtain moving once more as a shadow lingered to the back of it. He wondered if it was Eve.
Evelin meekly ushered him into the house and closed the front door. The reception room seemed darker than the last time he was here but its opulence was still striking. The massive leather chest was gone and replaced with a small table that held a green vase with more flowers from the garden.
“You can wait for Mr Richards in the drawing room.”
Philip looked at her blankly.
“The room down the hall you were in the last time.”
He couldn’t get away from Mrs Richards fast enough. Her strange behaviour was making him feel uncomfortable. The drawing room was also darker than the last day. The heavy curtains were drawn and the lights were switched off. Even though it was a bright sunny day, nothing got through the expansive windows.
“If he finds his way out there’ll be hell to pay,” came a deep voice from somewhere in the room.
Philip turned in all directions waiting for his eyes to adjust but saw nobody. A corner lamp suddenly came on and bathed the room in a dim yellow light. He faced in the direction of the light. The leather chest was against the wall. He turned and looked towards the other corner by the door and saw a black shiny curtain that wasn’t there before. The curtain unfolded and a figure rushed towards him, sending him collapsing back onto the couch, numb with fear. Mr Richards stood before him wearing a black silk cape, black pants and a white frilly shirt.
“Welcome, my boy. Welcome to the house of horrors, where only the darkest, most foul stories can be told. But beware. The mysteries unfolded here must forever remain locked up, for if their wickedness and darkness seep through these walls into the real world, havoc will be reaped on those who hear their poisoned overtures.”
His hair was slicked back and Philip guessed he’d used makeup to blacken around his eyes. The initial fright had now subsided and he was enthralled by Mr Richards’ effort to create such an atmosphere for the story.
“One thousand five hundred years ago, a great change was happening to these lands. The druids and earthly spirits were being hunted and replaced by a new omnipotent god. His servants no longer trusted or revered the powers and persuasions of black magic. Our very own county was ruled by many a battling warlord who defended their steads bravely with a brutality reserved only for those destined to wander the labyrinth of grey corridors after their demise.
“In these very parts there lived a king reputed to dabble in the dark arts and who was no stranger to imposing vile cruelty onto his people. Some say he was short in stature, others that he had limbs unnaturally long for a human. But no such disagreement existed over people’s hatred of this horrid king. Those who showed him even the slightest of disregard were banished from their land, at best, and at worse, peeled down to their bones like snakes shedding layers of skin.”
Mr Richards lowered himself slowly onto the armchair across from Philip but sat on its edge with a rigid posture, never leaving the gaze of his young audience of one.
“The king’s subjects, fearing their ends were always near, couldn’t take any more of his antics and wanted him killed, but were unable to do the deed on their own, so hired a warrior chieftain of a nearby land to do their bidding. O’Caoinleain was his name-”
Philip beamed at hearing the chieftain had the Irish version of his own family name.
“And, sympathetic to their plight, and having suffered his own loses at the hands of the wicked king, he hatched a devious plan to capture and kill him. He sent a damsel, fair and sweet as a summer breeze, to entice the king, coax him from his secret experiments and lead him on a frolicking chase through the forest.
“The king palpitated at the thought of her sumptuous taste and throbbed in the loins at the prospect of her unwilling embrace. He meandered through a maze of dense trees, when all of a sudden the chieftain warrior sprung from out of nowhere and struck him down with his axe that was stained with the blood of a hundred enemy warriors.
“Given the tradition of the times, the king was buried in an upright position, customary of a man of his stature. His people rejoiced and celebrated that very day and welcomed their new warrior king with a debt of loyalty that one would have thought could never be shaken. They burned effigies and made sacrifices of hog and cow to praise the gods for freeing them of their torturous plight. But that would not be the end of the villagers suffering. For on the very same eve as he was placed deep beneath the soil, the banished king rose forth from the warm earth and hatched his revenge.”
The leather chest rumbled and shook on the ground before him and Philip jumped up from the couch and stared wide-eyed in its direction.
“What’s that, Mr Richards?”
“Don’t be alarmed, my boy. That’s merely the jostling of the Otherworld at having their secrets revealed. Please, be seated. It would be unwise to leave the story unfinished. An unfinished story is the tormentor of those who seek meaning in the shadows of thematic supremacy.”
Philip sat down reluctantly, keeping his eye firmly on the chest. His gaze was averted when Richards started to speak again.
“The undead king’s appearance was altered. His head thinned and drooped, his mouth widened and his eye sockets resembled the opened mouths of wild dogs. His eyeballs were large black cr
ystals. His limbs were long and sharp and he moved at a frightening tangle of pace. The feast the villagers were holding to see off their old ruler and ring in a new one, came to a shuddering halt when the gruesome sight of the dead king stood before them. He vilified their stupidity and demanded the blood of three people from each of the two clans present. Their resistance was fruitless and he took what he so desired before being once again overpowered and slain by the warrior chieftain.
“This went on and on until the villagers were at their wits’ ends and hadn’t the resolve to fight on. The warrior chieftain, desperate to find a way to defeat the banished king, travelled far and wide seeking the council of a dying breed of druid scholars. Weak and saddened by his endless journey, he was almost about to give in for good and sacrifice himself to save another, when he happened upon a creature, wise and wicked in varying degrees of measure. This creature inhabited an old beehive stone hut and on inviting the king inside, he could hardly make out what stood before him.
“The creature was at once formless, changing to an upright dog-like figure, then a horse-like man. Its red eyes dared the king to make contact but he knew better, having grown up on stories of such beasts. He vowed to tell the king the secret of stopping one who dwindles between life and death but only at a great price. He said that one day the king would owe him a great favour and should he refuse when the time comes, a fury far greater than that of the Banished King would be unleashed on his people. The king gave him his word.”
Mr Richards moved in closer to Philip. “Would you like to know what the creature looks like?”
Philip was frightened but intrigued and couldn’t resist. “Yes. What did he look like?”
