Trina grabbed Morgan roughly by the wrist. “Please sit down Mr. Firthwell. I am by no means a fraud, all I am saying is that most people that I see don’t actually require any use of my gifts.” Trina’s eyes narrowed. “You, on the other hand, are in grave need of them.”
Morgan retook his seat. “This does not sound promising.”
“No, perhaps not at this time, less so after you hear what I have to say. Do you wish me to proceed?”
Morgan swallowed hard. He had entered into this meeting with little in the way of expectation, but something in her words and her tone filled him with dread. “I suppose if I leave now without knowing what you wish to say it will be a wasted visit. Please, proceed.”
“You are tired yes? Your thoughts seem muddled and confused, sometimes not even your own yes?” Morgan nodded. Trina lowered her voice. “You have four attachments. Three I can identify…”
“Sorry, I have what?” interrupted Morgan.
“Attachments, four of them, spirits that have latched onto you for their own gain. Three I can reason with, well, perhaps…”
Morgan was confused. “I’m sorry; you are saying that I’m being haunted? Haunted by ghosts?”
Trina nodded.
“That’s preposterous!” began Morgan, again standing to leave. “To think that I came here in the hope of intelligent advice!”
“One is an old man, tall and lean. He has the look of illness about him. He suffers greatly in the next life and seeks to replenish his strength by sapping yours. Though he takes from you, he means you little in the way of harm. His name is Henry.”
Morgan had been about to leave but upon hearing the name and description of the old man, returned to his seat. “I know… sorry… knew this man. He was a funeral director; I made many outfits for his clients, that was until he died. “
“The second is a young girl,” continued Trina. “She is tainted by fire and seems lost. She wants her mummy, but her mother is yet to pass. She has anchored herself to you as you see her mother in passing. It is her way of remaining close. Again, she means you no harm but she is draining energy from you.”
“I see. I’m sorry; I don’t recall any such girl.”
“No matter. The third is an unborn soul; she is lost and naïve. She was assigned a path, but somewhere on her journey she attached herself to you. She is taking very little from you and shall be the easiest to free.”
Morgan felt a tear begin to form in his left eye and took a handkerchief from his pocket.
“It’s okay dear; the little one is perfectly happy. She does not understand her plight; I will free her first.”
“Thank you,” came Morgan’s mumbled reply.
“As for the fourth. However, this is the one that concerns me most.”
“How do you mean?”
“Normally I can sense a soul quickly. I get a feel for them, their age, the reason for the attachment, all of that. It’s almost like I see it all laid out before me. This allows me to communicate with them and set them to rest—all of which I shall do for the three I have mentioned.”
“But?” urged Morgan.
“But this fourth shadow, for that is how it presents to me, is another matter entirely. I have no connection with it for it refuses to speak. It rests its hand upon your left shoulder even now. This entity is the one causing you misery, and it will not stop until you are dead in the ground.”
Morgan swallowed hard again, a thin film of sweat breaking across his forehead and feeling deathly sick. “I-I don’t understand?”
Trina leaned towards him, her voice little more than a whisper. “I have only ever heard of things such as this, lay folk call them demons, for they are energies not meant to harbour souls. They lurk upon the fringes of death, preying on the weak and the vulnerable, draining their life-force until their hosts are either dragged off to the asylum or put into the ground.”
Morgan sat back in his chair, his face white, and heart pounding. “Is there anything that you can do?”
Trina sat back and retreated into shadow. “I can pray for you.”
***
It was raining heavily by the time that Madam Shalkware had finished her incantations. Darkness had swallowed the streets, choking all traces of light, and the air was alive with the scents of a city. Despite all of Trina’s magic, Morgan was shaken. She had successfully released the three spirits that she had described to him in depth, all more than willing to cross over to the next realm. However any attempt to make contact with the shadow had ended in failure, and their meeting had come to an abrupt close. The look upon Trina’s face as she ushered him out of the door haunted him still. What did he see behind her eyes—terror? Raw and unmitigated. The very recollection chilled him to his core, and he pulled his coat tighter to his chest.
***
Morgan spent the next day observing passers-by from the window of his shop, noticing just what lengths people seemed to take to avoid his premises. Of course, most were unaware of the influence that steered their actions, and all Morgan could do was to watch in horror as countless shoppers actively crossed the street to avoid his store. One gentleman made it so far as the door, but upon placing his hand upon it, changed his mind, almost recoiling from the door in shock! This troubled Morgan considerably, and although he knew that his burden had been lifted slightly, he felt a darkness grow ever more present around him.
***
Several days had passed since his visit to Madam Shalkware and life had become a great ordeal for Morgan. He suffered long fits of exhaustion and had begun to walk with a limp. His nights were plagued with restless sleep and countless nightmares, his days, endless solitude and mounting worry. If anything, the influence of the shadow entity had increased since Trina’s intervention. Desperation forced him to her door once more.
His knocks were unanswered, and a crowd had begun to gather across the street, their attention fixed firmly upon him. With a mounting sense of unease, Morgan hobbled down the narrow alleyway that lined Madam Shalkware’s cottage and entered the tiny space that constituted a yard. The door to the kitchen was propped open and after calling out he stepped inside.
The cottage was cloaked in darkness, and there came no sign of movement. A coppery smell hung thick and cumbersome in the air, one that Morgan recognised immediately. He entered the room where Trina had performed her cleansing ritual upon him, and his pulse quickened, for sat before him, her body slumped over her crystal ball, was Trina. The table top was painted in blood, long since dry. Carefully, he placed a shaking hand on her shoulder and eased her corpse into an upright position. As he did so, her head rolled and settled to one side at an obscenely unnatural angle. Morgan recoiled in horror for her throat had been torn in several places. The wounds reminded him of an animal attack yet his mind struggled to comprehend what sort of creature could be capable of such an attack.
Within moments, panic had taken hold of Morgan and he found himself outside pleading for help. Time passed him in fits and starts. There were accusing faces, confused faces, ignorant faces and mocking faces, none who would help him in his desperate plight. Through it all was the persistent bark of an unknown animal, located somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind—a bark that was able to form words and sentences, a bark that laughed and toyed with Morgan’s frayed nerves.
***
The police came for Morgan the very next day. They found him in his shop cowering behind the counter. All efforts to explain that he was to be charged with the murder of Trina Shalkware were met with incoherent babble. Many argued amongst them that this was a man far too frail to commit such an atrocity. Morgan found that if he listened hard and was able to shut out the infernal barking, he was sometimes able to hear such discussions occurring from beyond his cell. His mind, ravaged by insanity, meant that being able to speak in his defence seemed all but impossible. Chained and hopeless, it was with a heavy heart that he resigned himself to his fate. The beast was to be let in.
>
***
On the morning of his trial, police officers found Morgan Firthwell lying face down in a pool of blood. Further examination of his body revealed that in a fit of desperation, Morgan had torn his throat out. He was buried untried as a murderer.
The Thing Beneath The Bed
“If a child ever tells you that they are not afraid of the Bogeyman… they‘re lying.”
Detective Moore hitched up his trousers and peered beneath the bed. The narrow beam from his pocket flashlight danced over the glistening remains that lay congealing beneath the soiled mattress. He felt the bile rise in his throat as he retreated from the grisly scene and got to his feet. “We have a name for this one?”
PC Sromek glanced at his notebook. “Fiona Plant, twenty-nine, care worker. Lived alone—save for her cat.”
“Where’s the cat now?”
Sromek glanced over Moore’s shoulder. “It’s in the bathroom—what’s left of it anyway. Its skin was found stretched over the toilet seat, the rest of it’s in the bowl.”
Moore felt the approaching throb of an angry migraine and rubbed his temples. His years on the force had exposed him to all manner of unsavoury sights, and he thought that he’d seen all that the dark side of the human condition had to offer. This latest spate of murders suggested otherwise. “Christ on a stick, can you believe this shit? Same MO?”
“Seems to be. We’ve got marks on the floor where she dug her nails in here, said Sromek, pointing towards the floor. “No sign of forced entry.”
Moore stooped and ran the point of his pen along the grooves that Fiona’s nails had cut into the wooden floor. Aside from the mess beneath the bed the room was otherwise undisturbed. “Any prints?” Moore already knew the answer before Sromek spoke.
Sromek shook his head. “Place is clean. No hair, no fibre—our boys got nothing.”
“How many is this now, counting this one? I mean it’s got all the hallmarks so we may as well add it to the rest. “
Sromek flicked through his notebook. “Eight Sir, including this one.”
“And the first one was how many days ago?”
Sromek consulted his notebook again. “Eight.”
Moore turned towards the circle of officers that had gathered around the periphery of the room. “Okay, bag her up. I’ve seen enough. Notify the family but try to keep it out of the press for now. If this gets out, hysteria will go through the roof! We’ve got less than twenty-four hours to catch this asshole; I suggest we get to it.”
***
The drive back to the station passed in silence. The young officer at the wheel was apparently struggling to process what he had discovered beneath the bed, and Moore felt pity for him. After all, what could prepare you for finding a person turned inside out? There’s no training or support for how to cope with that kind of scenario. You just had to suck it up and chalk it off as another bad day in the city. Moore knew this and the kid would learn. He was pale and sweating, his mind obviously elsewhere, while Moore played over the similarities between the recent spates of murders that had occurred on his patch.
The first body was discovered by the victim’s cleaner. Hank Bowen had been a personal trainer and fitness freak. He was twenty-three and in the prime of his life, yet even being in top shape could not prevent someone from reducing him to a heap of bloody offal.
The following seven victims all ended up the same. Each time the entrails were arranged in a neat pile beneath the bed in which they slept. Moore struggled to believe why a person would do that to another human being and any idea as to the how escaped him further. People were dying on his patch, and the public demanded answers. If truth be told, Moore did not have a single lead upon which to act. At this point he had already resigned himself to the fact that another body would turn up tomorrow and the most he could hope for was that this time the killer, though meticulous up to this point, would make an uncharacteristic mistake that would lead to his capture.
***
It was late when Detective Moore finally left his office and headed for home. The night shift was already underway, and the station buzzed with activity. He’d often make a point of stopping to talk to some of the night beat but not tonight. Since returning from the scene of Fiona Plant’s murder he had pored over the case notes in a vain attempt to spot something that may have been previously overlooked. Hours of work had yielded nothing new and he left feeling dejected and nursing a nasty migraine.
Moore opened the door to his Ford, threw his briefcase onto the passenger seat and climbed inside. He was just about to pull the driver’s door closed when he heard someone call his name. Moore sat in silence and waited. A middle-aged, heavyset man emerged from the shadows. ‘This is all I need,’ thought Moore as he climbed out of the car. “You better make this quick and worth my while, whoever you are… I’ve had a long day, and I’m in no mood for time-wasters.”
The man pressed his fingertips together and beckoned Moore closer. “I-I promise this won’t be a waste of your time - it’s about the murders…”
Moore paused. “Wait, you aren’t from the press are you? So help me God if—”
“No! No! Not at all,” stammered the man. “I’m here to help; I have information that could be of benefit to you.” He was short and overweight. Body odour hung in the air and his yellowed eyes darted nervously from left to right.
“Why don’t you go to the station and report this correctly? Why the need for this cloak and dagger bullshit,” said Moore, failing to hide his contempt.
The man swallowed hard. “Well… because what I have to say isn’t very… conventional.”
Moore felt his anger rise. “Look, if you have information let’s hear it, it’s a criminal offence to waste police time.”
“Look… it’s like this,” began the man. “I’m a parapsychologist, the name’s Bowen, and I’ve been working on a theory for many years now, a theory that relates to this spate of murders.”
“Relates how?” Demanded Moore.
“I know who the killer is.”
“How,” repeated Moore, his tone firm.
Bowen shifted uncomfortably. “You see, this is the part that you’ll struggle to believe, but believe you must because if you—”
“Out with it man!” interrupted Moore. “If you can identify the killer, then tell me his name or I’ll haul you in for withholding information!”
“Yes-yes I know, Sorry, it will kill again soon—”
“It?”
“Why yes… it. You see we as adults have lost the fear that it so craves…”
Moore’s patience was fast deserting him. “Sorry, what?”
Bowen shifted his attention to the face of the detective. “As children we are born with an inherent fear of the dark, of things that lurk upon the fringes of reality, but as we grow older and become desensitized to the horrors of the world, we lose that fear. It comes for those that are not afraid—they are easy prey whereas children are ever wary of the danger that he presents.”
Moore looked at the man standing before him, his anger boiling over. “What?” erupted Moore, “Are you trying to tell me that the Bogeyman did this! Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“I-I said that my information was not conventional, but it is accurate!” stammered Bowen. “He moves from place to place, preying on those who believe in him the least. He always has done—that’s why his story has been a staple part of childhood for generations!”
Moore leaned towards Bowen and spoke, his voice now little more than a hoarse whisper. “Get out of here now before I lock you up for wasting police time.”
Bowen took a step back and nodded. “Yes, I will but please bear—”
“Not another word,” roared Moore.
Detective Moore turned to his car. His heart thumped, and his blood thundered through his veins. The city had its fair share of nut jobs, and they always seemed to climb out of the gutter when times were at their most grim. ‘What
was it about the human condition that attracted the weirdos to the suffering of others like flies around shit?’ He slammed his door closed, started the car and switched on his headlights. Bowen stood where Moore had left him, a defeated look upon his face. The bogeyman indeed, fuck, I’ve heard it all now! He shifted the car into gear and pulled out into the dwindling night traffic.
***
Moore had moved into the building after the death of his wife eight months previously. It was small, sparse and easy to manage. Boxes of personal items lay stacked against the wall of the spare room, boxes that contained reminders of her, boxes that would remain unpacked. Moore didn’t think of the apartment as home. A home held memories; a home held comfort; this was four walls and a ceiling, a shelter from the elements, a respite from the world and its horrors.
Pouring himself a generous measure of scotch he settled into his armchair and and turned on the TV. Moore found that it helped to tune out the noise of the day’s events, and inevitably his attention wandered.
***
Moore woke with a start and checked his watch. It was just past 2 am. The TV was showing a live phone-in roulette game where habitual gamblers called in to bet on the outcome of a poorly rendered silver CGI ball. Moore clicked the remote and the living room fell silent and dark. There seemed an unseasonable chill about the apartment and Moore, through his fuzzy-headed state of drowsiness noted an air of oppression. Deciding that it was likely a combination of the whiskey and his imagination, Moore headed for bed.
It was even colder in his bedroom, and Moore checked to see if he had left a window open by mistake. Finding them all closed he climbed into bed and began to doze.
***
A breath, slow and rasping, stirred Moore from his dreams. At first he doubted whether he had heard anything at all and was just about to settle himself back into sleep when the breath came again. Moore sat upright, alert and afraid. A low chuckle seemed to escape from beneath his bed. “Who the fuck is in here?” he shouted, reaching for the pistol that he kept in his bedside cabinet. Another, louder, raspier breath was his only response. With his heart pounding and his body trembling, Moore unchecked the safety on the gun and thrust his arm beneath the bed.
Neverlight Page 9
