by Ricky Fleet
The hallway was covered with graffiti from the friends of a previous occupant. They had taken offense at his eviction and returned in the dead of night before the codes could be changed. Lettering six-foot-tall warned of their gang affiliation and the building had been placed under police protection for a week. The storm had died down and nothing more happened, least of all a meaningful effort to remove the spray paint. As well as the building supervisor, five more apartments lay on the ground floor with a basement below. At the end of the corridor was a lift, but it hadn’t worked in months.
“I wonder?” Malachi said, pondering whether the faulty elevator would work in the dream.
Nothing happened when he pressed the button and the red LED’s showed it was staying on the third floor where it had ground to a halt many week ago. Obviously lacklustre management carried over into the realms of fantasy too. The stairwell was dimly lit; a cost saving measure that didn’t take into account the elderly tenants and the hazard it posed to them. Sighing at the greed which seemed to be infesting the human psyche over the past few years, he thought about Miss Cortez and her failing health. If he ever woke up, he was going to tear the landlord a new one in the local newspapers. Nothing concentrated the thinking of a cockroach like a light being shone upon them.
“Hi,” said a voice from the next floor and Malachi looked up to see Claire smiling down through the railings.
“Hi, Claire. How’s your mummy and daddy?” he asked, studying her closely. She was exactly as she looked in real life, with pigtails and her trademark odd socks swinging from thin legs through the steel rails.
“They are fighting again, that’s why I am hiding in here,” she sighed.
“Sorry to hear that, honey. If you get cold or lonely, come and knock my door, ok?” Malachi said to the dream child.
“Thanks, Mal,” she waved as he entered the fifth floor.
One of the hallway lights was on the fritz and fizzed and flickered from the faulty connection. All the place needed was a bloody fire! Reaching up, he removed the glass covering and twisted the bulb loose. Hissing as the hot surface burned his palm, he pulled a sleeve down to hold it with. In spite of his normal placid nature, Malachi was going to tear the landlord a new asshole tomorrow. Or whenever the drugs wore off. Could he even complain about defects in a dream?
“Jesus Christ, you’ve really cracked,” Malachi shook his head at the jumbled thoughts. What he needed was a pillow and the back of his eyelids, then this whole mess could go to hell.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
The door to his flat was ajar, and he hesitated at the threshold. All the lights were on, but he couldn’t see an intruder from his limited angle. Pushing the door wide the hinges creaked, announcing his arrival. Fucking building! No one rushed at him with a weapon so he stepped inside and could hear the faint hiss of static coming from the bedsitting room. Peeking around the wall, a balding head was sat on the sofa facing the madly dancing screen. Maybe this was the point of the dream. The face would turn and it would be an older Malachi, still alone after all these years. Mocking his attempt at happiness with Chloe.
Opting for a bold approach, Malachi shouted, “What the fuck are you doing in my flat?”
Showing no signs of being startled, the head turned slowly until it revealed itself. The face wasn’t Malachi’s; either in the future or at any point in time. The eyes were too small and beady, with a bottom lip that drooped a little as he regarded the newcomer.
Recognition was followed by a small nod, “I knew you would come here. They told me to just get it done, but I knew,” said the man in an American accent.
“Who are you?” Malachi asked, although he was certain he knew.
“Who I am doesn’t matter, what I am here for is of much greater concern to you,” replied the man.
A burst of understanding flooded Malachi’s head as he thought back to the news pictures Dr. Franken had shown alongside the tales of miracle healing, “You’re Clarence Voight!”
The man’s eyes narrowed coldly, “Clever little bastard, aren’t you?”
Malachi threw his head back and started laughing madly, “Not really. I work in a gym.”
Clarence was confused by the reaction and even more perplexed when Malachi proceeded to drop a bulb in the waste bin and then fill the kettle up. Taking a cup down, he added a teabag and one sugar, “Do you want a cuppa? It will have to be black though, I’m out of milk.”
“Not really,” answered Clarence.
Malachi opened the refrigerator and found a fresh pint of milk on the shelf, which only brought more laughter.
“If I didn’t think I was dreaming before, I know I am now,” Malachi smiled at the intruder, holding aloft the bottle, “I binned my last bit of milk on the day I was stabbed.”
Unblinking, Clarence watched as he made the brew and then held a hand out to indicate Malachi should seat himself. Sipping at the sweet flavour, the young man then held up the cup in toast at the dream apparition.
“Do you understand what is going on here?” Clarence asked slowly, to make sure the words sunk in to the unhinged boy.
“Of course,” Malachi nodded, “I’m tied to a bed, high as a kite on drugs in the hospital.”
“Not quite,” Clarence replied, “Your situation is far worse than that.”
“Look, I know you killed your family. I know you were a bad man mixed up with Mafia shit. But really? This is the most disappointing nightmare yet,” Malachi said derisively.
Clarence frowned. He was starting to lose patience with this brash little upstart, “You aren’t dreaming.”
“Of course not,” Malachi chuckled, “I’m trapped in a bubble of purple energy like Barney the fucking Dinosaur’s ball sack. Time has stopped outside and inside the teste I am sat drinking tea with a man who should be in his nineties, but looks forty. Give it a rest, I’m going to my make believe bed.”
Clarence hadn’t been prepared for this. He felt insulted by the dismissive tone of the youth and the way he rinsed out his half-finished mug of tea as if nothing was happening, “Come and sit down.”
“Fuck off,” Malachi gave him the finger.
“I SAID SIT DOWN!” Clarence’s voice boomed and he thrust out a hand.
Malachi felt a compressive force wrap itself around him as he was dragged backwards into the chair. The back of the seat hit the wall as it skidded across the floor and smashed a hole straight into the plaster.
“That’s a neat trick,” Malachi clapped enthusiastically when the force withdrew, “Who taught you? Darth Vader?”
“Very good,” Clarence conceded with his own chuckle, “Your humour may make it easier when my friends are tearing you apart.”
“Typical Darth Vader, getting your lackeys to do your dirty work,” Malachi tutted.
Clarence sighed with disappointment, “I came here expecting a worthy adversary. You are nothing but a piffling child.”
“Ouch, I’m hurt.” Malachi rubbed at pretend tears.
“You will be soon enough, trust…”
“Malachi?” called Miss Cortez’s frail voice from the hallway, interrupting him.
“Ahh, you have a guest,” Clarence grinned evilly.
“Are you there, dearie?” she asked, entering the flat.
“Now you will have to decide if you are dreaming or not,” Clarence whispered.
“Mal? I hope you don’t mind, but I got you some milk. I didn’t know you were going away.”
Doubts crept into Malachi’s consciousness. As Miss Cortez stepped into view, Malachi tried to cry a warning but with another flick of the wrist his mouth snapped shut painfully and his arms were pinned against the rests. The fantasy was so convincing that it might just be real; the feel of the leather on his forearms from the chair, the slightly bitter aftertaste of the tea.
“We are in here,” Clarence called out cheerfully.
“Oh there you are,” she smiled at the pair, “I thought I heard a commotion.”
“It was m
ore a difference of opinion,” Clarence explained, “But now you are here we can see who was right.”
Ignoring the stranger, Miss Cortez looked at Malachi where he seemed to be struggling against invisible bonds, “Mal, what’s going on?”
“Go and put the kettle on,” Clarence said quietly, staring at Malachi.
“I don’t think…” She was stopped midsentence by an inexplicable force.
Clarence waved at her and she was forced into the kitchen, step by painful step. The tension on her hips caused her to cry out in agony as she pressed the power button. The kettle rumbled into life, taking only seconds to reheat after Malachi’s earlier drink. The spout spewed steam with the promise of what was to come. Malachi knew it too and struggled even harder.
“Leave her alone,” Malachi growled.
Clarence raised his eyebrows, “I’m impressed. You have some fight in you, boy. It’s a real shame, I would have enjoyed having an apprentice.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Manners maketh the man,” chastised Clarence.
“Mal, I’m afraid,” cried the sweet old lady.
The emotional reaction was too realistic and Malachi started to consider this insanity may be actually happening.
With a nod, she was made to reach out and pick up the kettle. Her bony frame was illustrated starkly by the thin nightgown and she held a delicate arm out. Malachi screamed and strained against the pressure, managing to lean forward in protest.
“So much wasted power.” Clarence shook his head.
With a final glance, Miss Cortez poured the contents of the vessel up and down her arm, adding to the screaming in the room. The boiling water ran from her blistering flesh and splashed from the floor onto her exposed legs. Malachi was sobbing with guilt at the punishment his friend was receiving. All to make a point about a reality that couldn’t possibly exist in a sane mind.
“You’re a fucking dead man,” Malachi snarled and stood up.
A momentary flash of uncertainty passed over Clarence’s face and he let Miss Cortez drop to the floor, using all his power to restrain Malachi. Forcing him against the wall, Clarence lifted his arm and his prisoner thrashed against the psychic shackles, feet rising from the floor.
“How the hell do you exist? You should be an old man,” Malachi seethed, staring down at the average looking, non-descript monster.
“The gifts I possess have been bestowed on me by a power as old as the universe itself. You could have had them too, but you were too short sighted. Hasn’t this taught you anything?” Clarence asked, indicating the carnage.
“You’re immortal,” gasped Malachi, “That’s why your family disappeared. You gave them as an offering.”
“My choices have been made!” he screamed, “I don’t answer to you, boy.”
“You’d better kill me now, because if I ever get loose I am going to beat you to death with my bare hands,” Malachi roared with righteous fury. His soul yearned for retribution against the evil creature below and it felt… good.
“You mistake my intent. My job here is to make it look like you went berserk and killed everyone,” Clarence explained.
“You don’t know me at all, any of you!” Malachi shouted, “I would never hurt an innocent person.”
“Of course not, that’s why I am bringing some friends. Once they are finished with you all, this building will resemble a slaughterhouse and the evidence I’ve hidden will point to an obsession with mass murder and links to a cult. A group of psychos finally lose it and act out their fantasies.” Clarence mulled over his own story, then nodded. It was a believable narrative.
“And what if I kill all your friends? Then wait for the authorities to find us?”
“This doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid. My friends are legion,” he declared proudly.
Malachi exploded with laughter, “A pathetic prick like you only has two friends, and they are used to masturbate with.”
Clarence shook with rage, but held it in, “Laugh. Cry. It makes no difference. This realm sits outside of time; you should have noticed on the way in.”
“Neat trick,” Malachi replied.
“Indeed. It also means that for as long as life exists within this plane, this building will never be free. Everyone will die, it is only a matter of… time,” Clarence grinned at his own pun.
“And your friends will die too, do they know that this is a suicide mission?” Malachi taunted, “You’re a filthy, family murdering, friend killing, degenerate.”
“Sticks and stones,” laughed Clarence, “And you needn’t worry about my friends. They aren’t what you would call… alive, but they certainly exist and are hungry. Always.”
“I’ll be sure to cook them some bacon and eggs,” Malachi retorted.
“I tire of this inane exchange,” Clarence said, turning away, “Gan vordis palox mer.”
The air seemed to change and the lights dimmed for a few brief moments. Malachi tried to think of a witty insult but something had changed and he was also terrified for Miss Cortez who had fallen completely silent.
“The ritual is complete. They are coming.”
“Before you disappear in a puff of smoke like a comic book villain, answer me this. If this isn’t a dream and you can really stop time, why not just use that to take over the world?”
“I was going to use the front door actually,” Clarence shrugged, “And not that it will do you any good, but there are rules which we must all abide by in this game. We mustn’t go upsetting the head honchos!”
“A game?” Malachi shook his head, “You really are a fucking lunatic.”
“Goodbye, Malachi,” Clarence said, before disappearing out of the flat.
With every pace that his new nemesis took, the strength of his power diminished until it vanished completely and Malachi fell to the floor. He was on his feet in an instant, rushing to the unconscious form of Miss Cortez in the kitchen area. Anguish tore at his heart and he forgot about the soaked linoleum. In almost comedy style his feet flew out from underneath him and he skidded across the floor on his bottom, nearly sideswiping his friend. Cursing his stupidity, he quickly recovered and kneeled by her side.
“Shit! Miss Cortez, can you hear me?” he asked, patting her cheek.
There was no response and the most pressing concern was to try and protect her blistered arm and lower legs. Think! What did they always say in first aid training? Call the emergency services. Hoping against hope, Malachi removed his mobile phone but there was no signal and no internet coverage.
“Water!”
Opening the cold tap, the liquid flowed into the bowl, ready to soothe the scald. All he needed was cloths to soak. The joy of living in such a small space was that within a few paces he was at the small linen cupboard pulling a pile of towels all over the floor. Taking the plushest, he plunged them into the frigid liquid until they were saturated. Lifting them out of the bowl, he froze for a moment at the possibility the sudden plunge in temperature could cause her to get hypothermia. At this point it was the lesser of the problems so he carefully wrapped the limbs with the moist cloth.
“What is going on in here? I’ve had people knocking my door with reports of screaming,” said a gruff voice. It was Paul Fontell, the building supervisor. Thank goodness he chose now to come out of hiding.
“Paul, get in here. Miss Cortez has been badly burned,” Malachi called out.
Running into the kitchen, Paul nearly slipped on the kettle water and looked around with suspicion at the scene, “What have you done to her?”
“Nothing! We were attacked and I don’t know what to do.” Malachi was frantic with worry.
“Call 999, it’s not rocket science,” Paul mocked.
“Don’t you think I haven’t thought of that? There is no signal, we are cut off from the outside world.”
“Yeah, right,” he sneered, his face changing from smug to perplexed as his phone confirmed it.
“If you aren’t going to help, then fuck o
ff!” Malachi shouted, “Scurry back to your flat and hide like you always do.”
“There’s no need for that,” Paul replied, hurt by the truth in his words.
Malachi blanked out his sulk and felt at the neck of his kindly neighbour. No blood surged through the artery so Malachi leaned down to her open mouth to check if he had been mistaken. No air passed her lips.
“Get over here, we need to start CPR!”
Paul joined Malachi and for once he felt useful. As the younger man compressed her heart muscle, he gave two breaths and waited again. Malachi was crying though the whole procedure but he wouldn’t quit. Even after several minutes of unsuccessful resuscitation he kept going until Paul gently eased him away.
“She’s gone, mate. You did all you could.”
“This is all my fault!” Malachi shouted, punching the nearest cabinet door.
Splinters of wood exploded across the room from the impact and Paul pushed himself backwards in shock. At most it should have dented the finish, but instead it looked like a small bomb had gone off, shattering all the crockery inside too.
“I thought you said you didn’t do this to her?” Paul asked nervously.
Malachi ignored him and looked at his hand with puzzlement. The rage that had built up was released with the strike, adding his own mental hatred to the physical attack. He would explore this later, if there ever was a later.
“I didn’t do this. It was some American guy who left just before you came in,” Malachi explained.
Paul was on his feet and making for the exit, stopping in his tracks when realization dawned. He had seen the guy! “Was he about five- eight, mid-forties with thinning hair?”
“Yeah, that was him. Clarence Voight,” Malachi growled, the anger rising again.
“I passed him in the hallway,” Paul gasped, “He seemed so cheerful and friendly.”
“He just made Miss Cortez pour a kettle of boiling water over herself. I’ll bet he was feeling pretty happy, the sadistic bastard!”
