by Mark Cassell
Terry watched the shadows gradually retreat as the sun peered over the fence and bled into the trees. His coffee remained untouched.
His working day that followed was typical. Nothing unusual, apart from his constant rereading of the scribbled note. The last few nights of ruined sleep had stolen his focus, and he knew he was dangerously close to losing his job. A lot was riding on that one contract.
He needed more sleep.
All day, however, he thought of little else: Release the Forgotten. What did that mean? And why was it always 3.33 a.m.? During lunch he searched online for any symbolic reference to it. He’d never before been willing to accept such nonsense and believed all things to be reasonably justified, but this was getting ridiculous. It didn’t take long for him to learn the hours around 3 a.m. were known as the Witching Hour, the Devil’s Hour, and sometimes even the Dead Hour. Bullshit, all of it.
He got home before Kate, and through the front door he booted his briefcase. It smacked the sofa.
The next half hour crawled by. Again, his thoughts were on the Forgotten, whoever they were. When Kate got in, her venom spat into the kitchen.
She still clutched her bag. “Where’s dinner?”
This was all there was these days, no matter what he did. Recently he’d been waking up during the Dead Hour. To him, this was beginning to feel like a dead relationship. Maybe it was related.
Following his lack of response, they shared only necessary words as they prepared food between them. The evening was then spent with Kate glued to the TV while Terry’s eyelids were glued shut. When he woke it was midnight, all lights off and Kate in bed. He guessed he should go and join her. He didn’t want to.
The TV’s red eye on standby stared from out of the darkness.
The alarm yanked him upright, his heart almost choking him. He jerked from bed, not even trying to keep quiet, eyeing Kate’s silhouette. She didn’t budge. How was that possible?
The clock. Where was it? He stamped on the battery, pain firing up his leg. Somehow he managed not to cry out.
The alarm still pierced the night.
He scrabbled across the floor and found it. Its glass had cracked and it said 3.33—of course. He squeezed the button and it silenced. The alarm echoed like a ghost. Fumbling with the stupid thing, he found the battery compartment empty. Somehow he knew it would be.
The red glow of digits faded.
Was he dreaming? When he grabbed his dressing gown the fabric felt real enough.
Once downstairs, he placed the clock on the coffee table. The next few hours drifted past as he thumbed the TV remote.
He left for work early, without breakfast, eyes as heavy as his briefcase. He didn’t care for not having done any homework. At the office, cradling a sugarless coffee, he couldn’t remember if he’d even said goodbye to Kate, or if she’d replied.
Terry’s day was short. After telling his boss he was ill, the bastard sent him home with a stack of files. When he got in, he threw them beside the sofa and collapsed into it.
Kate’s shouting wrenched him from sleep, his heart slamming into his throat.
“…This mess?” Her face was blotchy, her mouth twisted.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and as he pushed himself upright he realised he held a marker pen. The lid was off, and there was black ink on his shirt and over his hands. He dropped it and it clattered on the floor.
“Terry.” Kate’s eyes shot around the lounge. “What have you done?”
He dragged a hand down his cheek, round to the back of his neck, and squeezed. “Don’t remember...”
“What is wrong with you?” With her face ugly, she bounded from the room. Upstairs, the bathroom door slammed, its echo dying through the house.
Terry’s stomach churned.
In thick black strokes he’d written on the walls and doors, the dresser, the coffee table, and on the floor. Feeling tiny, he could just make out a pattern scrawled across the dining-room table. Everywhere, barely legible in places, the words shared a similar urgency: Release. Save. Forgotten. On the front door, around the letterbox, it looked like he’d scrawled switchblade.
Why the hell would he write that? His head throbbed, the blood thrashing in his ears. He leaned back, the sofa swallowing him. He’d even written Forgotten on the ceiling.
A darkness leaked into his periphery, framing that word, and the ceiling pushed down on him. He sat upright, bent forward, and stared at his feet. From above, Kate’s stomping lowered the ceiling further. What was happening to him?
Grabbing the pen, he hurled it at the TV—across its screen were the words, Must save.
He charged into the kitchen, clawed for the sink, and threw up.
Again the clock snatched a dreamless sleep from him. He fumbled for it. Yes, 3.33. It was on his bedside cabinet, and he didn’t remember replacing it. He doubted Kate would’ve moved it. After getting in from work, and going mental at him for scribbling crap around the house, she’d left for the pub. He still couldn’t believe her response; she hadn’t even suggested a doctor’s visit. Clearly he needed help. So no, she wouldn’t have done anything so thoughtful. Certainly not after having returned home pissed and argumentative. She’d been doing that a lot recently, and he often found her with a glass of wine in hand.
From beside him, a grunt burst from her throat.
With those digits fading, he thought of the previous evening alone. He’d tried to start on the work files, but all he ended up doing was staring at his black hands. He knew he should’ve scrubbed the writing off everything as well, not just his hands. The only scribble he did remove was the one on the TV screen.
Kate’s breath was ragged and she turned away. Things had been getting tough for them, certainly, and he suspected this was their end. He needed her now more than ever, yet she was proving to be the unsupportive bitch she’d always been. The stink of cigarettes and alcohol clung to her. He wrinkled his nose. This was hell.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he wanted to scream and he didn’t care if it woke up the neighbours.
Release…
Terry’s eyes shot wide, and he squinted into the gloom. Had Kate whispered that?
We are here.
He glanced at her, ears straining. His heart pulsed in his throat. It wasn’t her voice. Was there someone else in the room?
Release us…
It was in his head. Behind the surging of blood through his veins, a collection of voices rushed in. It was as if each whisper had substance, coiling tentacles around his brain. A cacophony of incomprehensible shouting.
He clamped hands over his ears, making no difference.
A voice roared above the others: Help.
Another screamed: Find us.
Others collectively yelled: The blade.
Black spots dotted his vision and he blinked, still clamping his head with slick palms. His breath felt as if every lungful was polluted with glass.
The crowd quietened.
The Witchblade, a few voices whispered. These were closer. What were they talking about?
Find the blade, they said. Find us…
Why did he have to find it? Find them? How?
The Forgotten, was the last thing a fading voice said.
Shivering, the roar of blood filled his head. He stared at the ceiling feeling sunrise push away the shadows.
Kate snatched the milk carton from him and tipped it over her cereal, spilling some. He watched it creep across the table and become a dribble of white tears. Each one exploded on the patio.
“You’re not going into work?” She stabbed the spoon into her bowl, splashing the back of her hand. She didn’t wipe that, either. “If you lose your job I’m never gonna leave this town.”
Terry rubbed his eyes. The mornings were getting colder, and he knew they’d not enjoy breakfast in the garden for much longer. And there was rain waiting in the clouds, he could feel it. “That all you care about?”
“Do you think your boss won’t ta
ke into consideration your sick days?”
“I...” Terry pushed his bowl away. He wasn’t hungry. “I’m sick.”
“Grow some balls, you’re acting like a child.”
There it was again: the child reference. That’s all she thought of these days, but what about him? What about this madness? “Last night—”
“I don’t care.” Kate dragged a newspaper towards her and shoved cereal into her mouth. Her machine-gun crunching filled the garden. It seemed to ricochet off the fence.
From beyond their wooden walls a car honked; the world now awake. It seemed far away. He’d not eaten much of his cereal and as the silence closed in and pushed the world even further away, the milk soured on his tongue. Kate’s chair scraped stone, and she rose. Still her jaw moved as she ground down on her mouthful. He followed her indoors.
She stopped beside the dining-room table and her fist pressed into the wood.
“Last night,” Terry mumbled, “I heard... I don’t know.”
“I heard that alarm.” Her eyes focused not on him, but the black scrawls over the table. “Again.”
“Kate.” He realised his voice cracked, and he straightened his back. This was ridiculous. He bit his lip. “I’m scared.”
The pattern on the table was a series of triangles and curves, reminding him of some devil-worshipping crap he’d seen somewhere. Again, he thought of what he’d read about the Devil’s Hour and the connection with the voices. Find the blade, they’d said. Kate’s fingernail traced a black line. “I’m leaving,” she said.
“What?” He stepped back and knocked the door. It smacked the wall and a shelf rattled.
“For good.” Her eyes reflected the morning sunlight, and little else.
“Kate!”
Find us… He couldn’t tell if the voice was in his head again or it was a stab of memory. He gaped as she marched into the lounge. She kicked his work folders, grabbed her bag and left.
The front door slammed with a dead echo.
He stared at the word switchblade on the back of the door. Then he noticed the S and W were almost one squiggle. It didn’t say switchblade.
“Witchblade?” Terry’s voice didn’t sound like his own. The blade, they’d said, find the blade, save the Forgotten.
For the remainder of the day he mostly watched TV—or at least thumbed through the hundreds of channels it offered. He didn’t eat. Occasionally his mobile would ring. It was his boss, and Terry imagined the bastard’s scowl. He never answered it, and soon turned it off. The landline also rang several times. Eventually he yanked the wire from the wall, the plaster crumbling.
Sometime during the afternoon he sat in the garden and stared at the new turf. The joins between the rolls were fading. He remembered how the garden had been a barren stretch of weeds, where in the centre a curious formation of mushrooms had taken over. It was a hulk of grey and black fungi, their caps as wide as his hand with stalks that seemed to sweat. That lot took a surprising effort to destroy. They had exploded in black puffs, and he fancied he could still taste those spores. That heavy, earthy scent had lingered at the back of his throat for days.
Rain soon forced him indoors and the chaos pressed in. He sat on the sofa. At his feet were the work folders, a bleached rainbow of what his life represented. Scattered, forgotten. One sported a scribble: Use the Witchblade. He knew he should remove those scrawls, try to return sanity to his life. Everywhere he looked, apart from the TV, something reminded him of the madness. And that was just it, maybe he was going mad. No, there was no maybe about it. This was the onset of insanity. The voices proved that. The Forgotten…
He couldn’t give a shit about the Forgotten, he wanted to forget.
With the TV volume down, he sank into the sofa and closed his eyes. Sleep soon came. As always, dreamless.
This time the alarm didn’t wake him, it was the moment the shovel he held jarred on something metal. Its clang muted, dead. His brain flooded like the ground beneath his bare feet. His vision sharpened and he squinted into the darkness.
Freezing clothes hugged him. He stood in the middle of the garden, over a gaping hole. Rain filled it, churning with grass and leaves and clumps of earth. The new turf was peeled back and on top was the clock: 3.32. That last digit flicking to a three. There was no alarm. It remained on 3.33 for a second and then faded.
How did he get here? And why was he holding a shovel? He threw it down. It slapped the ground in a dirty spray. His legs buckled, and water rushed up and soaked him further. The mud sucked his arms, pulling him into the hole. Something raked his forearm.
From a constricted throat, he cried out.
Water sloshed as he struggled. His chest heaved, his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. Then he clasped something rough, metallic. He remembered the shovel jarring on metal. There was something angled, perhaps a box. The more he wiggled his fingers, the more the earth loosened. Clamping his hands around the object, he tugged, his back screaming.
He slipped and fell backwards, his prize dripping mud from above. He dropped it beside him and got to his knees. The air was cold in his lungs.
He scooped away the earth and located the hinges, then a clasp. He twisted it and it snapped. The hinges sheared off, cracking the night. Inside was a bunch of oily rags. The smell reminded him of that time, as a kid, he’d visited a farm: the greasy, cloying smell of old machinery and well-used tools. He pulled at the rags, but they came out as one heavy lump. They were stubborn as he unravelled them, and each slapped the ground and splashed him. No farm tools here.
With slippery hands he removed a knife. He wasn’t surprised.
The Witchblade. This was it. Its hilt was an ornate knot, its blade curved and ending in a nasty point. It glinted in the moonlight. Possibly silver.
He staggered to his feet. His vision blurred, and spots of colour stabbed his periphery. He kicked the box and it splashed into the hole. With his mind reeling, a chill crept into his veins. It was as if the shadows began folding inwards. A darkness pressed in. Motionless, he gripped the Witchblade in numb fingers.
Find us…
His heart slammed in his head, knocking away the darkness that filled him. The ground sucked his feet as he paced backwards.
He soon made it into the house.
Save the Forgotten.
Walking up the stairs, he dragged the Witchblade along the wall, its tip shrieking as bits of paint fell away. His foot hovered above the next step and his eyes followed those chips as they dropped. It was as if he heard each crash, slamming into the carpet, filling the house like thunder.
He staggered into his study. The place was foreign, having not entered it for days. He dropped the Witchblade on top of a project file, and left the room. He knew he needed a bath…but didn’t quite reach it.
He spent the day in and out of lucidity.
His eyelids fluttered and there was the Witchblade, reflecting lamplight. Its hilt gripped in white knuckles smeared red, just like the blade itself. It dripped on the bedroom carpet.
Why was he holding it?
There was Kate. In bed. Those red smears framed her body.
“Kate?” His voice sounded distant. When had she come back?
His stomach wrenched as Kate’s unmoving body filled his vision. Shit. He’d killed her.
He crouched. More blood soaked his side of the bed. His heartbeat filled the room. It seemed to punch the walls.
Kate. Dead.
Sweat dripped from his forehead and with his free hand he wiped it, streaking blood—and mud—across his forearm.
“Kate…” He dropped the Witchblade on the bed and reached for her, his hand in slow motion, fingers like claws. A strange warmth flushed through him, yet there was a coldness there too.
Then Kate twitched and shifted position, murmuring. Where Terry leaned on the bed, his weight resisted her pull of the duvet and revealed her body: naked, clean.
No blood.
His breath snatched the air. Hot, cloying. Was she only s
leeping? His eyes shot from Kate to the Witchblade, then to the surrounding blood, and back to Kate. Her hand tugged lazily at the duvet.
He eased himself up—such an effort—and watched her huddle beneath the bloodstained covers. The Witchblade shifted and he grabbed it. It was sticky.
Kate mumbled something.
She was alive. He’d not killed her.
A voice pushed into his confusion: Release us.
He saw the clock, sitting on his bedside table: 3.23 a.m. Not 3.33? He didn’t question this for long.
The warmth leaked into a strange chill, and he looked down. He wore only trousers. His stomach was a raw mess, a torn eruption of what was once his abdomen. Blood oozed down his legs. His head pulsed, spots dotting his vision. He managed to remain standing. He focused on his stomach, the red and purple stuff bulging between jagged flaps of skin. Clenching the Witchblade in slick fingers, he knew this was self-inflicted. He shook his head. No pain, only that spreading chill.
He had to save the Forgotten.
With a hand that didn’t look like his own, he reached for the clock: 3.24. Its battery compartment was empty, which no longer concerned him. There was still warmth in him, that’s all that mattered.
He left Kate sleeping and walked downstairs. Each step deliberate, with the occasional creak snapping the air. The Witchblade steadied him, gouging the wall. His blood trickled over his toes, blending with muddy footprints.
At the bottom, the red digits announced 3.26.
In the lounge he trod on his work tie. It clung to his foot, and with each step it snaked behind him. He walked past the dining-room table, the pattern of triangles and curves barely visible in the gloom.
