The Sign of Ouroboros
Page 1
The Sign of Ouroboros
Written by David Longhorn
Edited by Emma Salam
Copyright © 2017 by ScareStreet.com
All rights reserved
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Table of Contents
Prologue: Wychmere, England, Autumn 2016
Chapter 1: A Dream of Armageddon
Chapter 2: Close to the Serpentine
Chapter 3: West of Ireland, May 1994
Chapter 4: Bite Marks
Chapter 5: Signs and Wonders
Chapter 6: Connections
Chapter 7: Southern England, June 2005
Chapter 8: Westward
Chapter 9: Encounters and Deceptions
Chapter 10: Plans and Observations
Chapter 11: Flesh and Stone
Epilogue: Spring 2017
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Prologue: Wychmere, England, Autumn 2016
Now this is what I call a nice house, thought Andrew Leadsom. Should be some rich pickings here.
He stopped his car outside the gates of Garlock House. The stone gateposts were topped by heraldic stone lions. The lions were badly weathered, but there was a new feature on one gatepost. A brass plate. Leadsom frowned. The plate bore no words, but was etched with an unfamiliar circular design. He leaned out of the car window to peer more closely at the image.
A snake eating its own tail? Weird. But the English aristocracy has always been a tad eccentric. They keep marrying their cousins, all that inbreeding sends them daft. Just look at some of the royals.
Leadsom glanced up the broad driveway to the large house, then turned and looked back down the road he had come. The village of Wychmere was a small, sleepy place, and after a few moments of thought, he had decided not to try his luck there. It did not seem especially wealthy, despite the number of tourists who came to see the prehistoric stone circle. The big house on the outskirts of the village seemed like a much better bet. It could prove an ideal target for a veteran con artist like Leadsom.
He got out and tried the wrought-iron gates. They were not locked, and he was soon driving his car up to the house's classical portico. He was just setting foot on the steps leading up to the front door when it opened and a statuesque, dark-haired woman appeared.
Well, today really is looking up, he thought. Nothing like a curvaceous hottie on a cold day.
The girl was an inch or so taller than Leadsom, who noticed that she was barefoot. She was also dressed quite skimpily for a chilly October afternoon, in a colorful silk wrap of some kind that was not very well secured. The house was well-heated. A wave of warm air washed over Leadsom as he tried not to stare down her cleavage. She smiled down at him as he reached the top of the steps.
“Yes? Are you expected?” she asked.
Her voice was surprisingly deep, a husky contralto. Her eyes were a wonderful golden-green and were large, almost freakishly so. Her mouth was wide and full-lipped.
This one just gets sexier by the second, he thought. But let's not mix business with pleasure.
“I'm afraid I don't have an appointment, no,” he replied. “But I am here to do you a big favor, I hope. You see, I deal in antiques, and I'm sure an old place like this must have some hidden treasures that could raise quite a tidy sum.”
Leadsom handed her his business card, a lavishly produced one, calculated to inspire consumer confidence. The card was embossed with a fake name, a useless email address, and the phone number of a Thai restaurant in Coventry he had selected at random. But the details, coupled with Leadsom's nice suit, professional but friendly demeanor, and shiny Lexus inspired confidence. Nobody had ever tried to check his background until it was much too late.
The girl smiled, showing impressively white teeth, as she took a step back. Leadsom stepped inside. As he passed close to her, he got a strong whiff of perfume. It was patchouli, rather stronger than he normally liked. There was an undertone of something else, a less pleasant odor that, for some reason, triggered childhood memories.
Maybe she just doesn't bathe too often, he thought. Anyway, that's not important. Focus on the smell of money, Andy.
“Nice to meet you, Mister Nuttall,” she said, handing back the card. “I'm Olivia. You'd better come in and speak to Jonathan.”
“Ah, Jonathan is your husband?” he asked. Then, when Olivia shook her head, “Your father?”
“No, he's the spokesperson of our group. We are a small spiritual community.”
The words took a few moments to register, as the entrance hall was better than Leadsom could have hoped. Glancing around, being careful not to look even slightly impressed, he noticed a Louis Fourteenth clock and a fine Georgian table. If the rest of Garlock House contained similarly fine antiques, it could prove to be a very lucrative visit.
“Religious, you mean?” he asked, becoming wary. Conning any large organization was hazardous. It was always best to target individuals; the older and greedier, the better.
“Not in the conventional sense,” said a new voice. “We are very broadminded in our attitudes.”
A plump, bald man appeared from a side door and came up to shake Leadsom's hand. Leadsom noticed that the man was limping slightly and filed the fact away. Even the most trivial detail could come in handy when you were trying to win someone's trust.
“Mister Paul Nuttall, wandering antique dealer,” said Olivia, “Meet Jonathan Clay, the Herald of Ouroboros.”
Now that does sound barmy, thought Leadsom, smiling at Clay. These people could be ideal marks.
“Please, call me Jonathan, we don't need fancy titles,” said Clay. “Come, join me for a cup of tea, and tell me what brings you to our little colony.”
Clay led him into a splendid drawing room with wood-paneled walls and a huge fireplace.
“Excuse me while I help Olivia with the tea tray,” said Clay, gesturing at a fine divan suite. “Can I offer you biscuits, or some of our home made Victoria sponge cake? No? Oh well, make yourself comfortable, Paul.”
Free to act unobserved, Leadsom wasted no time in scrutinizing everything that looked valuable. As in the hall, he was impressed by several fine-looking antiques, calculating that there must be at least ten thousand pounds worth of loot in this one room. He was also struck by the presence of a number of odd statues in stone or clay. They varied widely in style, and he thought he recognized Indian, Aztec, and Babylonian artifacts. But he dismissed them as they were outside his field of interest.
Leadsom turned his attention to the paintings, hoping to strike gold again. But here he found nothing of obvious value, just a few mass-produced topographical prints. The only large picture was over the fireplace, and it was more grotesque than attractive. It was, he concluded, a scene from classical mythology, but Leadsom had no idea what the story behind it might be. Against the backdrop of a huge city on a plain by the sea, a horrific multiple killing was taking place. Three men were struggling in the coils of a huge serpent while aghast spectators looked on.
“Ah, I see you are admiring our rather graphic masterpiece,” said Clay, appearing at the door with a silver tea tray. Olivia followed him in with a plate of biscuits.
“I don't recognize the story,” said Leadsom. “But I assume those three angered the gods? That's usually the way of these things.”
“Quite right,” said Clay, limping across to stand by him. “Laocoon, the old man in the middle, warned his fellow Trojans not to take the wooden horse into their city. The gods, who wanted Troy to be destroyed, sent a serpent to kill him and his sons, the two lads on either side of him. The Trojans took the wooden horse inside the city, and the rest, I'm sure you know.”
“But why kill his sons?” asked Leadsom, genuinely curious. “It seems so pointless and cruel.”
“To put an end to his line, of course!” said Clay. “Even today, in much of the world, to be without sons is to be ranked not quite a man. But you have more pleasant things to discuss, I'm sure.”
A few moments later, Leadsom was seated on a fine Edwardian sofa while Olivia handed him a cup of herbal tea. He pretended to be fascinated by all things spiritual, as he chatted with Clay about the latter's crackpot beliefs.
“So you see, Paul,” Clay was saying, “we use the symbol of Ouroboros to signify recurrence, rebirth, regeneration. The story of Laocoon, taken literally, is grim indeed. But if one sees the serpent as symbolizing ‘nature’ it is simply a statement of the obvious, that nothing human endures, only life itself, and struggling against the inevitable merely leads to suffering.”
“Fascinating,” said Leadsom, cautiously taking a sip of the steaming tea. It was more pleasant than he expected, and he took a generous mouthful, almost scalding his tongue.
“Our tea is a mixture of herbs,” said Clay. “Very refreshing, and a good way to alleviate stress. But you came here to discuss business, I believe?”
Leadsom set his half-empty cup down.
Now we get to the nitty gritty, he thought.
“Well, Jonathan,” he said, “I've recently set up shop in Hereford, and I'm essentially familiarizing myself with the surrounding area. I specialize in less valuable antiques, the kind of things that people tend to just put in a cupboard or the attic and forget about. I have an international network of buyers and, with no false modesty, I can say I've managed to raise tidy sums for a lot of locals already.”
“Fascinating work,” exclaimed Clay, “isn't it, Olivia?”
“Yes,” she said, topping up Leadsom's teacup from a silver pot that he valued at around six hundred pounds. He could think of at least three collectors who would snap it up.
“And very satisfying, to help all those little old ladies turn their knick-knacks into ready money,” added the girl, settling herself next to Leadsom so her slim hip just touched his. “Why, you're quite the public benefactor, Paul!”
Is she taking the piss?
Something about the tone of the girl's voice bothered him. It wasn't the only thing that seemed off-kilter. There was a distant roaring noise, like a waterfall or waves breaking on a beach. And again, under the strong perfume, there was that other smell. Stale, vaguely feral.
“Are you feeling all right, Paul?” asked Clay. “Would you like to lay down?”
“No, I'm fine,” said Leadsom. But the simple phrase did not come easily.
“Tell us, Paul,” said Olivia, running a finger through his hair, “is there anything around here that takes your fancy?”
He guffawed stupidly, staring more blatantly down the front of her wrap. She laughed and tapped him on the end of his nose.
“Now you know I meant antiques!”
“Well,” he said, “there's a ton of stuff here I could shift. This couch is worth a cool thousand. That little gilt clock in the hall, another two grand at least. Lovely item, that.”
Leadsom babbled on, giving a completely honest assessment of the valuables he had seen. Part of him, the seasoned con man, looked on in horror as he continued to blurt out tricks of the trade. He even told them his real name.
“The best way to take in your classic little old lady,” he babbled, “is to make her think she's put one over on you. Buy some piece of tat for way over the odds, then trick her out of something really valuable.”
“You naughty, naughty boy!”
Olivia ran her hand down his cheek. Her flesh was cool despite the warm room, and slightly rough.
“You should wear rubber gloves when you do the washing up, darling,” he said. “You've got dishpan hands.”
The girl giggled, then got up just as Leadsom made a wobbling lunge at her. He ended up face first in a velvet cushion and dropped his teacup.
“Oh dear,” said Clay, putting down his own cup, which was still full to the brim. “It seems we have a dishonest man on our hands.”
“True,” said Leadsom, as he struggled upright again. His mouth seemed to have a mind of its own, resisting his best efforts to control it, “I'm a total bastard who cons pensioners out of their family heirlooms. Pays them a pittance, and when they find out I lied, I'm long gone. Move on to a new area, start again.”
Herbal tea, he thought desperately. They drugged me. Jesus, I'm in trouble.
Leadsom's first instinct was to make a run for it, but his effort to stand up merely led to him plunging face first into an Afghan rug.
“Oops a daisy,” laughed Olivia, helping him to his feet.
“Bloody hell, you're very strong, even for a big girl,” said Leadsom. “Must work out. I blame feminism. Ruining romance. Not natural.”
The roaring in his ears was so loud now that he could barely make out what Clay was saying. The plump man was talking to the girl. Something about 'having a little lie down.'
“I'm fine, really,” Leadsom insisted. “People will be wondering where I am. I must be going.”
“I don't think you'll be able to drive in such a state,” said Clay, looking closely into Leadsom's eyes. “Yes, pupil's dilated. But it's hard to calculate the dosage with these things. After all, everyone's different.”
Clay took Leadsom's other arm. Between them, Clay and Olivia steered the befuddled con man out into the hall, then up two flights of stairs. Leadsom lost consciousness for a while. When he came to, his mind was still clouded by the 'herbal tea.' He was apparently on a bed in a dimly-lit room.
He could hear voices. Clay and the woman were out in the corridor, just out of sight. They seemed to be arguing. Clay said something about an 'unworthy subject,' but Olivia cut him off, sounding insistent. He made out the word 'sacrifice'.
Oh God, they really are some kind of insane cult, he thought. They're going to kill me!
He made a tremendous effort to move. His body resisted his urging and all he managed was a groan of despair.
The light from the doorway diminished as a slight figure entered. Again, he smelled patchouli, its cloying fragrance. And once more, he detected that undertone of something else, the odor that conjured up an image of a favorite aunt, ice cream, a day out at the zoo.
Olivia climbed onto the bed next to him. She was naked, her curvaceous body pale and sinuous. He felt her flesh brush against his limp hand and again felt that odd roughness, coldness. Her face, just a couple of inches away from his, looked subtly different somehow. As if her features had coarsened in some way. Is her mouth larger, were her eyes that far apart? Leadsom wondered if it was a trick of the half-light.
“You've told us so much about yourself, Andrew,” she said. “You have no family, no close friends, and you always keep a low profile. The only people who'll wonder where you are have a strong aversion to contacting the police, isn't that right? You're the sort of man who can vanish easily, and never be missed.”
Olivia's tongue flicked across her lips, then she opened her mouth. It gaped far wider than any human mouth had a right to. A pair of fangs protruded from her upper jaw. At the sight of them, he suddenly remembered where he had first encountered the stale, unpleasant smell that was not quite masked by the patchouli.
It was somewhere hot, and dark. The Reptile House at the Zoo!
Her mouth closed on his neck for a moment and he felt cold, sharp pinpricks penetrate his flesh. When Olivia pulled away, her face was barely human. Her eyes were a bright green now, displaced almost to the side of her head, their pupils
turned to slits. Her mouth was opening again, wider than any human mouth, a glistening void that soon filled his entire field of vision.
Before her transformation was complete, the venom had done its merciful work.
Chapter 1: A Dream of Armageddon
In his dream, the world was coming to an end, and his daughter did not want to know him. It was hard for him to decide which was worse.
Brad Steiger saw the world from an astronaut's perspective, a beautiful blue and white orb lit by dazzling sunshine. Directly below him was the Atlantic, with the Americas in full daylight to his left, Europe and Africa emerging from darkness on the right. He got no pleasure from the vision, though, because he knew with the certainty of nightmare that something bad was coming.
The catastrophe began on the night side of the earth, where Brad could just make out the scattered light of cities in Asia and the Middle East. A brighter light appeared, very different from the blue-white of human settlements. This was an angry orange-red glare, and formed a sinuous line. More lines appeared, intersecting and spreading at terrifying speed. As they grew, the glow they emitted brightened.
The planet is cracking open, like an egg!
The lovely blue and white of the sunlit earth began to vanish, swamped by gouts of black and brown. Brad realized that smoke, volcanic ash, and steam were rushing out of the cracks in the world's crust. And the seismic eruptions had created vast tsunamis. He could see one now, a dirty-white wave of terrifying force heading for the eastern seaboard of the United States.
“Dad? You're not listening. Again.”
Brad was sitting in a Starbucks with his daughter, Kelly. Outside, the world did not seem to be ending. As usual, she seemed disappointed with him. She reached out across the table littered with cups and sugar packets to take his hand. He saw that she had a tattoo on the back of her hand. It was an ornate circular pattern, the weird image of a snake apparently eating its own tail.
“You're not supposed to see that,” Kelly said, reprovingly. “Just stay out of it, Dad. Listen to me for once.”