Time of the Demon

by Ian Taylor

  "If we assume Cyril's right, then the girls are in there." She couldn't contain her shock and dismay. "What the hell did they do to deserve this?"

  "They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Looks like they became contaminated by whatever came down in that field. Then there's the closed inn and the gutted flat. Someone's being very careful to keep the incident under tight control." He appeared puzzled. "This suggests the military, not UFOs, but I can't shake off the feeling that somehow it's both."

  "Most of the officers at the incident stayed in their vehicles, which also suggests a risk of contamination. If it was carried in some kind of warhead, why didn't it explode? And if it was being conveyed by a drone, why didn't the girls spot wreckage?" She shook her head in mystified frustration. "They said they saw only a light. And it was silent."

  "I agree it seemed more like a UFO than a weapon. But, as you've seen for yourself, the behaviour of the authorities suggests otherwise." He looked at his watch. "It's after ten. It'll just be the night shift on duty. We have to chance it."

  They assumed there were security cameras fixed in the perimeter woodland with a clear view of the building and its approaches. It seemed impossible to get inside without being seen.

  A large shipping container had been left on the tarmac at right angles to the goods entrance, where the doors to a loading bay had been left open. If they could reach the container, they might have a chance.

  "Let's hope they don't have an infrared security system," Greg muttered as they left the cover of the trees.

  There was no one about at that late hour and they didn't seem to trigger any alarms–unless, of course, they were already being observed on the CCTV somewhere deep within the building. They reached the container without mishap, then they were in the loading bay. So far so good.

  A narrow door at the end of the long loading bay led to a storage area, where off-loaded items stood on racks: catering supplies for staff and patients, boxes of bedding, regulation white coats and protective clothing. As the two slipped on white coats, the thought occurred to Jan that perhaps security was thin because it was considered one of the last places anyone would want to break into. The fear of contamination by some rare disease, even if ill-founded, would put off most people. There would be no reason for breaking in here, unless you suspected an infringement of a patient's civil liberties–and that was unlikely to happen often.

  Having decided that the admissions office would be situated close to the main entrance, they made their way through silent, deserted corridors. Although they encountered a couple of preoccupied staff members, they located the office without being challenged. The small room contained the usual filing cabinets and desks. No night staff were in attendance as admissions of new patients would take place during the day.

  Donning surgical gloves, they tried the filing cabinets, but found most locked. Obviously, patient confidentiality was paramount. After a ten-minute search, Jan found a drawer of an unlocked filing cabinet containing files marked RECENT ADMISSIONS.

  "Got it! Jessica Bryce and Georgina Lovell, admitted yesterday. Patients B42 and B43. Room 108. Guess that would be Ward 8 on the first floor." She read aloud from the girls' slim file. "To be kept under close observation. …And there's an emergency number for a—"

  He pulled a sour face. "Superintendent Hemingway," he

  "That could suggest they suspect–or have confirmed–some degree of contamination. And there's absolutely no chance of rescuing them. Apart from being caught, we might risk contamination ourselves and I for one can't afford to chance it. Can you?"

  "I've spent time with them and I still feel okay. What if all this is a front and they're really prisoners?"

  He shook his head. "We have to assume contamination. If the authorities wanted them to disappear,they'd have put them in secure detention. Even if we tried to rescue them and managed to get them out of here they might die–and so might we. As much as we might not like it, they're probably better off here."

  "As guinea pigs?"

  "We don't know that. And even if that was true, there's nothing we can do." He looked at her sternly."You mustn't let yourself to be troubled by guilt. It’ll become an undermining influence and prevent you from coping with any challenges you might have to face. From their first sighting of that light, the girls' fate was sealed. I think we should cut our losses and go."

  She accepted the logic of his argument. Quickly, they photocopied pages from the girls' admission files—for the record and as a safeguard against future hostile developments.

  They turned to leave, but before they could reach the door, a uniformed security guard strode in. His look of surprise gave Greg his chance to hit the guard full in the face with a Taser; before he could fall, he caught the burly man and eased him to the ground.

  "Sorry, mate," Greg said quietly, "but we can't all be Mister Nice Guys."

  He and Jan left the office swiftly.

  "We might have fifteen minutes if no one finds him," he said as they slipped outside. "Let's hope there isn't some way they can cut us off on that minor road."

  They weren’t that lucky. After a few minutes, they found they were being followed by a vehicle that had appeared from a side road a mere fifty yards behind them.

  "They'll have got the registration number already," Jan said solemnly. "They'll know it's you. How can we possibly escape them?"

  "I'm not too worried about that," Greg said dismissively. "At least they're behind and there isn't a roadblock. I didn't pass my advanced driving test for nothing–let's see what this machine can do. Hold on!"

  He floored the accelerator and laughed as the distance between the two vehicles increased from one hundred to two hundred metres. They took the motorway link road at 120 mph but, due to very light traffic, the pursuing vehicle kept sight of them and—to Greg’s stunned surprise—was able to match his speed. After ten minutes, he realised the chase would continue until the motorway police were alerted and pulled them over.

  Jan turned and looked back. "They're still behind us. At this rate, they could follow us all the way to Scotland!"

  "No they won't. I've a plan."

  The motorway services area appeared half a mile ahead and he turned into it without giving a signal, driving straight into the lorry park. He stopped behind a gigantic trans-European rig linked to an enormous trailer.

  "Perfect. Grab your stuff and let's take a walk."

  They hurried to the corner of the lorry park where Greg surveyed the car park with night glasses. "I think I've found them. It's a Range Rover with driver and passenger. They're still driving round. Hard to tell under these lights, but I'm pretty sure the vehicle paintwork is pale, sandy, not white. My guess is it's a military vehicle.” With a frown, he watched a few more seconds. “It's pulling round the far side, almost out of eyeshot. It's time we left."

  Greg turned off the motorway and continued on minor roads, and it soon became clear that they were no longer being pursued. The car clock showed 0.40 a.m.

  "It's after midnight," he observed. "Have you decided what you're going to do?"

  "I'm intrigued and very concerned by this whole business. I'll stay on it till we get more answers. And I'll put an article together as soon as I get back."

  "Why don't you start a blog under a pseudonym?" he suggested. "See what happens. You might get some surprises."

  "Great idea," she responded enthusiastically. "What about you?"

  "I have to call in a few favours. You won't be able to contact me for the next couple of days." He glanced at her, concerned. "Be careful, Jan. Don't get paranoid, but watch your back. And if you come across any entities, show no fear, because they'll feed off it."

  She inhaled slowly, then nodded. "Tough call, isn't it–to switch fear off if you're terrified?"

  "Knowing you have to do will help. Fear supplies them with energy. Without that energy they've a lot less power. Still more than you, but the fact they're not scaring you will cause them to lose interest quic
kly."

  "You're not talking about tricky spirits, are you, but what you called higher-order demons?"

  "As far as I'm aware they're the most dangerous of all the entities you're ever likely to meet. Some of them have been known to use UFOs to impress gullible folk and lead them into a labyrinth of deception. They're hard to outsmart because they can read your mind like an open book. The only way to beat them is through an act of sustained and co-ordinated magic."

  "Do you think I'm going to be meeting demons?" she asked, intrigued but disturbed.

  "We've connected with the psychic energy circuit quite a bit already with our enquiries. Who knows who—or what—might materialise from the ether?"

  "Don't worry about me," she assured him. "I'll be far too busy writing my blog posts to get into any danger."

  "Make sure you stick to that," he emphasized. "I want to be able to find you when I get back. Don't trust anyone from now on, because no one will be who they say they are. That's the best advice I can leave you with."

  7

  2.50 a.m. found Jan working on her Facebook blog posts. She was far too hyper to sleep. All she could do at this stage was write a brief outline of events, then devise a short list of questions. There were no conclusions, but quite a few hypotheses. By 3.20 she was satisfied that she’d done enough to attract potential interest.

  She read aloud through the list of main points:

  So there you have it, the 'facts' as I have investigated them. We have:

  A strange light at the Half Moon Inn that was not a crashed plane or drone.

  Two hospitalised witnesses, possibly contaminated, but by what?

  A Superintendent Hemingway, so far unknown.

  A boarded-up inn.

  A field behind the inn with a DANGER–KEEP OUT sign on the gate.

  The case dismissed as a hoax by the local police and officially closed.

  The press intimidated and gagged.

  An obvious cover-up.

  SO WHAT WAS IT?

  WHAT'S GOING ON UNDER OUR NOSES?

  Was it a UFO?

  Was it a secret weapon?

  Decide for yourselves. Please discuss. Serious debate welcome. (No time wasters!)

  This is SmartGirl2 signing off.

  Her mobile rang and made her jump. Thinking it was Greg, she snatched it and answered. But there was only static on the other end. "Hello? Hello? Can you speak up, please? The line's very bad."

  She held the mobile away from her as ear-splitting metallic noises filled the room.

  "What the hell is this?" She rang off, exasperated.

  She began work on her article “Mystery Light at the Half Moon Inn”, which she hoped to have published as a freelance piece in one of the more serious alternative mags. Before she’d finished the first paragraph, the mobile rang again. With a weary sigh she picked up.

  "Hello? Who is this? It had better be good–it's after three in the morning!"

  A distorted voice asked, "Jan Barnes? Jan Barnes?" It sounded oddly metallic, electronic rather than human.

  "This is Jan Barnes," she said impatiently. "Who are you? What do you want?"

  The same ear-splitting noises sounded as before and she rang off in angry frustration.

  "Damn," she hissed at the mobile. She returned to the laptop, but several minutes later, the mobile rang again. "Go away," she yelled.

  It kept ringing. After a few moments, unable to subdue her curiosity, Jan picked up again.

  "This is Jan Barnes. Does someone want to speak to me?"

  The metallic voice was very distorted. However, in spite of this, she managed to make out some words: “Meet me at ... the place of lights.” The last two words were repeated, then more electronic distortion filled her ear.

  "Greg? Greg, is that you?" she asked, suddenly suspicious. "Are you all right?"

  “Meet me,” the voice repeated, “meet me ... the place of lights.”

  The line hummed. She thought she heard the voice again, but the words were drowned out by a sudden buzz of static.

  "Greg?" she yelled.

  The static intensified and, irritated, she rang off. She resumed work, but stopped five minutes later and glared at her mobile. It remained silent. Saving her work, she switched off.

  As Jan hunted for her car keys, the mobile rang and she quickly picked up. "Okay–I'm on my way!"

  She grabbed her coat, shoved the mobile in a pocket, and departed.

  She knew exactly where she was going–the place of lights could only be the old moortop quarry. She drove along the high moorland road, between bracken and wind-blasted larches, as she had travelled the first time with Greg. When she thought she’d reached the right place, she pulled a little way off the road and got out of the car. Dense clouds scudded across the craggy face of the moon. Owls hooted. Bushes trembled in the wind.

  Taking a swig from the bottle Greg had given her earlier, Jan set off. As she walked, she realised the moortop wind had died and all ambient noise had ceased. There were no more owls, no distant vehicles; it was as if the night had been drained of sound— in the same seamless transition as on the previous occasion.

  The moon faded as she continued, masked by a haze of rising mist. The scene, as before, was illuminated by that same sourceless glow. It's happening, she thought. I'm in it. A parallel world. She had no fear, only a sense of wonder and burning curiosity.

  Walking was again effortless. She drifted through the bracken and briars until she reached the abandoned quarry. Its derelict buildings loomed and gaped.

  Sitting on a flat stone, she waited to see what would happen. The haze disappeared, revealing a sky of fiery crackling stars. Suddenly, a misty white light appeared a little way off across the quarry floor. Then the light vanished and a figure materialised in its place.

  The body was that of a tall male dressed in a loose robe, reminding her of films depicting ancient Roman senators. She stared, mesmerised. Then she remembered Greg's advice about demons and turned her head a little to the side, keeping the figure in the corner of her eye.

  "Jan Barnes," the man began, "I bring you greetings from the world of truth."

  His voice was slightly tinny and oddly mechanical, his lips moving a half-syllable ahead of his words, as if two different time frames weren’t quite in sync. She was reminded of a ventriloquist's dummy. Jan had expected to feel fearful, but fascination eclipsed all other emotions.

  She found herself unable to move or think; it was as though the figure in the toga-like robe was radiating a magnetic impulse so strong, it gripped her in a state of paralysed wonderment. For a moment she felt trapped, and her emotions almost went into panicky freefall–but Greg's advice again came to the rescue.

  She had never been in the presence of a being with such power and she immediately labelled him a higher-order demon. Greg's warning that these entities were supremely dangerous echoed in the back of her mind.

  "Do you have a name?" she managed to ask. "You know mine. Please tell me who you are." She found she was talking physically, not telepathising, but speaking in a slow and deliberate manner, almost like an automaton. At the same time, she kept his image in the corner of her eye.

  "My name is Ashtar," the mysterious entity replied. "I am the bringer of wisdom to those who are ready."

  "Am I ready?" she asked softly.

  "You have been chosen," Ashtar declared solemnly.

  "Chosen for what?" She suppressed a sudden desire to flee in terror.

  "To be part of the new world I am creating," he stated in the same mechanical tone.

  "Why should I believe you?" Exercising her journalist's scepticism, she quickly calmed down.

  "I am the receptacle of secrets," he announced. "I understand all things: past, present and to come. Ask me a question. You’ll see that I can only speak the truth."

  Okay, she thought, I'll play the game. If I refuse, then nothing might happen. I need to see what this guy can do. "What was my mother's maiden name?" she asked. "The name sh
e had before she married my father."

  "She was called ..." He paused, she felt, for dramatic effect. "Jardinier."

  "Where was my father born?"

  "He was born,” he offered another dramatic pause, “in a place that does not exist."

  She crossed her arms and eyed him warily. "Why am I here now?"

  "You have been chosen for a special task. You must prepare."

  She was reminded of the character Polonius in Shakespeare's Hamlet–a pompous buffoon. But the image might be deliberate, one of many disguises the entity had chosen to project.

  "How should I prepare?" she challenged.

  "I will give you eyes to see the world as it really is. Do not trust the man you are with. He bears false witness."

  She was prevented from questioning him further as a glow, a bright aura, surrounded him. He began slowly to dissolve within the glow. The light brightened, then blazed. She stood up and took a step backwards, holding up her hands to protect her eyes.

  The light faded and disappeared. Ashtar had vanished.

  Shaken and confused, Jan gazed about. Mist started to envelop her as she stood in the silence. "Greg?" she called softly. "Are you here somewhere?"

  There was no response. The silence seemed to deepen.

  Unseen by Jan, Ashtar watched from a ruined building. As he did, he morphed into his Owlman form.

  A sudden burst of red-and-blue light revolved at the edge of the quarry, then spiralled upwards at tremendous speed, and disappeared.

  Jan stared after it in wonder.

  As she set off back towards the car, she realised that the old familiar world had returned. Traffic could be heard on the moorland road and the setting moon appeared low on the horizon. The few stars she could see were fading fast and wind was shaking bushes and blowing hair across her eyes.

  She started the BMW and noted that the clock showed 7.30 a.m. She’d been away several hours, but it seemed that no more than a couple of hours had passed.