by Lee Isserow
“You haven't told me anything bloody 'well'. What the hell does any of this 'job' of yours have to do with me?”
“You've got the box, right?”
“Box? You mean the creepy old wine box?”
“Yeah. That's what I'm after.”
“Why?”
“Got a creature from another realm in it. Ugly bastard, believe the two of you have met―”
“The thing that. . . assaulted me?”
“Assaulted?”
“It. . . was in my dreams. . . inside my head. . . inside me. . .”
Rafe's wry tone dropped instantly. Ana could see his mood shifting, as the attempt to calm her vanished, revealing true horror.
“Inside you in a dream, or inside in real life?” he asked.
“Dream. . . I think.”
“Are you sure?”
“I said 'I think', I don't know anything!”
“If it was in a dream, you got nothing to worry about, it was just flexing its muscles, getting a taste for you.”
“And if it wasn't just in a dream?”
Rafe swallowed over a lump in his throat. He bit on his lip and tried to find the nicest way to phrase what he reckoned would happen. “You'll end up like your grandmother.”
“Dead?”
“Your skin torn open as the damn thing bursts out of your back, after having gestated in you for a day or so―”
The words sent a chill down Ana's spine. “How do you know she died like that?”
“What? It's what I do, I know things―”
“You were. . . there.” Her eyes were becoming glassy, anger boiling in her veins. She finally had someone she could blame for her grandmother's death.
“I think someone's jumping to conclusions.”
“You were there!” she shouted, swinging the walking stick at him. “And you didn't do a damn thing to help her!” Another swing, almost clipping his face.
“I can explain―” Rafe said, dodging another blow, backing away from her.
“Explain why you let an old woman die? Let a horrible. . . demon live inside her, crawl out of her. . .”
“Technically, it's not a demon. . .”
She lifted the stick over her shoulder and hurled it at him, turning on her heel and grabbing hold of the front door, bursting through it into a busy street somewhere in central London. She had no idea where she was, and was walking barefoot in her bed clothes―but she didn't give a damn.
Anything was better than being in the company of the pathetic excuse for a man who let her grandmother die.
Chapter 26
Growl and grumble
“Well, that didn't go as planned. . .” Rafe grumbled, staring at the door back out to London. He turned to the leathery walking stick that was hanging, horizontal in mid-air, frozen in flight after Ana attempted to throw it at him. “Don't look at me like that,” he said. “Go back to bed.”
The stick swung around in the air, and began nudging him in the back.
“What?”
It lifted its base up to point at the door.
“No. Going after her isn't going to bloody help. She thinks I'm responsible for her grandmother's death.”
The stick bobbed up and down, as if to shrug.
“I am not! It was an accident. . .”
Another shrug, followed by the stick pointing back to the door.
“No, Sticky! There are more important things to do. Girl's safer on the street than she is back at home. . . Plus, gives us a chance to finally get ahead of this damn thing.”
Rafe closed his front door, and turned to the door Ana had come through, stopping in front of it, all too aware he was being followed. Glancing over his shoulder, he glared at the walking stick that had been following him through the air.
“No. I told you, go back to bed!” he pointed at the umbrella stand and stamped his foot.
The stick flipped itself upside-down, as if to give him the finger, then whipped into the stand, running its rough texture against the rim, as if to growl and grumble at him in disapproval.
Rafe paid it no mind as he reached for the door knob. He had to keep focussed, eyes on the prize. There was a damn box he to turn into kindling. . .
Chapter 27
Step for step
After a little while getting her bearings, Ana had worked out that the door out of Rafe's house had taken her to an alley just off Oxford Street. She had no money, no shoes, and was starting to wonder if she had made a terrible mistake picking that door, rather than the one she had come through from her hallway.
It was too late now, too late to go back, too late to second guess herself. She turned down Tottenham Court Road, she knew the vague direction she had to walk, and hoped that as she got deeper into the north of London, more signs and landmarks would stand out to get her where she needed to go.
The streets were alive and full of people, which was a surprise. She could recall having traversed through central London at this time of night in the past, but was still amazed at how busy it was compared to her neighbourhood.
She crossed over Euston Road, following the signs to Camden, she tried to suppress a nagging feeling in her gut. As she passed an office building on her left, she glanced over to the tinted glass windows, catching her own reflection―and behind that, two men, their pace matching hers step for step. They were right on her tail. No way to tell how long they had been following her―or in fact if they were following her. For some reason, one she couldn't explain, there was a feeling brewing in the back of her mind, a certainty that they definitely were.
She hustled across the road, dodging oncoming traffic in both directions, and doubled back on herself, to see what they would do. Gruff mumbles carried on the wind as they discussed something, and in her periphery, she saw them dart across to follow her.
Ana's heart began pounding in her chest. This was terrifying―almost as much as the damn monster sitting on her chest.
She could hear their footsteps behind her, faster now, no longer mirroring her pace. They were coming for her, but she wasn't going to be some damn victim, not now, and not ever again.
The memories came to her of the self-defence class, what to do when accosted by multiple attackers. She slowed her pace, calmed her breathing, making it slow and deep. They were scuttling along the street, exhausting themselves just a little, but enough to maybe give her an advantage.
As their heavy stomps came right up behind her she stopped suddenly―elbows jutting back, hitting both of them in the gut. She threw her right fist into the left one's crotch, lifted her left arm up and threw the elbow into the back of his neck. Right leg up, heel straight into the back of both of his knees in turn, spinning on the ball of her left foot, her toes cracking as they met with the other man's throat.
“Bloody 'el!” one of them shouted. She couldn't tell which, but reckoned it was probably the one she hadn't kicked in the throat. “Only wanted to shake you down 'bout Clarke, no need to be like that!”
“Clarke?” she asked, throwing her foot into the speaking man's gut.
“Rafe Clarke,” he grunted, “Bloody thief. . .”
“I don't know what the hell you're talking about.” she spat.
“Y'came out his door. It don't open for no one he don't want it to. . .”
“Well it won't open for me then. . .” she said, turning and picking up pace. She wanted nothing more to do with Rafe Clarke, with men who hung outside his door, with the box―none of it. She just wanted to go home.
But not to her home. That didn't feel like home any more. Only one place did.
Chapter 28
Pang of guilt
Rafe tiptoed along the hallway towards the bedroom, all too aware that the damn thing might still be out and about. On top of being a semi-corporeal creature, the bastard was probably pissed that Rafe helped his victim get away.
He leafed through the bed clothes. Nothing there. Checked behind and under the bed, in the closet and drawers. No sign of it―not that he really expected
to find it hiding with her socks.
He crept down the stairs, ears pricked for any sounds that might indicate where it was. The house was deathly silent, no damn help at all.
At the bottom of the steps he paused, taking in the available doors. There were only two rooms, the third was the front door, and he didn't exactly expect the thing to be hanging around in the front garden. . .
First door led to a living room. Small-ish, made even smaller by the additional furniture filling it up. Rafe instantly recognised the couches from the grandmother's house, having seen them through the windows as he staked the place out. He tried to ignore the pang of guilt that came with the memory. No sign of the thing there, nor empty surfaces for the box to be sitting on, hiding invisibly in plain sight.
The living room had a small archway that led through to the dining room, a collapsible table to the side, chairs lined up against the wall, a sliding door leading out to the back yard―left slightly ajar.
He ran his hand over the top of the table, just to be sure it wasn't shrouded there, grabbing nothing but air.
Sliding the door open, he looked out to the back yard, shrouded in shadows. It had been there and he had been so close―damn thing had tried to force itself inside the poor girl.
Once again, he had got distracted, and let it slip through his grasp.
Chapter 29
The fear of God
The frantic knock put the fear of God into Dorothy Brooks. She wrapped a dressing gown around her as she shuffled down the stairs, checking the deadbolts and chain were steadfast.
“Who's there?” she asked, trying to stop the quiver in her voice that betrayed just how terrified she was.
“It's me!”
“Me?” She pulled the letterbox flap open and peeked out, Ana standing outside in the cold night. “Ana! Oh God! Why didn't you call!?” she shouted through the door, as she battled with each of the locks, tugging and twisting them open in turn.
As the door swung open, Ana draped her arms around her mother.
“Darling! You're freezing!”
“Sorry I'm here so late,” Ana said, grateful for her mother's embrace after such a screwed up day and night.
“You never have to worry, you're welcome any time, you know that.” The old woman's eyes darted down to her daughter's feet, covered in dirt and filth from her walk across the city. “Oh my! What happened to you?!”
“I was. . . stranded. . . But I'm fine, I'm here, and everything's fine.”
“You should have a shower,” her mother suggested. “Or a nice warm bath?”
There was something about her mother's kind suggestions that didn't feel right―the same sense she got when the men were following her through the street. Her eyes were glassy, lip trembling, she looked pale and fearful.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong!” her mother protested. “Nothing at all, I'm just worried. About you.”
“That's not it. . . What is it? Is it me? Is it too late? I can go. . .”
At that suggestion, the dam seemed to burst, tears streaking down the old woman's face, painting her cheeks with pale leylines that glistened under the light of the hall.
Ana took her mother into the living room and sat her down. “Do you want me to make you a peppermint tea?” she asked, pulling from her memory of her mother's favourite night time beverages. “Lemon and honey?”
“No dear. . . I don't need anything. Please, just sit down.”
“What is it?” Ana asked, taking a seat next to her mother.
“It's. . .” The older woman couldn't find the words.
“Whatever it is, it's going to be okay.” She found herself chuckling weakly. “I've had a hell of a crazy day, I can take whatever you've got to throw at me!”
Her mother's eyes shot up to meet her own, the tears seemed to cease instantly. “No,” she said. “I don't think you can.”
“Between granny's death, awful nightmares, delusions and a weird as hell man living in a house through a door that doesn't exist, I think I can deal!”
Silence punctuated the sentence, her mother's eyes warding her ramble to an end. There was something important she was trying to say.
“She wasn't. . . granny.”
“What do you mean, like, she was someone else? She was possessed?!”
“No, not possessed.” She took a deep breath. “She. . . wasn't your grandmother.”
“What are you saying?”
“She was. . . your mother.”
“That's not possible!”
“It is.”
“She was ninety!”
“She was older than that. . .”
“How old?”
“. . . closer to a hundred and thirty.”
“Nobody has lived to a hundred and thirty!”
“She had, her friends did, older than.”
“What are you talking about? She didn't have any friends! Other than Mister Bunkle, we were the only ones at the―”
“They couldn't make it. Sent their condolences.”
“Why didn't you tell me? Why are you telling me!?”
“You should have known.”
“After she died?”
“She didn't want you to know, said it would have been safer. . .”
“Safer! Bloody safer?!” Ana screamed, rising to her feet. “Do you have any idea what these last few days have been like? Any idea whatsoever? It's been utter hell!”
“I can imagine―”
“No, you can't.” Ana scoffed, she couldn't even bear to meet her mother's―her sister's―eyes. “Can't bloody trust anyone. . .” she grunted, stomping out of the room in her bare feet, slamming the front door as she stormed away from the damn house.
She didn't know where the hell to go now. One thing was for certain, she couldn't stay there, and never wanted to see that woman's face ever again.
Chapter 30
The kindness he had never been shown
Ana had walked for half an hour with no destination in mind once again, hoping that just moving would bring her peace and clarity, as it had done with her previous aimless walk earlier in the evening. As she progressed, it seemed that being barefoot and emotionally all over the place was not a good mix for finding tranquillity.
Waiting at a traffic light, with no traffic in either direction, she saw something familiar across the road. A door. Glossy black in a slick black frame. It could have just been a coincidence, how many black doors could there be in the world? And yet she felt absolutely certain that this door would take her to the one place―that she hated to admit―she needed to go.
Darting across the street, she ran for the door, fearful that it might vanish, as it did at the cemetery. Her fingers found the knob, feeling the bumps and curves carved into it, inscribed with some unintelligible ancient writing. She turned it, pushed the door, and found herself crossing back over into Rafe's living room. He turned, startled as she launched into a tirade.
“Why the hell are people and things trying to kill me?―Did you know my grandmother was less grand and just a mother?―Are you a thief? People tried to attack me, saying you were a bloody thief!―”
“What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? Where the hell else am I meant to go?”
“Don't you have family. . ?”
“Did you not hear the part about my grandmother being my mother?”
“Not clearly, no. What does that make your mother?”
“I don't bloody know! My sister―why does that matter?”
“Just trying to work out the family tree. . . So, how did you say you got here?”
“The bloody door!” she pointed to the empty wall behind her. “Where did it go?”
Rafe grunted, and started tracing his middle finger through the air.
“What are you doing?”
He pulled the finger in, extending his thumb and little finger, whipping the hand-telephone past his ear. “Tali, why do I have a guest?”
; “Who the hell are you talking to?”
“She needs your help. . .” Tali said, speaking as if in his periphery, a voice only he could hear.
“So you bring her here?”
“You let her walk through the streets alone!”
“Thought you didn't want to be involved. . . ”
“No, I said I'm not your bloody secretary. You can't leave a mundane woman out with a Dybbuk chasing her.”
“We don't know it's a Dybbuk. . .”
“What the hell is a Dybbuk?!” Ana asked.
“Any chance of a safe house I can borrow?”
“Your house is pretty safe. . .” Tali spat, hanging up instantly.
“Wait―”
“What was that?”
“Call.”
“That was no bloody call, you were talking to yourself like a mad man.”
“Not mad, just a man,” he said, with a sigh. This had been a very long day, and it didn't look like it was going to end any time soon. “Would you like some tea?” he asked. “I've got fresh mint. . .” Rafe glanced around, trying to remember where the mint was growing. “Somewhere around here. . .”
“Will you give me actual bloody answers?”
“Yeah, sure.” His eyes darted down to her dainty feet, thick with filth, toes sinking into the old rug at the centre of the room.
“What are you looking at? You're not a toe guy, are you. . .”
“No, I'm. . . thinking about the rug.”
“Sorry,” she said, sarcastically. “Am I scuffing up your nice old rug?” She ran her toes back and forth against it.
“It's not that. . . Uh. . . I'm not a toe guy, but my grandfather was, and he's woven into that rug. . .”
Ana wasn't sure if he was joking. Her eyes slowly dropped to the floor beneath her feet. The tassels of the rug were all pointed straight upward, erect, vibrating back and forth and she moved her feet across the surface. Her gaze shot back up to Rafe. “I can't tell if you're kidding. . .”
