The Edward King Series Books 1-3

by Wood, Rick

  She felt him inside her, moving back and forth. Her hips were pressed down as she rocked her backside, her clitoris pressed against his body, rubbing against his skin. She moaned unknowingly, reeling from the pleasure.

  She opened her eyes and looked back down at him. He met her gaze and smiled. He lifted his head back and groaned, moving himself further inside her every time her hips moved forward.

  She caught sight of the picture again. Why the hell was this picture distracting her so much? Was it because it was from a time so different to who she was now?

  Then, suddenly, she realised something she was yet to think of.

  Her scars.

  She had quite a few of them, up the inside of her thigh and across her back; she had been a prolific self-harmer, so much so she had to be restrained by doctors numerous times.

  Had Doug seen them?

  He must have.

  He had gone down on her numerous times and kissed her inner-thigh; there was no way he could not have seen them.

  And when he had sex with her from behind, her in ecstasy on all fours, had he been looking at them then? Thinking about them as he penetrated her? Wondering where they were from?

  Either he was ridiculously unobservant and hadn’t noticed, or he had noticed and had chosen to say nothing. What did that mean?

  Stop it! she told herself.

  He was looking up at her, with a pleasured face, but also a slight bit of worry, like he was noticing her distraction. Like he could tell her mind was elsewhere.

  She buried it all away in a box at the back of her mind and smiled down at him. She took his hands in hers and placed them upon her breasts. His grin grew as he grabbed them. She loved it when he grabbed her. It made her feel so… passionate. So intense, like he had to have her.

  It spurred her on.

  She forgot about everything.

  Focused on nothing but the fervent grasping of her skin in his hands, the feel of herself rubbing upon him, the deepness of him, it filled her to the top and she felt like she was about to burst.

  Her legs shook, her breathing quickened pace, her moaning grew more frequent. She could feel it. She was close.

  In the corner of her eye, she saw the photograph.

  Forget about the fucking photograph, she willed herself and continued, on the precipice of pleasure.

  That’s when, at the cusp of orgasm, in a final glance at the photograph, it changed.

  Her face was rotting. In the photograph, she could see her face peeling off, her skin turning dead, foam filling her mouth, blood dripping off her teeth…

  Her eyes moved.

  The eyes of her face in the photograph, she saw them move.

  They looked dead on hers, transfixed.

  She could feel Doug slow down beneath her.

  “Kelly!” the face screamed from the photograph.

  Kelly shrieked and threw herself onto the floor. Doug sat up and looked down at her, completely taken aback. Kelly didn’t even notice.

  She grabbed the photograph and threw it across the room. The frame cracked and the glass turned to pieces in a loud smash. She didn’t realise what she had done until she looked up, shaking in the corner of the room.

  Doug was stood, backing away from her, the duvet tucked around his waist. He looked terrified, his arm cautiously reaching out toward her, as if trying to assure a rabid animal that you meant it no harm.

  “Doug…” she whimpered. “Help me…” Tears were slashing down her cheeks. She was freezing. Her body was shaking out of horror and she needed Doug now more than ever.

  Without hesitation, Doug put some underwear on, no doubt feeling self-conscious about his nudity, and took the duvet to Kelly, wrapping it around her. He sat next to her, tightly tucking his arms around her and rocking her back and forth. He gently kissed her on the forehead.

  “It’s going to be okay…” he whispered.

  “Doug…” she sobbed. “Have you seen my scars? On my legs? My back?”

  Doug bowed his head and solemnly closed his eyes, then lifted his head back up and gazed at her.

  “Is that what this is about?”

  Kelly shook her head. She didn’t know what this was about. What was she supposed to say? She saw her face rot and shout her name in a bloody photograph? It was ridiculous, she knew it.

  “Can you get me my medication? It’s in my desk drawer.”

  Doug nodded slowly, as if he was just taking in that she had requested medication, something he clearly had no knowledge of. He took the packet out and glanced at the name of the drug, passing it on to Kelly.

  “Kelly?” he prompted, watching her pop the pills and swallow them down whole. “This medication is called chlorpromazine. That sounds pretty, I don’t know…”

  She handed him the packet back and he placed it back in her drawer. As he did, he sifted through some of the other medication.

  “Haloperidol, Loxapine… Kelly, my aunt had a breakdown and this is the kind of… this is antipsychotic medication.”

  She didn’t know what to say. He was staring at her probingly, his eyes demanding answers. She reluctantly stared back. Where did she even start? Did she want to even start? Was this something she wanted to tell him? Ever?

  “I… I had a breakdown.”

  “This looks like more than a breakdown, Kelly. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  He took her hand and slowly guided her back to the bed. He leant against the wall and put his arm around her, allowing her head to rest on his chest. She stared at a space on the floor below her and didn’t take her eyes off it once.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Doug told her. And she believed him. She truly believed he was not leaving and she felt secure in his arms. She had to tell him. She had to get it out in the open, otherwise he would think she didn’t trust him. And she knew he would need to know at some point. Though she hadn’t accepted it, she knew.

  She spilled everything. From the start, how it had begun, who was there, what she did.

  January 2000, it had started. Almost as soon as the new millennium had arrived, so did the voices. Telling her she was worthless. Telling her she was going to kill everyone. She remembered standing there as her family sang “Auld Lang Syne,” with their waving arms crossed as they faded out of her mind for the first time. She collapsed to the floor, knocking over the table holding the champagne and smashing the bottle everywhere.

  “Everyone you love. All of them. You are going to kill them.” It kept repeating it over and over. “You will kill them. Kill them. Kill them. Kill them.”

  She had clambered through the hallway. Her hands were bleeding from propping herself upon carpet covered in broken glass from the champagne bottle she had inadvertently shattered. She left smears of red on the doors and the walls as she used them to prop herself up. She ended up in the kitchen, her mother following her. The last thing she remembered from that night was vomiting. When she awoke the next day around mid-afternoon, her mother informed her that she had attacked her grandmother with a piece of broken glass.

  She had no knowledge of it whatsoever.

  February 2000. She stole a knife from the supermarket and used it to cut herself; to begin with, on her thighs, then on her lower back. She knew she was doing it. She stared down at the knife in her hands as she drew blood, but she felt nothing. Not physically or mentally. It was as if she wasn’t in control.

  Everywhere she went, she heard whispers, like people she couldn’t see were saying things in her ears. Like they followed her around everywhere, but she couldn’t see them. She’d been in a clothes store, buying a blouse, and they would tell her “You could kill that woman.” She’d stare at the lady asking her if she wanted the receipt and they’d tell her, “You could wrap that blouse around her neck and squeeze it until she suffocates.” Only she would hear it. No one else. And she would do everything she could to resist.

  March 2000. She woke up half way through the month in a trance. “Take the knife. Your mum is
asleep.” She dragged herself through the hallway. Next thing she knew her dad was restraining her against the wall and her mother was crying, clutching a wound upon her chest. She didn’t have time to apologise or check if her mother was all right, she didn’t even have a chance to say that she loved her; she was locked in the garage, unable to get out.

  That’s when they sectioned her.

  April 2000. It was humiliating. They would leave her in her room all day. It barely met the minimum standards of living. Everything was white; the walls, the bed sheets, the furniture. She was told on her induction that white means they can’t hide anything. Any blood or substance would show up. There were no secret corners in this facility.

  She couldn’t have many things because they were a danger to her. She had to be supervised when brushing her teeth, as they were scared she would use the toothbrush as a weapon. She wasn’t allowed mouthwash, as she could use it to poison herself.

  She was on great terms with one of the wardens, even played chess with him a few times. The warden would sneak her extra puddings in her disgusting tray of food he was forced to deliver. He would take her to the television room and supervise her after his shift had finished, just so she could have some time away from her room and avoid cabin fever.

  That stopped when she woke up one day on top of him. She was naked, with part of a tray that had somehow been carved into a razor held above her, the warden cowering beneath her. She had no idea when she had taken off her clothes, or even created such a weapon. But she was restrained to the bed for the rest of the night nonetheless.

  “They are trying to hurt you,” the voices would tell her. She would scream and lash out as much as she could, fighting against her restraints. Above her she would see a red cloud with the faces of people she loved.

  May 2000. She was denied visiting rights. Her parents could only communicate with her via phone. She was deemed as too much of a risk to be let out of solitary confinement.

  She felt like she should be in prison. She would have more freedom than being trapped in this place that made her stir crazy. The environment was conducive to her needs.

  June 2000. She figured out she needed to stop being honest. Stop telling her psychiatrist that she heard voices. She told her they were going away. She told her she was feeling better in herself. She told her she no longer felt a risk to herself or anyone else.

  July 2000. Somehow it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. The voices stopped. The attacks stopped. She was released from solitary confinement and her privileges were restored.

  August 2000. Her parents saw her for the first time. She cried in her mother’s arms. She apologized and apologized. She told her mother she loved her and would never want to hurt her. She didn’t know what happened, as she had blacked out, but she would never knowingly hurt her. Her mother cried also. Her dad remained strong. Their relationship began to repair.

  September 2000. No issues.

  October 2000. They decreased her medication.

  November 2000. They announced her released.

  Then December came and she returned home for Christmas.

  What she did not tell Doug, however, is what happened on her release. As she stood in the doorway, her parents signing the release forms, breathing in the outside air for the first time in ten months, it started again.

  The voice returned, but only for a moment. It said:

  “The greatest trick the devil ever played, was convincing the world that it did not exist.”

  It was a lot for Doug to take in, she knew. She didn’t know what kind of reaction she expected. She just expected one. But she got nothing. Doug sat in stone-cold silence, staring ahead of him. She watched him uncomfortably for as long as she could stand, until she had to break the silence.

  “Well? Please say something,/ Doug.”

  He nodded to himself, then turned and met her gaze.

  “It’s a lot to take in. I mean, it sounds like you’ve been through a lot.”

  “Does it freak you out?”

  “Well, yeah, a little bit. I’m not going to lie.”

  She closed her eyes and bowed her head, instantly regretting everything she had just revealed.

  “But hey,” he said, lifting her chin up so she looked at him. “All of this contributed to you being the woman you are today. And that is a woman I care about deeply. So it’s a lot to sink in, but…”

  He shrugged his shoulders and forced a smile at her. She knew this was the best she could get. She had just told him a lot and it must be a shock to the system.

  “Okay.” She smiled at him and they laid down together. He put his arm around her as she lay away from him and closed her eyes.

  They didn’t say another word for the rest of the night.

  11

  8 February 2000

  Thirty-nine days since millennium

  Eddie sat alone in the corner of a dimly lit pub, sipping on a pint of lager placed carefully upon a coaster in front of him. He had a bag of books and papers from the university propped up against the seat beside him. Glancing at the other customers in the pub, he withdrew the first book and placed it on the table. He had managed to seclude himself into a shadow and was pleased he was not attracting any attention.

  He opened Demonology: Tricks of the Demons and scanned the contents. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but he’d know when he found it. He knew not to let what demons say to him during an exorcism get to him, but he couldn’t help it. Too many times they had taunted him with words of encouragement for him to embrace a supposed evil side. Too many times they had said “It is you.” They had attempted to provoke him and he had wielded power over them so easily, far easier than Derek ever could, and he had grown to be one of the most powerful exorcists in the world in such a little amount of time.

  In the contents was a chapter entitled ‘Verbal Taunts.’ He picked out the page number and flicked the pages along until he found it.

  Demons are frequently known to be aware of history and personal information about those around them. They consistently use this against their victims. Many times, a dead relative, a distant partner, or even insecurities that had never even left your mind, can be picked up on and used against you.

  He knew this already. He wasn’t arguing with it; he’d learnt far more about Derek’s personal life from what demons had said than what Derek had said. It was just not what he was looking for.

  Sure, demons may have been saying this stuff to taunt him. Like Derek had said, maybe his powers could be used for good or bad, and they were simply trying to tempt him. It just didn’t feel right. It felt like something more.

  He withdrew the next book. The Satanic Bible. He had read passages from this before and it had not been what he expected. It hadn’t been all about praising the devil, but instead giving the opposing view to Christianity and backing it up with rationality.

  When a Satanist commits a wrong, he realizes that it is natural to make a mistake – and if he is truly sorry about what he had done, he will learn from it and take care not to do the same thing again. If he is not honestly sorry about what he has done, and knows he will do the same thing over and over, he has no business confessing and asking forgiveness in the first place.

  Eddie was taken aback as to how much this made sense to him. As opposed to the black-and-white views of the Bible, dictating what is wrong and what isn’t wrong, this simply explained realistic human emotions rationally and bluntly.

  He turned to another passage.

  Satanism has been frequently misinterpreted as ‘devil worship,’ when in fact it constitutes a clear rejection of all forms of worship as a desirable component of the personality.

  This made complete sense. Although he fought demons, and despite dwelling in hell for a limited period, he would still dispute the origin of the monsters he fights. He speaks prayers and tells demons to be cast out in God’s name, but he never applied the ethics and morals of any form of Christianity to his life, because he disagree
d with so many of them as a foundation for how you should live. He found that none of them left any room for varied perspectives that inevitably exist. Every event has multiple points of view, and only humans have invented the concept of deciding one of them is wrong and one of them is right.

  He slammed the book closed and swiped it away from him in an urgent motion as a swift realization dawned. What was he doing? Reading the Satanic Bible and agreeing with it? He had devoted his life to ridding the world of the demons that represented this book, now he was relating to it?

  He stood up. He wasn’t sure why, he just needed to be on his feet. He needed to go somewhere. Do something away from going around in circles with research. Circles that led him to sympathise with a representation of evil.

  Scooping all the books back into his bag, he downed the rest of his pint and threw the bag over his shoulder. Without making eye contact with anyone, he stormed out of the pub and to his car that was parked down the road.

  He dumped the bag in the boot and marched to the driver’s seat – then froze. In the distance, he could see a church. He was intrigued. How would a place of religion react to him?

  Would it accept him now as it always had?

  Locking the car door without taking his eyes off the religious building before him, he gormlessly trudged toward it, bumping into a few people on the way without even reacting.

  He stepped into the church and the light of the outside turned to the dark, dank shadows of the stone structure and grand stained-glass windows that surrounded him. It had that damp smell in the air that churches often had and he could feel the moisture against his face and in his nose.

  He walked forward and instantly felt a stabbing pain in his chest, a pain alike to indigestion or heartburn. He grabbed hold of his torso and pressed his hand against his chest.

  He took another step forward and a shot went through his stomach. A twisting, agonizing feeling went through him that he couldn’t explain.