by Wood, Rick
He felt powerful. Furious, but powerful.
As he climbed to his feet, the pain in his eye and his gut faded. The kid he detested continued to torment Eddie’s.
“Et succendam vos in inferno,” Eddie growled.
Jenny stood back in horror. What did he just say?
What does that mean? I don’t even know what that means… Eddie mused.
But he didn’t care. He wasn’t in charge, his anger was.
And it felt good.
“What’s the matter bitch boy, you coming back for more?”
Eddie’s eyes narrowed, his stare intensifying. Thunder grew within him. All he focussed on was this prick; this horrible, disgusting child he hated with all his might.
He was shaking uncontrollably, practically in a seizure.
“What’s the matter, you –”
Billy halted mid-sentence.
Billy wretched.
Billy gagged.
With a jolt of Billy’s body, his mouth opened and a sea of vomit came strewing out, lumps of blood and undigested fat soaring out of his mouth.
The crowd around him jumped back and dispersed in shock. They didn’t want to be anywhere near this.
Then Jenny saw something. And, being honest, Jenny was never entirely sure whether she had seen it. She couldn’t swear either way.
Just before Billy fell over, before he capsized flat out onto his face – she saw him lift inches of the ground. Only momentarily, for less than a second, before he was brought sailing back to earth by his face, his nose slamming into the cement with an audible crack that reverberated around the playground.
Dinner ladies were by Billy’s side in an instant.
Eddie’s anger left him. He had no idea what had happened, what he had just done.
“Eddie?” Jenny prompted him, her hand on his shoulder.
“Get me to the bathroom,” he coughed, his pain abruptly returning. He wanted to be as far away as possible from the commotion occurring the other side of the playground.
Billy never picked on Eddie again. In fact, he went out of his way to avoid crossing paths with him.
And as Jenny stood beside Eddie, watching him clean himself up, washing pieces of stone out of his face, she couldn’t help but stare. She had no idea how he had done what he had done. Or if he had actually done what Jenny thought she saw.
She just stared at her best friend. Stared with absent knowledge.
She never asked, never wanting to know the answer.
In time, the memory simply faded like Eddie’s black eye.
2
6 December 2001
One year eleven months after the millennium
Jason Aslan’s head pounded against the floor and his body fell limp.
Kelly – an innocent young woman, now possessed with the devil’s hatred – looked down at his decapitated body with a satisfied grin.
On the other side of Jason’s body, Eddie King was poised, mid-exorcism. Behind him, his mentor and friend, Derek, was frozen, as though unable to believe what he had witnessed.
Jason didn’t know what happened next in the room.
He couldn’t; he was dead.
He had no idea what reaction anybody had, how his wife was told, how his granddaughters reacted. Yes, if he passed on to heaven where he belonged, he would have found out. Should it have been his choice, he could have watched over them for all eternity.
But this wasn’t an ordinary death. This wasn’t just any murder. He didn’t die because it was his time.
This murder was committed by Satan. The devil. Lucifer himself.
Unbeknownst to witnesses in the room; Eddie, Derek, and Kelly (even though she was absently trapped inside her body, secluded in a vacant space somewhere inside her own mind), he had been killed by this ruler of hell for a reason.
He was part of the plan. Part of the plan for the devil to lead his heir to his right-hand side, as the next in line as the ruler of hell.
Eddie faced the devil only days later. He had crossed over to hell to save Derek’s soul, and he had retrieved it.
Eddie had won. Eddie had beaten the ruler of hell on the enemy’s turf.
Eddie believed, as had anyone who knew of these events, that when he had avoided the devil taking Derek’s soul, the fight was over. That the victory happened because the devil had lost. Eddie had succeeded somehow. Triumphant in his fight.
But could he really be so cocky as to believe he had beaten the devil? And in hell, where the devil ruled, nonetheless?
Little did Eddie know, this was also part of the plan. Part of the scheme the devil had concocted. Part of the twisted ruse.
The devil found it funny that Eddie would have the audacity to think he had won a battle against him. No one would ever win anything against him. He wasn’t what caused nightmares – he was nightmares. He was what people had feared for thousands of years, and if it was part of his plan, it would be as good as fate.
Jason didn’t know this. But he would.
“Wh – where am I?” Jason stuttered, opening his eyes to pitch-black, no sound around him. The faint odour of burning wafted past him and he could taste smoke.
The room he had died in was gone. Now he was somewhere else.
“Jason Aslan!” boomed a voice made up of many low pitches, ringing down his spine.
“Where am I?”
“It matters not where you are,” smiled the voice. “You are nowhere, and everywhere. But seeing as your feeble human mind has to make sense of everything – I call this the purgatory.”
“Purgatory…?” Jason echoed. He wiped his face, checked his arms, felt his legs. He was all there. Except, he wasn’t. He could feel skin and bone with his hands, but not in his body. He was light, like air; weightless, painless. He did not breathe, but he felt breath. His heart did not beat, yet he could touch his chest with his hand and grip it firmly in his palm.
“Relax. You will have plenty of time to make sense of where you are. You will be here for a very long time.”
“What? Why?” Jason was sure he could think of more pertinent questions, but the terrifying confusion of his mind couldn’t make sense of anything past the alarm of being stuck in this complete darkness indefinitely.
“I have a task for you, Jason Aslan. You complete it, you will have your very own place in hell.”
“In hell? I’m a good person!”
“A good person? Someone who has devoted their life to debunking those who attempt to oppose the devil? My child, you have done my work for me!”
Jason placed his hands on the ground, feeling a solid surface. He crawled forward, expecting to bump into something, for the path to end somewhere, but all he found was more darkness.
“I will use you as my eyes and ears. My representative. To communicate with my son and heir.”
“I…” Jason was speechless. He understood nothing. It made no sense to him whatsoever.
“But until then, you will wait here. Until I call you.”
“Where is here? What am I to do while I wait?”
But there was no answer. The presence he had felt had faded, and all that he felt was solace.
His mind turned to flashes of memory.
The exorcism.
That girl.
His neck. Snapping.
She… she chopped my head off. I’m – I’m dead…
As this dawned on him, he considered with frightening uncertainty what this meant. This was his consequence, his ‘after’ – his never-ending.
This was where he had been sent after a lifetime of denying the possibility. He would feel foolish, if he could feel such things in the hazy state of mind in which he resided.
“Is anyone there?”
He fell silent, listening for a response. Eventually, he would get used to the echoing silence.
3
27 April 1994
Five years, seven months before the millennium
Derek’s trip down the coast of South Africa to Umtata had bee
n unbearable. He was sweltering in the intense heat. The air was humid, and his clothes were wet with sweat. He couldn’t stand it. He despised heat. People always complained about how cold his house was, but he liked it.
Despite the heat, Derek could feel an optimism within the air. The country was in high spirits, and rightly so. It was the morning of the election, and they were on the cusp of their first black president. Some man he had heard of who had been freed from an unfair, long-term stint in jail, by the name of Nelson Mandela. He knew little about the country, but there was a feeling in the air that change was on the horizon. A feeling of optimism that better times were to come.
All Derek could feel was a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had been requested specifically for this exorcism by a man he had never heard of, who was sure that, despite his amateurish, sparse credentials, he had what it took. So much so, this man was willing to risk his wife’s future on it.
Derek couldn’t figure out who was the bigger fool – him for making this journey, or this man who had paid for the journey.
Derek felt perturbed, and rightly so, considering there was nothing visible in the distance but hills and green. The bus driver had halted his rickety old vehicle on the side of a dusty road and grunted at Derek. Now, trudging across one of said fields, he felt foolish that a slight feeling of intimidation toward this bus driver had meant he had been coerced onto a gravel road and left to watch as the bus sped away.
All he could see were fields either side of the gravel road he had been travelling down for miles. Taking his scrunched map out of his bag, he checked the location.
Mbolompo, Umtata.
He was there.
But where was there, exactly?
“Derek?” came the voice of a young boy with a thick South African accent. Derek spun around and laid his eyes upon a dangerously thin black child, who couldn’t have been more than eleven years old.
“Yes?” Derek responded, rather timidly.
“This way,” the boy demanded, and turned on his heel, not glancing back to see if Derek was keeping up. Derek sighed, thought what the hell? and shuffled along behind him.
Within minutes, the boy had led him to a large field, home of a community of around twenty wooden huts. They were like a cross between a hut and a caravan, bunched up together in a close group of no particular shape. The roofs were pointed into a circle, the structures inches from each other, with a fence surrounding the gathering of small, but homely, buildings.
The boy knocked on the door of one of these homes and a man walked out, with a smile spread across his face. This man looked like the happiest man Derek had ever seen. He had his arms spread wide, grinning at Derek, adorned in multi-coloured robes. Derek almost looked behind himself, he felt so unassured about why this man’s overly happy greeting would be aimed at him.
“You must be Derek,” the man practically sang, happily rejoicing at his new friend’s presence. “It is lovely to meet you.”
Derek fumbled his hand forward for a hand shake – but, before he knew it, he was being embraced in a large hug.
“I take it you met my son.” The man gestured toward the boy who had hastily brought Derek here.
“I did, yes. Are you Bandile Thato?”
“I am.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mr Thato. Although to be honest, I’m not entirely sure why I am here.”
“Come, let’s have a drink. All will be explained.”
*
Derek lifted a plastic cup of what might have been beer, if the colour wasn’t that of muddied water. Either way, it was delicious, and he thoroughly enjoyed it.
“What is this?” he enquired.
“Umqombothi,” Bandile replied, smiling across the table at his most welcome guest.
“It’s delicious. How is it made?”
“It is a beer, made from corn.” He spoke with cheerful South African accent. “It is made by our women, for our men. I am most glad you enjoy it.”
Derek slurped it once more, then placed the cup on the table, lifting his gaze to Bandile.
“I don’t imagine you brought me here to taste your beer, Bandile,” Derek prompted.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Can I ask, how did you hear about me? I’m not a recognized exorcist, I’m barely an amateur. I have attended only a handful… I just wonder how my name travelled across the world.”
“I know your name because I must know your name.”
“I – I don’t understand.”
“Your name came to me. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
Derek’s head filled with confusion. He felt like Bandile had explained it clearly, yet not at all.
“My name came to you?”
“I can tell you many things, Derek,” Bandile smiled, looking out the window at the sun setting on the horizon. “I can tell you that Nelson Mandela will win this presidency and he will begin his first term on 10th May this year.”
“You can’t possibly know that –”
“I can tell you that seven will die and fifty-two will be injured on 26th January, 1995, in India,” he continued, not responding to Derek’s scepticism. “I can tell you that, in 1999, three people will die in London in April. I could even tell you that in 2002, you will be instrumental in playing a part in the biggest threat known to man. You want to know how I know this?”
“Yes,” Derek replied, leaning forward, intensely curious. “I do.”
“Well, I cannot tell. Because I do not know. Same as I do not know why we are here. I do not know why you are the one who must save my wife. I do not know why you will manage – I. Just. Know.”
Derek leant back, his head full of questions he found tough to verbalise.
“Does this come to you in visions? In dreams?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it just comes to me in numbers. Sometimes it’s in the corner of my eye, or in the corner of my mind. That is how I know you will be the one to rid the demon from my wife’s body.”
“Because… you saw it?”
Bandile gently nodded. His smile had fallen, his demeanour had slipped; like he was revealing the true burden that weighed upon his shoulders.
“I have written all I know down in a book of prophecies. I have only made three of these books. I do not wish to keep any of them.”
“Why not?”
“It is not a blessing to know when people will die. It is a burden that I cannot do anything about. I must record it, I must let people know somehow. And, same as I know the sun will rise tomorrow, I know it is you who needs this book. It is you who needs to know what is in it. And I will give it to you, in return for you freeing my wife.”
Derek couldn’t believe it; this man knew more about him than he did. He had no idea about his future, where it was going, what he even wanted to do… Yet this man was telling him he had written it all down in this book?
“Why? Why do I need this book, Bandile?”
Bandile dropped his head and considered, taking a deep, long moment of contemplation, being careful before he placed his burden upon this young man’s shoulders.
“Because you will end up being instrumental in a war you don’t even know you’re fighting yet.”
4
15 July 2002
Two years seven months after the millennium
Kelly’s body lifted bolt upright. Her torso was rigid like a plank. Her forehead fiercely perspired.
As she willed her panting to subside, she squinted at the dark, taking in her surroundings.
She was in bed.
Eddie was asleep next to her.
The clock read 4.16 a.m.
There was nothing else there. They were alone. Completely, utterly alone.
She climbed out of bed, pulling her dressing gown over her arms. Trudging to the bathroom, she rubbed her eyes, trying to shake her mental fuzziness off. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she splashed hot water over her face.
She looked herself in the eyes. She w
as there. Just her, nothing else.
She was fine.
Why do I need to keep telling myself that?
She took in a deep breath of air and let her anxiety go as she breathed it out – just as Derek had advised her. It helped her. It calmed her breathing, stopped her sweating.
So she did it again. In, and out. In, and out.
“More dreams?”
She jumped and abruptly spun around. Eddie leant against the doorframe, his bare chest over his pyjama trousers, his eyebrows raised with an expectant look.
Kelly nodded, opening the cabinet beside the mirror and fumbling out medication. Eddie stepped forward and took it out of her hand – gently, with forceful softness.
“You know these don’t help,” he whispered in her ear, quietly affectionate.
“I know, they just help me sleep, and if I could just sleep…”
“It’s not the right way and you know it.”
He placed the pills back in the cabinet, turned her toward him and engulfed her in his arms. He held her tightly, pressing her face lightly against his chest, giving her his warmth, letting her know he was there.
“I’m just sick of seeing them… The glimpses… What I did…”
“You didn’t do it.”
“Not with my mind.” She looked up at him. “But with my hands…”
She had been free of possession, liberated from the ordeal, for over six months. She had remembered nothing in the weeks that followed. Nothing of what she had done whilst the devil had taken over her body.
That was, she hadn’t remembered anything until the past few days.
It was all coming back to her; in glimpses, at inopportune moments. In her sleep, in her daydreams, in the eyes of strangers.
This time, she had seen animals. A peaceful dream turned to unconscionable torment.
Cattle. Sheep. A dog. On a farm.
She had watched as her mind projected images of her hands dragging the entrails of a bull.
Then she saw herself fucking it.
