Heathen/Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

There were no shadows in which to hide.

  She eased the door open a fraction more and looked round at the staircase. It looked like bare mahogany. No carpet covered the highly polished wood. The walls were a dark colour completely devoid of decoration of any kind. Not one single painting hung either in the hallway or on the stairs.

  Donna eased the .357 from her shoulder holster and steadied it in her hands.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Julie wanted to know.

  ‘We’ve got to get across that hall,’ Donna told her. ‘If anyone comes out of any of those doors, I want to be ready.’

  She took a step out into the brightly lit hall.

  Her eyes darted back and forth over the three doors, then up the stairs. She inclined her head, a signal for Julie to follow her towards the stairs.

  Donna’s eyes never left the top of the flight as they climbed; Julie kept her attention riveted to the doors.

  They climbed slowly, step by step, their progress agonizingly slow. Donna was aware how hopelessly exposed they would be, should anyone either enter the hall or approach from the head of the stairs. She could see a large landing at the top with more rooms leading off it.

  A step creaked protestingly beneath Donna and she froze. The sound seemed to echo around the hall.

  She gripped the revolver tightly, looking quickly around her.

  ‘Come on,’ whispered Julie, her own heart beating faster. ‘Move it.’

  Donna remained motionless. After what seemed like an eternity, she began to climb once more.

  Julie followed gratefully.

  ‘Listen,’ said Donna.

  Julie heard nothing at first then ...

  Breathing.

  It sounded as if there was someone close to them, breathing. A low, almost inaudible but laboured breathing.

  ‘Where the hell is that coming from?’ Julie said frantically, trying to keep her voice low.

  Donna had no answer. All she could do was look around, trying to find the source of it.

  Was someone watching them?

  The breathing sounded close, as if someone were standing right next to them. Yet they were the only ones on the staircase.

  Donna felt cold fingers of fear plucking at the hairs on the back of her neck. She moved further up the stairs until she reached the landing.

  The breathing continued, a little more faint now, though. The two women looked round at the doors on the landing. They were all tightly closed. The breathing didn’t seem to be coming from any of them.

  It still seemed as if it was from an invisible source right beside them.

  Imagination?

  Julie looked back and forth anxiously. Their assailant could be behind any one of the doors. Just waiting.

  ‘Donna . . .’

  Her words trailed off as she heard a sound below.

  One of the doors leading into the hall had opened.

  The two women ducked down against the landing rail and watched as a smartly dressed man emerged from a room beyond the hall, his shoes beating out a tattoo on the polished floor. He vanished beneath them, then returned a moment later carrying a bottle of brandy. He disappeared back into the door through which he’d emerged.

  For what seemed like an eternity Donna and Julie crouched where they were, watching the closed door. Then Donna raised herself up slowly, moving to the head of the stairs.

  ‘Come on,’ she said quietly. ‘We’ll see where he’s gone.’

  They began to descend, Donna holding the pistol at the ready should the man or any like him appear again.

  As they reached the bottom of the stairs Donna heard the low breathing again. She tried to ignore it but she couldn’t. Her heart thumped hard in her chest as she looked around.

  ‘I can still hear it,’ Julie said, as if to affirm what her older sister already knew.

  Donna nodded slowly, and moved across the hall towards the door through which the smartly dressed man had disappeared only moments earlier.

  The chandeliers above them pinned them in bright light; Julie could see their reflections in the fine crystal.

  There was still no sound except for that infernal low breathing. The entire house seemed to be deserted, but after the appearance of the smartly dressed man, they knew that to be untrue. Could Julie be right? Could this be the wrong house? What if The Sons of Midnight didn’t frequent this building? What if they only gathered at certain times?

  What if?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Donna grabbed the door handle, swallowed hard and pushed.

  Eighty-Eight

  The corridor beyond the door was less than six feet wide and it stretched about twenty feet ahead of them. The walls on either side were bare. Unlike the hallway, it was lit only by two wall lights, one at either end of the corridor. The far end boasted another closed door. The man they’d seen must have come and gone via the door ahead. There was nowhere else for him to go.

  Donna wondered how big the place was. It didn’t seem this big from the outside.

  Where the hell was everybody?

  Apart from the smartly dressed man, they’d not seen nor heard a living soul.

  Heard nothing apart from that low breathing.

  Julie looked into the dark corridor with trepidation.

  How much longer was this going to go on? She feared that the end would be signalled by their deaths.

  Donna moved into the darkened corridor, stepping cautiously, as if she were walking on squeaking floorboards, not carpet-covered concrete.

  The wall lights didn’t seem to be powered by anything more substantial than forty-watt bulbs. The glow they cast was a sickly yellow light that barely illuminated the narrow walkway from one door to the other.

  The two women moved cautiously along, Donna keeping her eyes ahead, Julie occasionally glancing at the door behind.

  Donna put out one hand as if to steady herself against the wall.

  Something moved beneath her fingertips.

  ‘Jesus,’ she hissed, moving away from the wall and looking down.

  ‘What is it?’ Julie wanted to know, her eyes wide with fear.

  Donna didn’t answer. Instead she carefully replaced her hand on the wall where it had been seconds earlier.

  She felt it again. Once more the sensation caused her to pull her hand away, as if she’d received an electric shock.

  Was she going insane?

  She touched the wall again, but left her hand there until she was sure beyond any doubt.

  The stonework, the very plaster, was throbbing gently, as if the bricks and mortar contained some kind of pulse.

  Donna could see no movement but she could feel the slow, even thudding against her hand.

  Dashwood’s words came flooding back to her:

  Organic life can exist, can be made to exist, anywhere and within anything. Within the bricks and mortar of a house.’

  Donna raised the barrel of the .357. Using the blade foresight as a tool, she drew the sharp fin across the wall.

  ‘Oh God,’ whispered Julie.

  Blood oozed from the mark on the wall.

  It welled thickly in the narrow mark Donna had made, then dribbled down the paintwork.

  She repeated the action on the other wall.

  The same thing happened.

  She closed her eyes for long seconds, praying that when she opened them the blood would be gone.

  It wasn’t. The thick crimson fluid ran down the wall in rivulets.

  Donna swallowed hard and moved forward, towards the door at the end of the dimly lit corridor.

  One of the lights flickered.

  They froze momentarily as the bulbs went into a kind of stroboscopic dance before flaring full on for a few more seconds.

  Then they went out completely.

  The two women were plunged into total darkness.

  Julie backed up and touched the wall, feeling the pulse in it, scarcely able to stifle her scream of terror. She bit her fist to muffle the sound.<
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  Donna gripped the .357 tightly and moved towards the door at the far end of the corridor.

  ‘Let’s get out now,’ hissed Julie.

  Donna’s answer was to shoot out a hand and grab her sister by the arm, pulling her along with her.

  The end of the corridor couldn’t be more than about six or seven feet away, she reasoned.

  The lights stayed off. Darkness wrapped itself round them like an impenetrable shroud.

  They moved forward in the gloom, nearer and nearer to the door.

  The light at the far end of the corridor flickered briefly and Donna saw they were a couple of feet away.

  ‘Come on,’ she whispered, trying to reassure herself as well as Julie. Her own breathing was heavy now.

  She touched something cold and realized that it was the door handle. No light showed beneath. She could only guess at what lay beyond it. More darkness?

  The lights flickered again and went out. Flashed on.

  They enjoyed a few seconds of light, then blackness returned. But at the far end of the corridor there was illumination.

  The two women were relieved to see light, until they realized that the door through which they’d entered was slightly open.

  Had someone slipped into the corridor behind them while the lights were out?

  Donna pushed Julie aside and raised the pistol, sighting it at the far end.

  She could see nothing. No dark shape moving furtively in the shadows.

  Nothing.

  It appeared that they were alone in the corridor.

  She turned back to face the next door.

  Gripping the gun tightly, Donna took the handle and twisted it, pushing the door open. She stepped through.

  Eighty-Nine

  The flight of stone steps seemed to stretch away into the subterranean shadows. The bottom of the staircase was barely visible. Only the merest hint of sickly yellow light seeped upwards, barely penetrating the umbra.

  Donna moved cautiously down the first few steps, glancing back to make sure Julie was following. She was, her face pale and drawn, ghost-like in the darkness.

  She heard breathing, as she’d heard before.

  This time it seemed louder, more pronounced, as if some invisible phantom were treading the steps with her. Donna swallowed hard, gripped the .357 more tightly and continued to descend.

  The staircase was narrow. More than once she was forced to brush against the wall.

  She shuddered with revulsion as she felt the cold stone pulsing. Like a gigantic brick heart it pumped against her. Even beneath her feet she felt a rhythmic movement.

  She closed her eyes for a second, still not convinced it wasn’t her mind playing tricks.

  If only it had been.

  Behind her Julie was looking down at her feet, being careful not to slip on the narrow steps. She too felt the thudding. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the chill in the basement.

  They were halfway down the stairs now, within sight of the bottom. Donna saw that it was a hallway similar to the one upstairs. Instead of being lit by chandeliers, however, this one was illuminated by the dull glow of three candles. Halos of subdued light flared from the small flames that flickered and threatened to blow out.

  The breathing continued, but Donna was aware her own laboured exhalations were now adding to the sound that filled her ears.

  In the silent blackness it seemed deafening.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs. Julie looked round to check that no one had slipped through the door behind them, but it was so dark on the steps it was difficult to see anything at all. She stared at the sea of shadow, trying to spot any deviation in a wall of gloom, as if part of that false night might at any second detach itself.

  She saw nothing.

  Donna stood motionless, surveying the basement area.

  The two women stood in an area roughly twelve feet square. Behind them was the staircase. To the right and left were solid walls; straight ahead, they faced three doors. Beside each stood a candle, helping to light the underground chamber.

  Which door first?

  She listened, trying to hear over the insistent breathing.

  Christ, it was getting louder.

  If Dashwood had been right about inanimate objects being given life, then they must be at the very centre of the house. It was, she imagined, like walking around inside a huge chest cavity. The infernal pulsing continued, too. Donna thought she could see undulations in the very umbra itself.

  She felt perspiration on her palms, the metal and wood of the gun against her flesh. She shifted it to the other hand and wiped her palm on her jeans. She repeated the action with the other hand.

  Which door?

  She could hear no sound behind any of them. Could the basement also deserted, she wondered? But they had seen the smartly dressed man come down here. There was no other way out but through these three doors.

  But which one?

  She took a tentative step towards the one on the left, her eyes fixed on it.

  The flame of the candle closest wavered, as if disturbed by a breeze. For a second it sputtered but then it flared again. A plume of black smoke rose into the darkness and was absorbed by it.

  Donna took a step closer.

  Behind her Julie watched, then advanced cautiously, her eyes darting back and forth between the three doors.

  Donna was within two feet of the left-hand door.

  It was then that the middle door opened.

  Light and sound suddenly flooded into the darkened hallway. The figure silhouetted against the sudden explosion of brightness stood motionless, looking first at Julie, then at Donna.

  His surprise lasted only seconds.

  Peter Farrell reached for his gun.

  Ninety

  The movement was smooth and efficient.

  Donna raised the .357, steadied herself and fired off two rounds.

  The roar as the weapon spat out the high-calibre shells was intolerable in the confined space; both she and Julie were deafened by the thunderous retort. The muzzle-flashes seared white light onto their retinas and the stink of cordite filled the air.

  The impact lifted Farrell off his feet. The first bullet struck him in the chest, the second hit him just below the chin.

  He was slammed back against the wall, blood spouting from the wound in his throat. For long seconds he stood there, eyes gaping wide, his body twitching.

  Donna fired again.

  The third shot caught him in the face slightly to the left of his nose. The bullet drilled the eye socket empty, powered through the brain and exploded from the back of his skull, carrying a confetti of pulverized bone and sticky pinkish-red matter with it. Farrell pitched forward, what was left of his head smacking hard against the floor, blood pouring from the remnants of his blasted cranium.

  Donna stepped over the body and into the room from which he’d emerged, her ears still ringing.

  Julie followed, glancing down at the body as she passed.

  The room beyond was large and well lit, particularly the area in the centre. It was there that Donna saw a naked man scramble to his feet, a look of horror on his face as he saw the gun. The woman beneath him, also naked, rolled over and tried to get up but she slipped, screaming in terror.

  Donna saw perhaps a dozen men in the room, most dressed in suits. And instead of attacking her and Julie, they were fleeing.

  A door at the far end of the room seemed to be their only means of escape. They rushed at it en masse, struggling with each other in their haste to get out.

  Donna spun round, the gun levelled.

  Dashwood and Parsons stood immobile at the head of a long table.

  The Grimoire was on the table in front of them.

  There was another thunderous roar of gunfire. Donna hurled herself to the ground as the bullet sang past her, slicing empty air before blasting a hole in the wall.

  David Ryker got off two more rounds before Donna managed to return fire.


  The room was filled with the massive sounds, thundercracks of noise that threatened to burst the eardrums.

  The naked man ran towards Ryker.

  He shot him.

  Donna looked on in bewilderment as Ryker put two shots into the man’s chest. She saw him hurled backwards by the impact, one shell erupting from his back close to the right scapula. Gobbets of lung tissue sprayed across the room as he fell.

  The woman who had been with him went on screaming until Ryker shot her, too, one .45 slug in the head. It smashed in her temple as surely as if she’d been hit with a sledgehammer.

  Donna fired and hit Ryker in the shoulder. He dropped his gun and clapped a hand to the wound, feeling jagged bone against his fingertip as his index finger slipped inside the hole.

  ‘Get the book,’ Donna shouted to Julie, who sprinted across the rapidly emptying room.

  The other people who had been in the room had mostly scrambled through the door at the far end.

  Julie picked up a chair and hurled it at Dashwood, who raised his arms to shield himself, falling back.

  Parsons snatched at the Grimoire, catching Julie across the face with a swipe of his hand. She shouted in pain, feeling her bottom lip split under the impact.

  Parsons gripped the book in his gnarled hands.

  Donna stood up and fired at him.

  The shot caught him in the left arm, tearing through the bicep.

  Blood exploded from the wound, thick, dark blood that spattered the wall behind him.

  He dropped the book and Julie made a grab for it, knocking it away, sending it skidding across the floor.

  Parsons shouted something and leapt after it.

  Donna drew a bead on him and fired.

  The hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.

  She threw the .357 away, pulling at the other shoulder holster, freeing the Beretta.

  Parsons shouted in triumph as he reached the book but Donna swung the 92S into position and pumped the trigger.

  One, two, three times she fired.

  Parsons was hit in the chest and thigh. The third bullet missed and buried itself in the far wall.

  Four, five, six.

  The room had become like the inside of a cannon barrel, the noise incessant and deafening. Julie screamed but could not hear her own cry.