by Robin Jarvis
“Here it is, my Lord,” Mr Hankinson whispered excitedly. “Just as you left it, all those years ago.”
He was holding up something like a shoebox. The cardboard was dented and speckled with age.
“My grandfather kept it safe for you, that night you disappeared,” he continued. “Then my father after him and then myself.”
The Ismus grinned. He removed the lid and pushed aside the mottled scrunches of newspaper within.
Shaun could not begin to imagine what it contained. His mind burned with the most horrible suspicions. What were these lunatics doing here? What did they want? What were they going to do with the children? It was then he realised the young woman was regarding him curiously. He saw the same repulsive yellowish stains around her mouth that still glistened down Joan’s chin.
“Do not resist,” Shiela told him. “This is a night of glory – a momentous hour is upon us. Pathways are to be unblocked. The way is to be cleared. A bridge will be built. You should marvel at your good fortune to witness such wonders… and you shall.”
She took her hand from the pocket of her denim jacket and held up a squashy, rank-smelling fruit.
“One soft bite and you will see,” she said. “Everything will be clear to you, as it was to me. The trumpets of Mooncaster will call and this grey dream will fade.”
She stretched out her hand towards him and putrid drips dribbled through her fingers.
“No, Labella,” the Ismus instructed, seeing the fear in Shaun’s face. “Not yet. Let Lawrence Nightingale remain afraid a while longer. It is useful.”
Helpless, Shaun could only watch as the Ismus lifted an object from the cardboard box. What was that – an old radio? How much crazier could this get?
The Ismus ran his hand over the smooth, brown, Bakelite surface. It did look like an art deco radio from the 1930s, with its large central dial, tuning knobs, brass grill and sleek, walnut-effect finish, but it was far more than that.
“A masterly work of genius, my Lord,” the solicitor declared admiringly. “An astounding invention.”
“It is merely another key, Jangler,” the Ismus told him, “albeit a rather more complex one, and we will need more of them – much larger versions.”
His fingers closed about one of the three tuning knobs and clicked it to the left.
“This is the fun part,” he uttered, breathless with expectation.
The Ismus turned the next knob, teasing it around delicately – like a safecracker at work.
Harvey Temple mumbled in his sleep again. The Ismus turned to him and carried the strange device over to the bed. A low hum began inside it. Harvey’s head twitched.
In the next bed, lying on his front, Jonathan Spencer coughed in his sleep. His forehead creased and he ground his teeth as his nightmares intensified.
Within the Bakelite device a small light bulb flickered on and the outer ring of the dial shone dimly. The hum buzzed a little louder.
The Ismus continued to adjust and tune. A fizzle of static issued from the brass grill of the speaker, followed by electronic whoops and squeals. Another child wept in his slumber.
“It’s charging up nicely,” the Ismus announced. “Let’s see what residue was left behind from that night, before I was interrupted – almost eighty years ago…”
To Shaun’s astonishment, music suddenly came drifting out of the strange device. It was an old, crackly song from the thirties, and the singer had a desolate, haunting voice.
“Close your eyes,” the disembodied crooner insisted. “Rest your head on my shoulder and sleep, close your eyes… and I will close mine.”
In this madness, the song sounded sinister and menacing.
“Close your eyes. Let’s pretend that we’re both counting sheep, close your eyes.”
Mr Hankinson laced his fingers across his chest and nodded to himself. “Ah,” he grunted, identifying the mournful singer, “…Al Bowlly.”
“No,” Janet Harding cried suddenly above the music. “The lights – a car – it’s coming this way – it’s not stopping!”
Shaun saw her dig her head deeper into her pillows. Pain and the terror of Friday night were flooding her mind.
“Too many people!” the girl continued. “I can’t get out of the way – it’s here – it’s here!”
Like a contagion, the nightmares spread throughout the ward and soon eleven children were trembling and crying in their sleep, as the saxophones and clarinets of the big band continued to fill the air.
“Music play, something dreamy for dancing…”
Peter Starkey yelled out and his body arched beneath the covers. Only Fiona Ellis remained still and silent.
The Ismus laughed quietly. The needle in the centre of the device’s dial began to quiver.
Shaun could not understand how the children were sleeping through this. The severity of the nightmares should have jolted them awake by now and the din they were making should have woken Fiona. Even as that thought entered his head, he saw the girl’s face contort and tears began to fall from her good eye. She too was suffering in her dreams. Shaun could not guess what grim memory fuelled hers.
Now the ward resounded with the wails and cries of every child. The Bakelite device whistled and squawked sharply, but still the old, melancholy music played. A cymbal crashed and the Ismus tapped his foot with amusement.
“Time to ramp it up a little,” he said, making a further adjustment. The electric squeals and warbles multiplied.
Then Shaun felt the skin on his arms tingle and gooseflesh pricked out across his body. He could feel the hairs rising on his scalp and saw the young woman’s shaggy hair lift from her shoulders. The scant white wisps that were combed over the solicitor’s shiny pate streamed upwards. A sheet of A4 paper started to flutter across the desk. Then a pen went skittering after it. Paperclips shot upwards. The computer monitor cracked and went dark.
At the end of the beds the patients’ charts began to swing and clatter against the metal frames. The lid on a plastic squash bottle popped off and the bright orange contents spurted out. A bag of saline jerked like a pendulum on its hook. Then the whole stand rose off the ground. A morphine pump juddered and rocked backwards.
Shaun’s eyes grew wider and wider.
One by one the foil balloons swelled and burst. Get-well cards flew up and flattened against the wall like pinned butterflies. The pale turquoise curtains that separated each bed started to flap and their rings rang on the rails as they billowed towards the ceiling. And then the bed covers lifted, floating up like rafts of thistledown.
Just like the balloons, the saline bags puffed up. In rapid succession they exploded.
Another cymbal crashed. The trumpets blasted and the trombones thundered.
Still asleep, Janet Harding screamed.
The device in the Ismus’s hands squawked in answer and its needle whirred around the dial.
The children’s limbs lifted into the air and the legs of each bed left the floor.
Peter Starkey was screaming now. Then Jonathan Spencer joined him. The Ismus danced down the ward and soon every child was shrieking.
Shaun saw Fiona Ellis levitate off the mattress. The girl drifted higher and higher until the invisible force suddenly threw her against the wall and pinned her there, upside-down.
Thomas Goulden flew up next. The drip feed pulled from his arm and he was sent spinning into a mural of Dumbo and Shrek. His bedside table came sliding up next to him. The water jug spilled its contents over his face. But still he remained locked in that nightmare sleep.
Leaning against the desk, Sister Olivant watched in quiet admiration. How light and giddy she felt now that she knew this world was not the true one.
Comics and magazines thrashed their pages as they swept by. Battering against the ceiling, they formed a noisy, twisting whirlpool of glossy paper. Then the remaining ten children were plucked from their beds. Harvey Temple was snatched up, legs first, and his plaster casts smashed heavily against the w
all when he was hurled against it.
The Ismus revelled in the horror and despair of the sleeping youngsters. He spun about, delighted, then stared down at the dial on the Bakelite device. The needle had progressed all the way around. It was time. The electronic bedlam that crackled from the grill had drowned out the music. It was almost deafening and the pitch was rising all the time. It quickly became unbearable. Shaun clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as the noise cut right through him. Mr Hankinson covered his ears and Labella did the same. Joan shuddered and winced and even the black-faced bodyguards were trembling. The noise seemed to drill through their heads until, finally, it soared so high they couldn’t hear it any more. There was only the music again and the shrieks of the children.
The Ismus tweaked the tuning. The music stopped at once and a new sound replaced it. Shaun’s heart thumped violently. He heard a bestial roar. But it was unlike anything he had ever heard in his life. It was an unearthly, ravening bellow – a noise consumed with terrifying rage.
“Listen,” the Ismus declared, stroking the grill fondly. “Mauger is impatient to cross over.”
Striding to the centre of the ward, he placed the device on the floor and clicked the third tuning knob. Then he stepped away smartly.
The device began to shake. Suddenly a freak wind came howling from the speaker grill. It punched into the ceiling and the magazines that surged and swirled there were instantly torn to shreds.
The Ismus opened his arms in welcome and laughed his loudest.
Then the gale fell upon the ward. It went racing over the empty beds, tearing through the floating sheets, ripping chunks out of the foam pillows. And then…
Shaun’s mind recoiled with terror.
The unseen power had rushed at one of the bed curtains. For the briefest moment the turquoise fabric moulded around its monstrous shape. It was large as a bull, with an enormous head supporting two curling horns. A deep, rib-rattling roar bawled from the awful face that the curtain revealed.
Whether the glimpse of that dreadful thing had so shocked the bodyguards that they loosened their grip, or whether his own intense fear had pumped new strength around his body, Shaun did not know, but a desperate kick and a smash of elbow in a soot-covered face and he was free.
There was nothing he could do to save the children here. They were stuck around the walls, writhing like human fridge magnets. He had to raise the alarm and get help. He seized the broken monitor from the desk, leaped forward and flung it at the Bakelite device on the floor.
There was a flash and both of them smashed and splintered. A cloud of yellow, sulphurous smoke belched out. Then all was chaos. The force keeping children, beds, drips, morphine pumps, ripped magazines, chairs and cabinets up in the air was gone. Everything came crashing down. Shaun glanced around him in despair. It was like the aftermath of a terrorist attack. What else could he do but run? Shouting for help, he charged to the security door, slapped his hand against the release button and pelted down the corridor.
The black-faced bodyguards leaped after him.
“Wait!” the Ismus commanded them. “Don’t rob Mauger of his sport.”
Another ghastly roar shook the ward. A large, harrowing shape jumped through the yellow smoke and the two bodyguards were thrown off their feet as the thing that had crossed over barged past.
Surrounded by the wreck of the Paediatric Unit, as glossy confetti fluttered down around him, the Ismus called out, “Hunt him down! Bring him back to me.”
Mauger’s hideous bellow went echoing down the corridor.
“When he does,” the Ismus said, turning to the Lady Labella, “feed him the minchet fruit.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Shiela answered, holding it up and licking the river of putrid juice that ran down her wrist.
And then there was silence, broken only by the agonised weeping and whimpers of the young patients, strewn carelessly about the floor. They were still trapped inside their nightmares.
“What a nasty mess!” Sister Olivant exclaimed with a chuckle as she gazed about the devastated ward. Beds were upturned, curtains yanked from their rails, machines bleeped erratically and red lights were flashing. A mingling flood of squash and saline was spreading across the floor.
“I’m confident you can cope,” the Ismus told her. “And the busier you are here, the richer your time in Mooncaster will be.”
The night sister nodded eagerly. “And when they ask what happened?” she asked.
“Tell them the male nurse flipped and went berserk,” he suggested. “There was nothing you could do to stop him. He won’t dispute it.”
“Naughty, sexy Shauny,” she giggled. “It’ll serve him right for being so coy with me.”
Shaun Preston ran for his life and, for all he knew, his soul. Around the corner was the door to Maternity. He’d call Security from there. Flinging himself against the locked door, he pounded his fists upon it, demanding to be let in.
“Come on! Come on!” he bawled. “Open up!”
There was no answering buzz from the lock. No curious face appeared behind the glass panel to see who was hammering on it at that time of night. Shaun pressed against the glass and saw that the nurse’s station was empty. He couldn’t see the nurse on duty. The ward stretched off to the right, out of his vision. She must be at the far end. He yelled even louder and began kicking the door.
An exhausted new mother sat up in the nearest bed and stared over at him, confused at first then angry.
“You’ll wake the babies!” she mouthed.
Right on cue, one of the infants started to cry. “Let me in!” Shaun demanded.
The woman gestured down the ward, waving the night sister over frantically. Shaun saw her lips form the word “nutcase”.
“Hurry up! Hurry up!” he yelled.
He heard footsteps running closer. The night sister rushed into view, her face startled and questioning.
“Open the door!” Shaun shouted. “Hurry!”
The sister did not hesitate. She ran towards him and pressed the entry button. Shaun wrenched the door open. Then he froze.
Mauger’s roar came booming down the corridor. Shaun looked past the astonished night sister to where the mothers and their babies were now awake and either crying or looking anxious and frightened. If he ran in there, the invisible terror would smash its way in after him. He thought of the destruction in the Paediatric Ward and imagined the carnage that monster would wreak in Maternity.
For the second time that night, he heard the old Tom and Jerry gulping sound, only this time it was real. He knew what he had to do.
Shaking his head, he backed out of the doorway. “Don’t open this for anyone,” he told the sister before he slammed it shut between them. “Not for anyone.” Then he fled, further along the corridor. Behind him the terrible force came raging around the corner.
“This way – you ugly Mary!” he goaded. “Come get me!”
Mauger roared again. The noticeboard outside Maternity rattled on the wall. Notes and announcements went flying as the beast stampeded by.
Shaun ran to the lifts and thumped the call button.
“Dammit!”
Both lifts were down on the ground floor. There wasn’t time to wait. The air shook as Mauger rushed upon him. Shaun leaped away, ducked behind a vending machine, then kicked open the double doors of an empty, budget-closed ward.
It was dark in there. Mattresses were rolled up on skeletal bed frames. There was nowhere to hide and no other exit.
Shaun swore under his breath. He heard the vending machine buckle and smash outside as Mauger’s fury fell upon it. Packets of crisps, chocolate bars and cans of pop gushed over the floor.
The man ran to the far wall, hoping the darkness between two windows would conceal him long enough so he could dodge past and escape. The lifts would be here by now, if he could just reach them…
The double doors flew open. Shaun stared directly ahead and tried to silence his panting breaths.
> A solitary can of Tango came rolling into the deserted ward. It trundled under one of the beds and bumped gently against the metal leg. Shaun could feel the blood pulsing in his neck. In the doorway a crisp packet burst as a heavy, invisible foot stamped on it. Another popped and the disgorged contents crunched as the beast prowled forward, into the empty ward.
Even though Shaun could not see the monster’s eyes, he could feel them burning into him. It knew exactly where he was. It was a demon of the darkness. Night shadows were no hiding place.
A bed juddered as it lumbered past. Shaun’s terror grew.
No! his thoughts screamed. You won’t get me. You won’t!
There was a vicious snarl and, for an instant, the darkness shivered. A faint, horned outline appeared. It was even more horrific than Shaun had glimpsed through the curtain. This time he could see the huge fangs in the downturned mouth.
Any hope of escape vanished. He knew there was only one way out now. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he went for it.
“Dear God, save me!” he yelled aloud.
Mauger roared as it pounced. Shaun Preston darted sideways. He vaulted on to the windowsill and hurled himself against the glass. The windowpane splintered around him. He dived out into the night. Knives of glass lacerated his hands and face and sliced through his uniform. Howling, he flailed his limbs as he fell the three storeys. The shattered window sparkled around him all the way down.
The awful noise as he hit the ground, followed by Mauger’s bellow of frustration, was heard back in the Paediatric Unit.
The Ismus raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Put the fruit away,” he sighed to Shiela. “We won’t need it now. Shauny isn’t coming back.”
“Such a pity about your wonderful invention,” Mr Hankinson lamented, looking down at the fragments of the Bakelite device.
“As I said,” the Ismus told him, “we will need more. Now let’s bring Mauger to heel before the fuss kicks off.”
He ushered his followers from the wrecked ward and bestowed a final smile upon Sister Olivant.
