by Robin Jarvis
She broke off and gazed down the street. It was a quiet afternoon. Only a few cars were moving along the road. The school run was yet to start and the shops were having a sluggish day. Trudy rubbed her eyes again. An orange and cream camper van drove slowly by.
Paul leaned forward. “And did you?” he asked. “Did you have a seance?”
“We couldn’t get in. Reg tried the front door, but it wouldn’t budge. Geoff hands me the camera and tells me to film him going round the back to find another way in. So Reg, Keith and me are stood there, watching him stride manfully down the path at the side of the property. He disappears around the far corner and we wait, wait for him to find a way in and come open the front door from the inside. And then…”
“Then?”
Trudy’s eyes were watering. “There’s a scream,” she said softly. “We hear Geoff scream. But it doesn’t stop. It just goes on and on. He’s screaming and screaming and screaming. We run to find him and there he is, staggering down the path, screaming and stinking of damp and decay – as though he’s crawled out of a grave.”
“What happened?”
“We left that place as fast as we could, that’s what happened!”
“But what was it? What frightened him?”
Trudy blinked and shook her head. “We don’t know,” she answered. “Geoff hasn’t stopped screaming long enough to tell anyone. It’s been almost six months now. We took him to hospital straight away and they sectioned him. Whatever he saw in that house broke his mind. He’s been in a secure ward ever since. The doctors don’t understand it and can’t help him. All they can do is keep him sedated and feed him through tubes. But, even if he recovered, he’d never be able to speak again. His screaming shredded his vocal cords. So you see that’s why I don’t want to talk about Austerly Fellows. Whatever is in his filthy house did that to Geoff.”
“What did the police do?”
“I’m an estate agent!” she hissed, nodding at the office behind them. “We don’t break into houses. We didn’t tell them. Besides, what could I say? They wouldn’t believe me. But they might have made me go back there, and there’s no way I’d ever do that. That fire burned me and I learned the lesson.”
“So nobody went and found out? There wasn’t an investigation?”
“You can’t fight what’s in that place!” Trudy insisted. “Not with the law of the land. There are older, stronger laws than that. The boys in blue wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“You definitely believe there’s something evil in there then?”
“Oh, I know it – absolutely.”
Paul breathed a sigh of relief. At last here was someone he could talk to, someone who wouldn’t think he was being ridiculous.
“Did you know Austerly Fellows wrote a book?” he said solemnly. “A kids’ book?”
Trudy stared at him through the thick lenses of her spectacles. “He did what?”
“A kids’ book. Some strange guy was selling them down the boot fair last Sunday.”
“A kids’ book?” she uttered in disbelief. “That vile man, that satanist, wrote a kids’ book? I can’t…”
“It’s true! Loads at my school have been reading it and it’s done something to them, turned them weird or possessed them. It’s like – like it takes you over. The one I had tried to make me read it, but I wouldn’t. No word of a lie, it tried to make me read it. But I burned it instead and this… thing – it came flying out of the flames. It was a… a shape with horns. It flew up into the sky. I’m the only one who saw it and I can’t make anyone listen and more and more kids are being taken over. It’s getting worse and worse.”
The woman regarded him with a look of frozen horror on her face.
“You do believe me, don’t you?” Paul asked. “It’s true – every word.”
Trudy glanced anxiously left and right. “Yes,” she said.
Paul almost hugged her. “Thank you!” he cried gratefully. “Thank you so much!”
“I believe you,” she said again. “But I don’t know why you came here telling me this. There’s nothing I can do.”
“You can have a word with my mum and Martin!” the boy told her eagerly. “They’d have to listen then. We could go to the papers and get those books banned and destroyed before it’s too late.”
The woman backed away from him as if he was a ticking bomb.
“No,” she uttered, in a panicky voice. “Go away! You’ve had more than five minutes. Now go away, little boy. I don’t want to get involved. I’ve been burned, didn’t you hear? I’m not going to get mixed up with that again.”
“But—”
“Go away!”
“You must help me!”
“And end up in the room next to Geoff, screaming my head off with a tube up my nose, my arms and feet strapped to the bed? Not on your life.”
“Please! I can’t do anything on my own!”
“You want my help? Not a hope in hell, kid. I won’t do anything and never want to see you again. But I will say this – forget what you know, stop asking questions and you might, just might, get away without getting burned yourself. Austerly Fellows didn’t die. Somehow he’s still in that house. The place is full of him so don’t hack him off! Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself. Don’t let him become aware of you. You don’t want that monster to take an interest in you or your family. But most of all – and I’ve never been more serious in my life – do not drag me into it. We never had this conversation, do you hear?”
“But the books…?”
“Are none of my business,” Trudy said brusquely as she stepped back to the door. “If you don’t want to suffer, don’t make it any of yours either. You can’t fight against that and you’ll certainly never, ever win.”
She was breathing hard, the fear sapping her round face of colour. What could she say to get rid of him? Why hadn’t she deleted that stupid website?
“It’ll probably blow over anyway,” she said, suddenly trying to sound casual and unconcerned, but failing. “I’m sure it isn’t as serious as you make out.”
“It is! I’m begging you!”
Trudy shook her head. “Don’t come here again,” she told him. “Leave me alone!”
She couldn’t get away fast enough. She re-entered the office and almost ran to her desk. She turned to her computer screen and refused to look back at the window, where the boy was staring in at her, his forehead pressed against the glass.
After several minutes, Paul tore himself away. He was on his own again; one small lad against forces he couldn’t begin to imagine or comprehend.
Leaving the estate agent’s behind him, he dragged his feet past the shops, not caring where he was going. What could he do? Perhaps Trudy was right. But could he really sit back and let the rest of the school become zombies to that old book? How could that be safer? The evil influence would spread out from there. No one would escape it. He thought about that old house and wondered just where it was and what awful horrors it might contain. What had really happened to Trudy’s friend Geoff? Paul had never seen an adult as coldly terrified in real life as Trudy had been when she was talking about that place.
Staring at the pavement, he was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the vehicle crawling along beside him, or hear the doors open and slam when it stopped. Only when he saw a pair of new, pointed, black velvet shoes on the ground in front did he look up and see the man standing before him.
“Well, if it isn’t the boy who wanted a magic book about wizards, and then burned it,” the Ismus greeted him with a contemptuous snarl.
Chapter 21
The golden bugles sounded clear and loud, the baying hounds tore through the village and the horses galloped after. The Royal Hunt had begun.
PAUL LET OUT a yell of surprise. He dodged around sharply to run away, but two men with blackened faces were directly behind him. One of them seized him roughly by the collar and spun him about.
“Almost a century ago,” the
Ismus began, “…so long ago now… there was a certain shouty little Austrian with a grandiose plan and a stupid moustache. He was a book burner too. But none of the works he burned were as important as the one you destroyed, boy.”
His ferret-like features were a grim mask of barely suppressed anger. He squinted at the lad in front of him.
“So much time and effort had been invested in that ridiculous, overblown scheme,” the gaunt man continued, stooping to speak close to the boy’s face – breathing a foul, dank reek at him. “I suppose you could say we were rivals for our Lord’s attention, back in those far-off days. And yet my much subtler, far more potent, plan was shelved in favour of his tiresomely loud campaign. What a disappointment both he, and it, proved to be for the Dawn Prince. I knew it would fail. Wars don’t work – you can’t conquer and subdue everyone by force – and where is the long-term fun in that anyway? The pen really is mightier and absolute control so much more satisfying.”
“You’re mental!” the boy shouted, looking around for help. A knot of fright and alarm was twisting in his stomach. To his dismay he saw he had wandered off the main road and they were in a small side street. There was no one else in sight. Paul struggled, but the black-faced man held him firm.
“Let me go! Who do you think you are?”
“You know who I am,” the Ismus chuckled. “You spent the whole of last night and today thinking about me. It’s really rather flattering.”
“You’re not him!” Paul shouted. “You’re not Austerly Fellows! You can’t be!”
“I am the Holy Enchanter,” the man told him, a crooked smile stealing over his face. “And people who play with matches must pay the inevitable penalty. You didn’t really think you could burn one of the sacred texts, one of my blessed works, without me being aware of it? The Dancing Jacks are my spores, boy. I put everything I learned, everything I was, into their creation. Nine years I laboured, and those nine years were the culmination of a lifetime’s study of the teachings and truths of many ancient faiths, from fallen and forgotten empires. Each book is the kernel for a dormant seed and they are a part of me.”
Paul called out again and the Ismus laughed at him.
“No rescue, no salvation,” the man taunted. “You live in the wrong times for that. There are no champions left. This modern world has degraded into such wonderful compost. It has become so delightfully low, so ripe and ready to accept anything without question. Awash with cardboard heroes; empty, acquisitive approval-seekers with perfect teeth and Italian suits. There is no substance, no value, just labels. Acclaim and prestige are showered, so liberally, over the undeserving – for so little – whilst anything of true merit and worth is jeered at and derided. What fertile loam for my Dancing Jacks to root in and flourish.”
He paused and watched the fear on the boy’s face. “Let me tell you what is going to happen,” he continued. “Firstly, we’re going to go for a little drive. Then, when you’re sitting comfortably, I’ll read to you. Won’t that be nice? Three chapters should do it. And, just to make certain you’re fully… captivated, you will taste the minchet. You’ll love that, boy – I promise.”
“You’re crazy – the lot of you!” Paul shouted.
The Ismus grinned at him and tapped a forefinger on the boy’s temple. “You don’t know the meaning of the word,” he chuckled. “I could rot your mind completely if I chose to. If you only knew how shifting is the sand upon which the citadel of your sanity is built.”
Paul thought of Trudy’s friend Geoff and he shook his head violently.
“This will be so much more amusing though,” the man told him. “You see, once you’re inside the Realm of the Dawn Prince, you won’t ever want to leave. This life here and now will be grey drudgery and every moment you spend away from the pages of Dancing Jacks will be a torment. Each sacred word will be like oxygen to you. Only there shall you find colour and flavour, so brilliant, so intense that everything else is stale and flat. But because you were so foolish as to consign your own book to the flames, you won’t be getting another. Oh, no, I’ll make certain you’ll be denied that. How will you cope without one? I have no idea, but it will be fascinating to find out.”
“You know what I think?” Paul interrupted defiantly.
“What, what do you think?”
“I think – I’m really glad I’m wearing Docs!”
With a defiant yell, he stamped on the Ismus’s foot with the heel of his Doc Martens. The Holy Enchanter roared with pain and the bodyguards sprang forward to attend him. Paul elbowed one of them in the ribs. Then he darted between them and ran, as fast as he could, back to the main road.
“Never mind me!” the Ismus bellowed at the men. “Get him – get him!”
Limping to the camper van, he sat on the sill and nursed his throbbing foot. He ground his teeth in anger and speckles of black mould bloomed across his face.
Paul pelted along Hamilton Road. He could hear the clomping boots of the two men chasing him, but he knew he was faster.
Not bad for someone who spends every spare minute on his computer! he thought to himself.
Shops and shoppers raced by. He swerved around shambling pensioners pushing their tartan bags on wheels and jumped over a startled dog tethered to a lamp post. Then, up ahead, he saw a sight that made him call out with joy. A police car was parked at the side of the road and a chubby policeman was giving a woman directions.
Paul punched the air and slowed down. He glanced behind. The black-faced bodyguards were still chasing, but he reckoned that by the time they caught up, he would have had the chance to tell the policeman everything. He wouldn’t mention the book, or Austerly Fellows, just that they had tried to drag him into a van. That would be enough to detain them and get the law on to that crazy Ismus character. It couldn’t have worked out better.
Holding his sides, because he felt a stitch coming on, he came jogging up behind the policeman.
“…and then take a right into Cobbold Road and you can’t miss it, Madam,” the uniformed man was saying.
“Thank you, officer,” she answered gratefully.
The policeman held up a hand as she set off. “Blessed be,” he said.
At the sound of those two words, Paul stood stock-still. The newfound hope and confidence were wrenched from under him. His face fell. The policeman turned around and looked at him with glassy eyes.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
Paul was too shocked and afraid to speak. He could see the red pattern of a playing card showing faintly through the white cotton of the officer’s shirt pocket. He shook his head and took a step back.
The officer stared at him questioningly. Then he lifted his gaze and looked along the street – at the two bodyguards running towards them.
Without needing to turn, Paul knew exactly what he was looking at and he saw a flicker of realisation cross the policeman’s face.
“You’d best come with me,” the officer began. “Don’t make a scene. Get in the car.”
He reached out to take hold of the boy’s shoulder, but Paul leaped off the kerb and ran across the road. A horn blared as a car screeched to a halt when he ran in front of it. The driver cursed at him, but the boy was already charging round a corner. The stitch in his side was agony, but Paul did not stop.
He had never been in any sort of trouble. His mother had taught him to respect the law. But now here he was, running from the police like a fugitive. The boy knew he had to get home. But he couldn’t risk being seen along any of the roads. He would have to run though gardens and round the backs of houses, jump over fences and hedges. And what then? There was no one he could trust. No one he could talk to. Would Martin or his mother believe any of this or would they think he was simply making up a ludicrous lie to make them forget the previous night’s ‘fireworks’? Paul was certain they would think the latter.
For almost an hour he dodged and hid, making a gradual, skulking progress through the town, towards their house. When any veh
icle came in sight, he vanished behind a wall or ducked around a shrub or postbox.
Once a police car drove by. Peering through the privet, he saw that it was not the same one as earlier. Two different officers were inside. Should he leap out and try to make them listen? Or were they a part of it as well? Paul shrank further back and kept silent.
It was dusk when he finally reached the street where he lived. He peered cautiously round the corner to check it out. Everything appeared normal enough. There was no sign of that Volkswagen – or any police cars. They couldn’t possibly know where he lived anyway, could they? But then how did that creepy, skinny man know he had burned the book? Remembering the fiery shape that had shot out of it, Paul wondered if each copy contained such a creature, somehow embedded in the pages – or woven into the words themselves.
Glad to be home, he hurried towards the house. Then he stumbled to a stop as the lean figure of the Ismus stepped out from behind their neighbour’s fence and blocked his way. Paul looked nervously around. The camper van was turning into the road.
“You try anything and I’ll yell my head off!” the boy warned. “You won’t get away with that here.”
The man laughed with scorn. “Oh, the terror and tyranny of Neighbourhood Watch,” he mocked.
“Just get away from me!”
“I have been thinking,” the Ismus said. “And I have had a revelation – an epiphany if you like. I have changed my mind about what to do with you. You see – I know what role has been assigned to you in my Lord’s Kingdom. As yet, it has not been taken up by any other and, although that does not matter, there can be only one prime example of each courtier, one true form to whom all other followers of the part must look. That is going to be you, boy. You have just proven yourself to be most… appropriate. When this petulance and stubbornness are over, and you have finally embraced the sacred work, come find me. Bring what you know you must as payment and perhaps a copy of Dancing Jacks will be yours after all.”
