The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

by David John Griffin

  ‘If so, you’ve got it all wrong,’ continued Stalk to the policeman. ‘They are nature magazines.’

  Before the constable could answer, all attention was drawn away from him towards Alastair, for he had a cigar hanging from his mouth; and the flare of a lit match had dispersed the gloom made by the overhanging branches of the trees.

  In a show of authority and importance, the constable puffed out his chest and commanded, ‘Move along there sonny, there’s nothing to watch.’

  Alastair chuckled knowingly and stood. He plodded across the snow to the policeman and stared unblinkingly, as an animal would, with his mouth in a twisted grin. With a glint in his eye he turned to Nuckle before speaking.

  ‘Body snatcher,’ he declaimed coarsely. Nuckle put a finger vertically over his lips and look alarmed. ‘Body snatcher,’ Alastair repeated. You are paying your price. So you would have taken my body and disposed of it on some rubbish heap? Isn’t that what you were going to do?’

  Nuckle shivered and the villagers began to talk in low whispers. This was not the Alastair that they knew.

  Stalk the butcher pushed his way through the group and confronted the boy. He had been standing at the back to complain to Reverend Musty of a possible misunderstanding and of the coldness of the weather and had not heard what had been said. A young boy had been holding up the proceedings of the arrest of Nuckle was all he knew and he was impatient to learn of the unlawful act which his shop neighbour might have committed. ‘Go home, Alastair. Clear off, you,’ he said curtly and Stalk turned to go, presuming that his remarks had the necessary effect.

  His coat sleeve was taken in a tight grip and he turned back and was surprised to find that the strong grasp belonged to the boy.

  ‘You always were a pompous ass, Brood,’ Alastair murmured in a low voice. ‘Fit only to weed lawns and water rose bushes. Even that not good enough.’

  Brood Stalk gasped in amazement as Alastair let go of his arm. ‘How did you know that? How did you know I was a gardener? What’s that miserable slob of a father of yours been saying? Now clear off before I box your ears, you.’

  Alastair ignored his threat and gave a wicked smile. ‘Poor Eleanor. Did you really think you would get anywhere with your pathetic smutty notes? And as for the rat poison,’ he chuckled, ‘well, of course I knew everything, after the arm-twisting. Remember? But you are going to pay, Brood, for wanting to murder me.’

  The butcher was filled with rage. ‘Stubb has gone too far this time. I’ll teach him a lesson that he won’t forget in a hurry.’ He strode across the snow towards Stutter Lane. ‘I’m going to pay, am I? I’ll make that idiot pay.’

  ‘Brood,’ Alastair called out, in a deeper voice than was usual.

  Upon hearing his name, the butcher stopped walking. Alastair ran towards him, taking out the pocket watch as he did so. The villagers ignored them both in preference to another interesting argument which had developed between Mr. Nuckle and the policeman.

  Brood Stalk kicked snow towards the advancing boy. ‘Buzz off,’ he yelled. Alastair reached him and gripping the end of the string, he raised his hand as high as it would go so that the opened timepiece could swing close to the butcher’s chill-whitened face. Alastair’s arm had numbed and he wondered why he felt the need to show the butcher the watch.

  ‘What’s all this then, you?’ Brood asked mockingly, rubbing his beard, though once his sight had rested upon the intricacies within the swinging watch, he found it difficult to look away. He became fascinated; the numbers had become alive and were milling about beneath the glass. He heard a low voice and he felt tired and uneasy. ‘Buzz off kid, I told you,’ he said in a lazy manner, unable to wrench his eyes from the timepiece. He stared at it all the more, following its movements before him, wondering about the strange phenomenon upon its face, the precise cogs seeming to spin fast then slowly. Still the voice was heard, surely still too low for a boy. It snuffed out his anger. ‘If you…’ he began but his voice trailed away. The monotone, which seemed spoken so near had the power to draw energy from his limbs, to pull his eyelids down. The snow seemed too bright as it reflected and magnified the winter sun’s rays. A warm lethargy gripped him. He passed a hand across his brow. ‘I feel dizzy,’ he said. With a flicker, like a candle flame going out, his eyelids finally closed, though before this resignation his mind registered two things. Alastair standing before him had vanished and Theodore – the long dead Theodore – was there in his place. Then, through watering and stinging eyes, he had realized that the dancing numbers upon the watch face had not been numbers at all, but ants.

  Brood stumbled forward as though in a trance while Alastair stood on his toes and wrapped his arms about the butcher’s neck. He pulled the head down to his own and began to whisper. After ten seconds of this Alastair retrieved the half-smoked cigar from his top pocket, lit it and chuckled at the somnambulant butcher swaying in front of him. And with a click of his fingers, Brood’s eyes were quickly open. He looked dazed. Then, as though nothing had passed between Alastair and himself, he said loudly, ‘If you don’t clear off, I’ll give you a dratted good hiding, you,’ and with his hands shoved into his overcoat pockets he marched across the white green in the opposite direction to that of Stutter Lane. The butcher’s shop awaited his arrival.

  The village entourage had moved off and were nearing the stone bridge. Some turned to look back and they saw Alastair walking quickly towards them, waving slowly, having added another set of footprints to those already intersecting along the whiteness of the lane. Constable Flute was becoming annoyed. He waited for Alastair to reach him before he demanded, ‘Look here sonny, you are obstructing police duty and if you don’t go away, I shall be forced to take you to the station and you wouldn’t want that, would you?’ He paused to speak more but, before he could, Alastair spat out the cigar butt that had been clamped between his teeth, and he ran from them. He darted occasionally to his right like some crab to avoid ice patches in his path. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he wondered where his legs were taking him. He had a crazy smirk upon his face and spoke calmly. ‘He must pay. They will all pay and suffer because I suffered.’

  The villagers continued on their way to the police station, Nuckle still held in the firm grip of the policeman and still protesting his innocence; though not as vehemently as before – the encounter with Alastair had shaken him.

  As they turned the curved corner of Stutter Lane into School Lane bound for the police station, Badger the caretaker came out from his shed. Upon seeing them all, he waved his broom and gave them one of his best smiles while spitting out exclamations of an avian nature.

  CHAPTER 42

  Insects

  STUBB AWOKE WITH a start. Hurriedly, he pulled on a jacket and left the terraced house. He was already late for the opening of The Bulldog Fish.

  Upon reaching the top of Pepper Lane and gazing along Stutter Lane, he was surprised to see Stalk trotting towards him. ‘I wonder what the old sod wants?’ he asked himself aloud and he began to walk towards the advancing butcher. Stalk stopped ten feet from Stubb and his chest was heaving as he gasped for breath but then he recommenced walking. He shivered strangely. ‘What’s this all about, Brood? After all these years, you of all miseries decide to talk to me again. Want to apologize, is that it?’ Stalk did not answer but stepped nimbly to the side and Stubb twisted and yelled with fright.

  The butcher had quickly unbuttoned his coat and produced a meat cleaver from his stained apron underneath. He seemed confused then for he gazed at the instrument as though without recognition. He looked up, his eyes burning with a fierce passion. ‘Miserable monster, you, wanting to kill my master,’ he said as he raised the cleaver. Beads of perspiration trickled suddenly from his brow despite the low temperature and his sensitivity to it.

  Stubb moaned and cringed away. He was transfixed for a short time until he cried out, ‘No!’

  The meat cleaver quivered in the air as Stalk began to babble.

  I
deas of escape percolated through William Stubb’s mind in an idiotic muddle. In the face of death with the cleaver still hanging above, tears formed, as memories which the butcher had dislodged rose to a conscious level; and they taunted and floated like bubbles. For a moment, he dismissed the danger and looked with sadness inward but then, wiping the mist from his sight, he heaved his fist into the butcher’s stomach. Brood Stalk’s voice, which had risen to a strangled screech of blasphemy, was cut short. He bent double from the blow. His arm and the cleaver were brought down with him. The tool buried into Stubb’s arm: he screamed at the burning pain when the cleaver went easily through his coat and shirt and seared through the flesh. It had made a deep cut to the bone; blood leapt crimson and in a second had soaked his left side and spattered the snow. Stalk retched from the punch as Stubb reeled in agony. A thought scratched him: he must get to the doctor or he would bleed to death. He steadied himself and putting a hand over his dreadful wound, ran up the lane as fast as he was able.

  Stalk straightened up. Fresh blood had splashed the old stains on his apron. This observation spurred him into action. Retrieving the cleaver from the snow-covered ground he brandished it high above him in pursuit of William Stubb.

  Alastair stood on the threshold of the doctor’s house. He knocked and waited in a daze. Dr. Snippet opened the door. ‘Dear lad, what a surprise. How are you? No worries I hope? But do come in.’

  Alastair muttered and followed the doctor into the manor house. His lip twitched. ‘We are expecting visitors, Pump. Fetch me my port, will you,’ he heard himself say.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ said the doctor. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ He guided the boy into the drawing room, ignoring the front door which Alastair had left ajar despite the cold chill entering the manor house. ‘Now you sit there while I make a nice cup of tea and then we can talk. I won’t be long.’ He went to the kitchen.

  Stubb was on the verge of collapse from exhaustion and the loss of blood. Sweat produced from the effort of running had made his armpits damp. His arm burned and hung limply down. As he passed The Bulldog Fish Tavern he threw agitated glances behind him. Stalk was gaining ground. Stubb stopped for a moment to gulp draughts of air, a hissing of breath issuing from between clenched teeth like asthmatic bellows. He felt a blackness descending but he willed his hollowed legs to move. A dread had drained his face of colour and paralyzed his features into a mask of terror. He whimpered and staggered on, skidding and sliding on iced snow along Daisytrail Lane.

  Upon reaching the open gates of the manor house he turned to see the butcher running casually towards him, the cleaver slicing and slashing. Stubb crawled the final yards over the short gravel drive to the front door before falling to his knees in the porch. He leant on the door and it opened inward. A dark curtain began to draw across his mind as he fell forward and groaned with the searing pain. With much difficulty, he stood up to dismiss the oncoming veil of death. He staggered blindly into the hallway, disorientated and half insane with agony and weakness. ‘Doctor, losing blood,’ he tried to shout but his voice was a whispered croak. Stalk appeared on the doorstep and gave a hoarse battle cry. ‘Please, no,’ whispered Stubb, trapped like a chicken running circles in a barn unable to escape the wrath of the farmer.

  For an instant, Stalk looked puzzled again as though he did not know his whereabouts. Stubb cried fitfully, petrified and weary beyond measure. He began to pull himself up the staircase, clinging onto the banister, every movement costing him dearly from his depleted energy. He heard Stalk behind laughing lazily as though drugged. Stubb, sobbing and gasping, cried out; he reached the top of the stairs and heard the slow padding of feet. ‘Do it now. Get it over and done with,’ he moaned, for if he was to be murdered he would rather die now than with the maddening agony of living a moment longer. He grunted like an animal as he crawled on his hands and knees along the carpeted corridor with Stalk so close behind that the soles of his shoes were kicked.

  He reached the foot of the winding staircase to the attic and Stalk pushed him to herd him up, a smile of satisfaction quivering on his lips.

  The doctor lay slumped across the kitchen table, deep in a hypnosis-induced sleep. The water in the kettle spat spitefully and rattled the lid. Alastair had left the kitchen and had gone to the hallway. He stood at the foot of the stairs and his eyes glowered. Another cigar stuck rudely from the corner of his mouth. He held a glass of port.

  Stubb lay on his back on the new floorboards of the attic. His chest heaved and every breath was painful, his arm still bleeding profusely. His face was ashen, with his life dribbling from the gashed limb, already his heart losing beats and rhythm. A dark pool of blood formed beside him. Stalk stood framed in the doorway of the empty attic. ‘Brood,’ whispered Stubb with the last of his strength. ‘You don’t know what you are doing.’ He coughed. ‘Brood, do you hear me?’

  Brood Stalk shook his head as though to dismiss some morbid thought. His expression changed from a lunatic grin to bewilderment as he looked to the bloody cleaver which he held. He gave a shout as though he had been bitten. His sight had fallen upon the grotesque form lying at his feet. Blood, sweat and dirt were smeared across Stubb’s face and his hair was wild and matted. His white shirt had turned red, his open coat a darker brown.

  ‘Brood,’ mumbled Stubb. ‘Fetch Dr. Snippet.’

  Stalk did not move.

  He gave a long groan that rose in pitch to a howl.

  Stubb turned his sight to Brood Stalk’s eyes and he saw them bolting from his head, filled with abject terror…

  There had been the odd one at first, here and there, wandering aimlessly as though waiting, until more came from holes in the floorboards and the skirting, and dropping from the rafters, multiplying, slowly growing in number and type. They came flying through the open window at the end of the attic and from cracks in the roof, slitting the space with black lines; and they crawled and hopped out of the fire grate and the packing cases which stood in the middle of the room.

  The butcher stood with feet frozen to the floor, gaping with morbid fascination at the floorboards and bare walls and beams that were now covered with insects of every description and the air filled with multi-coloured points, becoming thick as though forming a solid wall of living particles. Insects that buzzed and hummed and rattled and whistled and cracked and ticked. Insects with rainbow wings, opalescent bodies, and striped, speckled or stippled heads. Dense with butterflies, moths and bluebottles and stag beetles, dragonflies and wasps and bees; the floor a writhing layer of ants and snails, woodlice and worms and centipedes, slugs and beetles of every type and colour. The stench in the attic was a fetid odour of the earth and of darkness and deadness.

  This mass of creatures seemed suspended in time as though awaiting a signal, until they flew, crawled and slithered onto the prostrate figure of Stubb. They squirmed over his body and wriggled into his ears and nose and into his clothing and bit him and stung him and sucked his blood. He was the epicentre, totally covered by the abundance of writhing creations.

  Stalk was stricken with horror and he stumbled screaming down the staircase, but even above his voice he heard an inhuman cry which petrified him. It was part pain and part insanity and part animal, and it ripped and buried itself throughout the house, seeping into the floors and wood and stone, into the essence of the structure, creating an electric hatred and revulsion that slashed at Stalk’s nerves to be instilled forever.

  He sobbed and ran down the last of the steps from the attic to the landing then on to the top of the stairs and upon realizing that he still held onto the cleaver he let it go. It clattered down the main staircase and landed with a crack upon the ceramic tiles of the hallway. He began his descent but stopped suddenly when Alastair stepped into the hallway from the drawing room. He bent and picked up the cleaver and cradled it in two hands. The butcher edged down the stairs with his back flattened to the wall, his heart thumping a fast drumbeat in his chest. ‘Get out of my way. Put that cleaver down befo
re you cut yourself, you,’ he demanded. Alastair laughed heartily. ‘Alastair, you vandal, do as I tell you.’

  ‘Alastair cannot hear, Brood. It’s you and I.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Get out of my way, your father has been…is…dead. He’s dead, you.’

  Alastair nodded, ‘Yes, I do know. He has paid my price. You must pay yours, you shortsighted buffoon. Can you not see who this is? I am Theodore.’ Stalk gasped. Had the boy lost his mind? ‘And I have come back to take my revenge.’ Alastair flicked ash from the cigar end and gripped tighter on the handle of the cleaver with the other hand.

  It happened swiftly; Alastair had raised the weapon and ran forward, and brought it down onto Stalk, but the butcher was too quick. He had leapt out of the way and through the open doorway. The cleaver gave a thud as it was embedded into the wooden carving of the stag beetle. Alastair cursed, but with a smile still frozen to him he walked back through to the kitchen. He clicked his fingers. Dr. Snippet’s eyes flickered open and he pulled himself up from the table that was strewn with small glass phials and medical papers.

  ‘My dear boy,’ the doctor said, ‘I am becoming more forgetful every day. I had quite forgotten you were here.’

  The boy had to be stopped; the police would have to be told. Alastair had become insane. Brood Stalk’s head reeled and he wanted to be sick when he remembered the vile fate of Stubb. He had hated the fool but would not have wished that upon him. He shuddered; the situation smacked of witchcraft, he thought, devilry even. He began his journey to the police station when he changed his mind. He would go to his shop first to warm himself, to calm his juddering nerves and, more importantly, to fetch a crucifix. He felt foolish at the thought until he felt the vomit rising up to his throat again. He sensed that there was more to what was happening than Alastair losing his mind, something he could not define but which all the same made his flesh creep. He couldn’t even remember why he had wielded a meat cleaver and chased William Stubb.