The Lord of Always

by David Brian

  I nodded, wiping a hand across my mouth. “Sounds like a plan.”

  I tried to sound upbeat, although it was difficult to appear enthused; my heart sinking under the realization this was where George and I went our separate ways. The plan we had devised involved splitting up. Better then to launch a two-pronged rescue mission.

  A look of concern spread across George’s face. “Before we continue, it’d be remiss if I didn’t offer a final word of warning. Don’t waste your time trying to rescue those who are beyond help. Remember, Rosalind is our focus.”

  George strapped on the rucksack containing the bags of salt, while I checked the fastenings on the tool-belt loaded with almost two-dozen plastic bottles. Picking up two more of the vessels, I clutched them before me as though I were Wyatt Earp stepping out at the OK Corral.

  George bid me the best of luck, and I reciprocated. Then I watched as he wheeled the still-laden barrow away across the forecourt. Once he neared the far end of the property, he stopped to remove the soiled bandage from his hand, making several bloody prints and fingered inscriptions on the wall of the building. Then, after scooping up a handful of salt from the barrow, he liberally sprinkled his handiwork. Once he finished marking the sigil, he lifted the barrow and continued wheeling it toward the rear of the property.

  The prospect of being alone in this place terrified me, with only one thought allowing me to maintain my sanity: George will return to join me later.

  All I could do was hope he succeeded in prepping this next stage of the plan, though I remained less than convinced of its validity. As I moved onto the steps of the property, I heard an all too familiar hiss.

  Moonlight revealed the reptilian figure shimmering menacingly on the upper panel of the front door. I took a deep breath and moved forward…

  Chapter 28

  It took only moments for me to climb the steps, my eyes remaining at-all-times fixed on the dragon head door-knocker. In the poor light of this strange red-dusk, the patterning on the iron beast resembled scales on a reptile. Though the thing on the door no longer slithered about the frame in the manner it had previously, I still balked at the sight of those yellow-eyes fixed balefully on my approach. The dragon’s lips pulled back, revealing needlepoint teeth. I contemplated whether it was my frayed imagination, or indeed if the creature really was grinning violence at the prospect of my approach. It was a question quickly answered, the hellion opening its mouth and emitting a snarl of indignant displeasure at this uninvited intrusion. It was a sound which chilled me to the core, and either through fear or driven by desperation to pass the creature, incurred a response that was as rapid as it was decisive.

  Straightening my arm to align the bottle I held, I faced the door and squeezed with all my might, compressing the plastic container between my fingers, jetting its contents toward this impossibility of a door-knocker.

  The fiend squealed like a pig in an abattoir.

  The dragon’s unholy cries were accompanied by threshing, wriggling turmoil as it blistered and bubbled, burning under the cleansing stream of salt, washing-up liquid, tap water, and whatever occult ritual George’s blood had performed over these objects.

  I watched in stunned silence as the monster on the door withered and shrank back into itself, until it resembled nothing more than the thing it had become; a cast dragon’s head. It seemingly took an age – although, thinking back now, it was likely only a few moments – before I found courage to reach out and handle the knocker; though not before I touched my chest, fingering the sigil painted beneath my shirt.

  It wasn’t until this moment when I realized I didn’t possess a key with which to access the property. There was no way I would be able to gain access simply by kicking my way through the wooden barrier. The door was of solid stock, and this left me short on options.

  Tentatively, I took hold of the cast-iron and knocked, three times. I banged the knocker with as much venom as I could muster.

  In for a penny in for a pound, so the saying goes. And I was, at that moment, intent on fighting my way past whatever monstrosities might be waiting to greet my arrival. Finding Roz remained my primary intention, and nothing – and I do mean nothing – would prevent me reaching the woman who was the morning sun after my darkest night. I banged my fist against the door, freely announcing my arrival with an accompanying shout. I knew that if I did fail here, then at least my actions might give George an opportunity to succeed elsewhere.

  After a second run-in with the possessed dragon knocker, I was prepared for anything – or so I believed. The door creaked slightly as it swung ajar, revealing perhaps the only sight I couldn’t have prepared for.

  From the dark interior she stepped, smiling through tear stained eyes: “You came back for me. I knew you would.”

  “Roz?”

  I moved forward, embracing her in a hold from which a bear wouldn’t have wriggled loose. Her arms circled my waist with familiar tenderness, leaning into my chest as I planted numerous little kisses on her forehead and cheeks, between whispered declarations of love.

  “I knew you wouldn’t leave me,” she repeated.

  “There was never any doubt.”

  “Kiss me, darling,” she urged, sliding her fingers to the back of my head, guiding my lips to hers… it was then I smelled it; the same sickening stench of death, decay and rot as carried on Anat’s breath. I remembered George’s warning: Be careful. You rarely see them for what they are.

  My heart sank; I was disgusted, as much by the abomination wearing the guise of my wife as I was by my own folly. I still held squeezy bottles in both fists, and it was anger and loathing drove my next action. Fighting to resist the doppelganger’s lips on my own, I squeezed both bottles, fully emptying their contents across the back and shoulders of the creature embracing me. Its cry was frightful; the volume of its angst came close to rupturing my eardrums. As the creature struggled to pull itself free, I felt the wetness of the bottles’ contents seeping through my shirt sleeves. The fiend with my wife’s face thrashed in its suffering, and in sudden panic I released my hold and pushed the fiend away. I grew distraught at my own handiwork; this thing had the appearance of my wife, and yet I was forced to watch on helplessly as its body erupted in a luminous mass of bulging protrusions; pockets of the fiend’s life force, glowing, blistering and swelling until finally bursting amid its irradiant destruction.

  The force of the creature’s demise threw me against the wall and I slumped to the floor with a hefty thump! Laying dazed, trying to convince myself that, even beyond all of the madness already witnessed, this monster I had just seen come apart, in an explosion of light and pus, was just a facsimile of the woman I loved.

  At the moment of the archon’s end, the house shone with an explosion of light more brilliant than the brightest summer’s day. In those instants, before the dazzling darkness returned to consume my surroundings, I realized the building in which I now stood in no way resembled Penhale House. The internal layout of the halls and passageways looked completely different. In fact, rather than being in the large semi-circular reception area of Penhale House, I was lying on the floor of a narrow hallway. Climbing slowly to my feet, my hand searched the wall for a light switch. All I found was disappointment. The bare switch failed, leaving the house in darkness. Crap.

  The sense of mustiness and decay in that corridor was almost choking, rancid like bog water on the hottest of days. Making sure to keep my back to the wall, I edged along the hallway, vaguely aware of muffled sounds emanating from within the building. It was difficult to make out quite what the noise might be. Somehow, the walls seemed to be suppressing whatever the sound was, allowing only the disturbing vibrations of something unpleasant to permeate through the masonry and plaster of the house. I stood listening, trying to pin down a point of origin.

  My attempt to identify the source proved pointless. My ears filled with naught save the frantic beating of my own heart, the tautness of my breath. I was acutely aware of repercussi
ons incurred by my own recent actions. It was likely I had already drawn attention. The archons must surely have sensed the demise of their compatriot.

  I squinted through the darkness as a muzzy shape appeared before me, and then with some relief realized it was the foot of a narrow staircase. Peering into the blackness of the upper level, I failed to make out any discernable shapes. Continuing to edge along the hallway, intent on locating the origin of the weird chatter, my right hand touched a void. It took some moments before I recognized I was at the top of another stairwell and, although I couldn’t be certain, it seemed as though the sound emanated from below. I scrambled around in the dark until my fingers found the handrail, then edged my foot onto the top step, only then stopping in my tracks…

  Farther along the corridor a thin bar of light shone under the door of a side room.

  I held my breath. Should I carry on searching out the source of the sound, or investigate the lit room? I decided to quickly check the origin of the light. If others had been seeking to elude the archons they might well require assistance.

  As quietly as I could, I tiptoed down the hallway until I faced the closed door. I stood transfixed by the solid block of light edging beneath the door, a warning drumming between my ears. I ought to turn and walk away from whatever awaited me behind this frame. Hardly daring take a breath, my nostrils already filled with the staleness of this place. Still, I put a hand on the doorknob, and slowly turned the handle.

  The door opened to reveal a gloomily lit study. A shaded lamp lay disturbed atop an oak desk at one end of the room, painting the far walls in oblique shadows. The desk was set adjacent to a metal filing cabinet, and alongside this lay a disturbed chaise lounge, its legs raised in abject surrender to whatever had upended it. The office was further darkened by thick blackout drapes across the windows. Even through the gloom I was able to make out the horrors contained within. I dropped to my knees and spewed the meal I had eaten earlier.

  Only Beth Carmichael’s hefty butt and appreciable bosom allowed me to identify her corpse. She lay on her back at the far end of the room. Her collapsed torso resembled a stamped-on Barbie, the body twisted and broken in a manner which seemed beyond all possibility. The woman’s skull remained intact, but what once had been a face was now just a blood-filled pool, a concave reservoir of smashed bone and torn tissue. What happened here? This couldn’t be the work of archons, could it? Perhaps it had been the hoggish?

  Whatever the answer, Beth was beyond deliverance.

  Through tear filled eyes, and with a sense of anger extending beyond anything I’d ever known, I tore at the drapes darkening the room. Pulling one free from its rail, I covered Beth’s ruined body with the heavy linen, all the while swearing retribution against the brutality these insane creatures represented.

  There was no sign of Joseph Carmichael, and for this I gave small thanks. I could only hope he fared better than his wife. Switching off the lamp, I turned and moved toward the bleakness of the corridor…and again I was stopped in my tracks. Something moved in the darkness behind me.

  Chapter 29

  I guessed the boy to be no more than seven-years-old. Beneath a mop of dirty-blond hair, what may once have been cherub features were disrupted into a mess of bubbling snot and teary tracks. Thankfully, when I discovered his hiding place beneath the upturned chaise lounge, he did not scream or cry out. Whatever trauma he endured having reduced his vocabulary to little more than a rasping whisper. I had little to no experience of children, but my heart melted upon discovering the boy, as I was greeted by a look so fearful it was as though Satan himself had come to claim him. It was only with continued reassurance that those wet eyes softened. I’m a friend, come to see you safely away from here.

  It wasn’t too long before he found courage enough to allow my embrace. I wrapped him in my arms, though no words could I find to quiet those shuddering whimpers. When his eyes found the drape I used to sheet the body, tears once again flowed.

  Through a river of snot and sniffles he asked, “Why did they hurt Nana?”

  “I don’t know, kid,” was the only reply I could muster, realizing its inadequacy even before the words left me.

  I felt like a brute for pressuring the boy, but understood the need to quiet his relentless wails. It was vitally important I secure a fuller explanation for the events having occurred here. But the kid wasn’t in a rational state to explain things, at least not with any detail. His mind seemed solely occupied with finding his mother.

  The singular nature of his focus, it is an obsession I fully understand. Roz, I am coming for you.

  “I’ll get you home safely, kid,” I said, seeking to embolden him. I couldn’t honestly claim having much conviction in the promise I’d just made. Still though, the child seemed to find some modicum of comfort in my words. It proved slow going, but he began finding courage to open up about how events unfolded.

  “My name is Peter,” he said, after I had asked the question for a third time. “Peter Carmichael.”

  This at least confirmed my initial suspicion; he was Beth and Joseph’s grandchild.

  “I was in the ballroom with Mommy and Nana. Nana asked us to help get the stage ready for the evening show. Nana needed help with shifting the keyboard and drum kit, setting them near the back of the stage. The Garfield Trio was going to play at night. They use string instruments and a saxophone. I like the saxophone a lot. I like the sounds it makes.”

  “I enjoy listening to the sax, too; it can be very soothing.” Peter ignored my observation, a flawed attempt at bonding.

  “It was late in the afternoon. The sun was shining through the windows. It looked like the room was being stabbed by spears made of light.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, wishing he would skip the minor details. “So, what happened, Peter? What went wrong?”

  “Everything was nice. Everything was good. Then suddenly it wasn’t. Mommy and Nana were laughing. When they moved the drum set, Mommy caught her heel in the stage curtain. She tripped and Nana caught her, but not before Mommy pulled the curtain off its rail.” Peter smiled just briefly. “The curtain landed on Mommy’s head. She looked like a big red ghost.” Hurt returned to already faded features. “Everything began to change then. It all just slipped away, walls of the house sliding to the floor like melted ice cream, forming into pools of horrible smelly snot. Everywhere seemed like it was wobbling, even the floor started moving. It was like trying to balance on a trampoline. It was scary, mister.”

  I forced a smile. “I told you, Peter, my name is Frank. You don’t need to call me mister, okay?”

  “Okay, mist – Frank.”

  “Good lad. So tell me what happened next, Peter?”

  “Nana was closest to me, and she grabbed hold of my arm and shouted for Mommy to run.”

  “And did she? Did Mommy run?”

  “We all did,” he said with a stuttering swallow, as the lump rising in his throat added a tearful falter to his recollections.

  Peter told me that the two women had each taken a hold of him, as they rushed to escape whatever madness was occurring.

  “Nana began screaming, there was panic in her voice as she called for Pappy to assist us. But Pappy never came. By the time we made it to the hallway, all of us were crying. The passageway disappeared. Instead, we were standing in a big cave. And there were doors built into each of the rock walls. Each of the doors had a small barred window, and we could see people behind the bars.”

  “Those sound like cells,” I said.

  “Yes. Mommy said that, too. They were cells. Prison cells. It was scary. People were crying for help. The cave echoed with the shouting. People were begging us to free them.”

  “They are an array of unfortunates, imprisoned by the impossible.” I said, more by way of an observation to myself rather a comment for Peter.

  “Nana wanted to help them,” he continued. But Mommy insisted on us getting away from there. She spotted a staircase at the far side of the cav
ern, and wondered if perhaps the stone steps led up to a way out…”

  Peter’s voice trailed off and he started visibly shaking. His words dropped to a whisper as he told of a blinding flash, and of how it engulfed the whole cavern before they could reach the stairwell. Unfortunately, this was about as much as I managed to learn from the boy. My probing questions, combined with the drawing on memories which they reignited, proved too much for him. He appeared broken, his face a slack, pale death-mask. I felt certain that should I continue with probing questions, the child would slip into a state of catatonia. His small body shook of its own volition, lungs gasping panicky snatches of air, silent tears falling as a waterfall down puffy, pale cheeks.

  I had already pushed too hard.

  Holding him in my arms, rocking reassuringly and whispering apologies for my persistence and stupidity, I swore I would make everything right.

  Though how best to do so?

  I hadn’t the time to see him safely from the property, or else Roz might be lost to me. But wouldn’t it be too dangerous to keep him with me?

  I had little enough chance defending myself from these monsters, but hindered by the needs of a terrified, incapacitated child?

  It took several minutes comforting the boy – which was time I could ill afford – before things began to improve. His spasms quieted, a modicum of color returning to his face as he regained the smallest degree of composure.

  Only once I was sure Peter had calmed enough to understand my words, did I speak. His eyes fixed on my own as I proposed a course of action.

  It seemed reasonable that I should see him safely to the front of the house, as quickly as possible, and then, once he was clear of the main door, Peter should run and hide in the bushes beyond the courtyard; to wait there until such time as I returned with Roz and his mother. As it turned out, it was an idea about as well received as syphilis in a brothel.