by Amy Cross
I tell my father about the creature that sits on Sophie while she sleeps. He nods, fully aware of what is happening. He shows me the book he has been reading, and the first thing I see is a drawing of the creature. Clearly this is something that has been plaguing humans for centuries.
My father tells me its name: it is a form of incubus known as a Tenderling. Whereas the old incubi of centuries past would sexually ravage their victims, Tenderlings are much more clever, much more attuned to their own need to keep the host alive for as long as possible. For a Tenderling, it is important not to exhaust the body of its human prey. So while it feeds at night, the Tenderling spends the day tinkering with the human's life, setting up little disasters and tragedies so that the human feels an ever greater sense of hopelessness. It is upon this hopelessness and despair that the Tenderling feeds.
My father shows me pictures of a Tenderling, and I recognise it immediately. Small and dark red, with a thin, sinewy body and dark reddish-black wounds for eyes, it has a large mouth that disconnects at the jaw. It is silent, unable to make a noise and completely invisible to humans unless it chooses to take human form, which it might do if it needs to interfere further with the human's life, to add yet more misery.
A Tenderling is a vicious, evil creature but my father says it cannot be forced to depart from a human host unless that host chooses to fight it off. And as the Tenderling inveigles itself deeper into the victim's mind, causing an ever greater loss of hope, the human will be less and less likely to ever find the strength or courage to fight back. Eventually the human is left shattered and weak, usually dying just a few hours after the Tenderling has voluntarily moved on to find a new host. The whole process can take years, as the Tenderling grinds its host down and absorbs more and more of its negative energy.
I cannot let this happen to Sophie, but my father warns me that any attempt to fight the Tenderling will bring grave risks. If the creature believes it is threatened, it might decide to absorb as much from her as it can before retreating. According to my father, I have to find a way to get Sophie to fight the Tenderling, all without her knowing what is happening.
For that, I'm going to need a little help...
Five
I take the phone into my room. Until I have the money to buy a cell phone, this is how I have to do things. Sitting on the bed, I check my watch. It's 8pm, so my dad should be calling any moment. He's usually pretty much on time, though business can get in the way from time to time. It's tough not seeing him, but that's how things go sometimes and I can live with it.
I open my laptop. Shelley's online, and a message soon pops up:
> Changed your mind about Friday night?
I type back:
> No chance. Have fun sucking Rob's cock all night.
After a moment:
> Will do.
I've got a vague idea that I should look up some kind of free clinic, see if I can get someone to look at my wound and maybe tell me how stupid I've been. It'd probably be a good idea to get a professional opinion, but money's tight. It'd pretty much have to be free.
The phone rings. I grab it and answer.
"Hi," I say enthusiastically.
There's nothing on the other end by a regular clicking sound.
"Dad?" I ask.
Nothing but the clicking, and an occasional buzz. It's a kind of static I don't think I've ever heard before.
"Dad, I don't know if you can hear me, but I can't hear anything so I'm going to hang up, okay? Try calling again". I disconnect. After a couple of seconds it rings again and I answer. "Dad?"
More of the same noise.
"I'm really sorry, I can't hear anything," I say. "Email me or something, okay?"
I disconnect. I can't deny I'm pretty disappointed. I was hoping to arrange a trip out to LA to see him, and I was kind of hoping to hint at the possibility of needing a mobile phone. I get up from the bed and go over to the mirror, where I lift up my shirt to look at the wound on the side of my breast. It doesn't look nearly as bad as I'd expected, though I'll still have to make sure Adam doesn't get to see it for a couple of days. Or Patrick...
I'm tired. Again! Time for another early night. Hopefully this time -
I feel a hand touch my shoulder. Well, there goes any hope of keeping this from Patrick. I turn to find -
It's not Patrick! It's my father, standing right behind me!
Six
The ghosts are out again tonight, lining all the roads, watching me as I walk past. I'm glad I can't see their faces, because I know exactly who they are and what they want. And at least they don't follow me. Instead, they wait where they know I'll be. They're waiting for the inevitable. They know, and I know, that it's coming.
In fact, it's coming faster than I anticipated.
When I reach the place by the lake, the place that even my father knows nothing about, I stop for a moment. The ghosts are all around me, but they won't - or perhaps can't - follow me down the stone steps into the darkness. It feels good to be able to confound them like this. They know nothing of what is down there. But some things, some people, have to be hidden deep.
I walk down the step, round and round as the spiral heads deep into the ground. Eventually, maybe two hundred feet or more beneath the surface, I come to the door, which I pull open. It's a huge door, made of oak, so it takes all my strength. But that's the point: it's not supposed to be easy to get in or out of this place. After all, it was originally built by the lords of Gothos as a place to keep their most dangerous enemies.
I walk along the dark stone corridor. For a human, it would be impossible to see a thing, but with my vision I can make out the rats scurrying past me. They hate it when I come: their little underground world gets disturbed. It's a good thing for them that I come down here so rarely.
I reach the chamber. It has been decades since I was last down here, but he has not moved. Shackled to the wall, hanging naked by his wrists, he is completely still. At first, he doesn't hear me, and I wonder if perhaps he has died somehow. But eventually he raises his head, slowly, and his blank white eyes stare straight at me. For a few minutes, he keeps this gaze fixed on me and then, finally, a smile cracks across his lips.
He asks how the war is going. I tell him that the war ended long ago. He should know this. I told him what had happened last time I was down here. But it seems he was unable to accept the truth, and is living instead in a fantasy world where the war still rages and could still be won. Try as I might, I can't make him understand that Gothos has long since fallen. He seems perpetually stuck in that moment of defiance when he still believed that those armies of Gothos would triumph. Everything after their fall - the death of the nightmare hive; the siege of the castle of eyes; the retreat of the Sentinels at the lighthouse, and the final battle in the catacombs of New York when we showed Cassandra's heart to the dying children - all seems to be blocked from his mind. This is the full extent of his madness.
I don't really blame him. If I could forget everything and follow him into insanity, I think I would. Also, he has done something that no-one else has ever done; he has walked through the Death Zone, so he has seen everything that is to come, things that even I don't know. So perhaps one day I shall join him down here, mad and trapped and unwilling to face the truth. There are worse ways to spend eternity.
No wonder the ghosts do not come down here.
I listen to his ravings for a while, but eventually I tell him that I need his help. He laughs at this, but he seems willing to listen. So I tell him about the Tenderling, about how it sits night after night on Sophie's back, drawing strength from her pain, and about how it spends its days arranging more agony for her, taking forms both desperate and cruel. I tell him that I fear Sophie will die if she is not saved from this creature, and I tell him that Sophie is indeed the girl from the prophecy.
He listens attentively and when I have finished describing this Tenderling, he asks what I think he can do to help. Tenderlings, he says, take what they wa
nt and leave. They cannot be defeated.
I tell him that although I know he is right, I need to know how to stop this Tenderling without it killing Sophie when it slips away from her body. I tell him that his bargaining position is limited, that I will not release him from this place, that I will not unchain him, and that I will not end his pain. There is absolutely no chance that he can use this opportunity as a chance to escape. But I tell him that if there is anything else I can do for him, anything that will persuade him to help me, I will do it.
He stares at me. It is clear that he has never expected this moment. He has been down here for centuries, mostly alone, and he had obviously given up expecting to ever see another creature. But now that I am down here, his mind is churning with possibilities. It is clear that he is going to try to trick me, or to ask for something that will cause me great pain. I can handle pain, though. I am ready for whatever he demands.
Finally, he tells me that he can help, but that in return I must deliver a message for him, and I must return with the reply. Then, he says, he will tell me everything. I agree, and he tells me I must come closer so he can deliver the message for me to pass on. Against my better judgement, I step closer and lean in so that he can tell me. I keep just far enough back to be able to move out of the way if he tries anything.
He says something, but I can't make it out.
I ask him to say it again.
He leans in closer.
In a quiet voice, he says my father's name: "Vincent". Except...
Seven
I open my eyes and it's morning. I hear the heavy sound of my mother stomping past the door to my room, and somewhere in the distance my brother is playing loudly. Once again, I'm exhausted. I feel like I spent the whole night pushing weights or something. I swear, these days I feel more tired when I wake up each morning. I stare at the wall, and it takes me a moment to realise that I wasn't alone last night. My father came to see me! I sit up and look around my room.
There's no-one here.
I stare at the emptiness. The last thing I remember is turning to find my father standing behind me. And then... and then... what happened next? I sit in bed trying to remember something, anything. I hadn't seen my father in nearly a year, so I was excited to see him, but... I have no idea what happened next. And how come he was just standing there in my room? I take a deep breath. There's only one possible explanation.
We must have got drunk.
I look around for any old wine bottles or beer cans, but there's nothing. And to be fair, the odds of my father and I just having a little party in my room are pretty low. No, we must have spent the evening with my mother and my brother and then... I just wish I could remember something - anything - about last night.
I get out of bed and, since I seem to have gone to sleep with all my clothes on, I shuffle out into the front room. My mother is sitting on the sofa, watching soap operas.
"Where did Dad go?" I ask.
"Huh?" she asks, not even looking up.
"Dad," I say. "Where did he go?"
She still doesn't look up. "Let's see," she says. "He met some fat little whore and moved off to Los Angeles with her about five years ago. Remember?"
My mother has always been touchy when it comes to talking about my father. "Yeah," I say, "but where did he go last night?"
My mother shoves a couple of biscuits into her mouth, then talks with her mouth full. "Dunno," she says. "Why don't you phone him and find out?"
My brother comes through, slamming a toy spaceship onto the floor.
"Did you see where Dad went?" I ask.
He just looks up at me. "When's Dad coming?"
"I don't know," I say. "That's what I want to find out".
The phone rings. My mother ignores it, but I grab it and answer, half-expecting it to be my father.
"Hello?" I say.
There's silence on the other end, but I can tell someone is there. All I can make out is a kind of muffled sound. "Hi," says a female voice eventually. "Is that Sophie?"
I nod, which is a stupid thing to do when you're on the phone. "Yeah," I say. "Who's this?"
Another pause on the other end. "This is Sharon, in Los Angeles".
It takes me a moment to realise who Sharon is, and then I remember - Sharon's the 'fat little whore' my father 'ran off with', except she's not fat, and she's quite tall, and as far as I know she's not a whore. Then again, I don't really know her very well. "Hi," I say. "What's up?"
"Well..." There's another pause, and then I hear a different sound. At first, I can't make it out, but eventually I realise she's crying. The first thing that leaps to my mind is: They've broken up. That's why he was here last night, he had a big fight with her and he came to see us.
"Don't worry," I say. Despite not knowing her, I kind of like Sharon. She seems nice enough, and my father seems happy with her. "I'm sure everything's okay".
"Your father's dead," she says.
An instant chill hits me. I immediately assume that she's wrong, or she's lying, or she's drunk or something. But still, even hearing those words - 'Your father is dead' - makes me uncomfortable. "Are you okay?" I ask.
"Did you hear me?" she replies.
"Yeah," I say. "But, er, I don't think he is". I wait for her to say something. "Did you two -"
"I'm so sorry," she says. "It was all so sudden, but I know he was planning to arrange to see you guys real soon. You were in his thoughts right to the end. You have to know that".
The room is spinning a little. I look down at my brother and for the first time I wonder if perhaps somehow this is all true. Could my father have left here last night, headed back to LA and run into some kind of problem? But it can't be true. After all, my mother and brother are just sitting around like nothing's happened at all.
"What are you talking about?" I ask Sharon. "He was here last night".
There's a pause on the other end of the phone, then: "Honey, he died last night. The police think it was a mugging, his wallet was missing and... I'm so sorry to have to be the one to tell you".
I open my mouth to say something - anything - but I don't know what to tell her. I turn and walk through to my bedroom, with the phone still pressed against my ear. I stare at the empty space in my room. What the hell happened last night?
Eight
My father is in his study, as usual. I have no idea what he does in there, but it occupies all his time and he is always very careful to ensure that I don't see his papers. It has always been like this. Although he knows I am in the room, he doesn't acknowledge me. Instead, he continues to look at his papers, to spread books around and to make notes in the margins. I know what is happening here: he is waiting until he reaches an appropriate moment in his work so that he can tell me that he's ready to talk to me. This is how it has always been between us. Sometimes I regret... the way in which our relationship has developed.
Eventually he looks up at me and I understand that this is the signal for me to start speaking. So I tell him that I have been to the underground chamber and I tell him that I have spoken to the only person who can help me to save Sophie. Although I do not state the name of that individual, I know that my father will instantly know who I mean. I look down at my feet. I have known his rage before.
As I expected, my father is instantly angry. He tells me that I'm a fool to ever go down there. He reminds me that we were warned that we would one day be tricked into believing that we would need help, and that we would be tempted to go to that chamber and ask for the help of the one person we should never, ever have allowed to live. He says he has always known that it was a mistake not to finish what we started, and he says that I have merely confirmed what he had always suspected.
I tell my father that it's the only way I can save Sophie. I remind him of the prophecy, and that Sophie has to live because she has a role to play in a greater destiny. But my father tells me that I misunderstand, and that destiny will play itself out regardless of what we choose to do. He says that if
it comes down to a choice, I will have to let Sophie die rather than go back down to that chamber. He tells me that I must promise to abide by the rules we established all those years ago.
I tell him that I can't make this promise. I tell him that I have to do everything that's in my power when it comes to ensuring that Sophie is saved from this Tenderling. I tell him that she is being ravaged night after night. What I don't tell him, though, is that there is another reason for my haste: while the Tenderling is with Sophie, I cannot go near her. If I do, the Tenderling will almost certainly panic, kill her and move on. So I have had to keep away from Sophie for nearly two weeks now.
I miss her.
My father knows none of this. He says I am threatening to ruin everything. Again, he tells me that I must be willing to let Sophie die in order to protect our future. I'm sure he's right, but he really doesn't understand. I know that there's no point arguing with him, but there's something I haven't told him yet. Something that I know will change his mind when I finally tell him.
So I tell him. I tell him about the message: the message I was given; the message that comes from deep within the dark of the chamber; the message that my father must answer, personally, before I am given what I need to defeat the Tenderling.
My father stares at me. He is shocked. But I can see in his eyes that he understands what his happening. Both he and I are able to sense when the hand of destiny is closing its grip around us. My father has known all along that he would one day have to go back down to that chamber. He knows, too, that the day has finally arrived. And that, in truth, is why he is so angry.
Nine
We make some phone calls and discover with a sense of mounting horror that it's true. My father, Anthony David Hart, was killed in Los Angeles. Time of death: between 9pm and midnight on Wednesday. He was supposed to be meeting Sharon for dinner at a restaurant near Beverly Hills. He didn't show up, and she went home, figuring that this wasn't particularly unusual behaviour for my father; after all, he does have something of a habit of letting people down. But when she realised something was wrong, she was about to call the police when they called her: they had found my father's body, beaten and battered and with his wallet stolen. He had been stabbed multiple times, and the attacker had left him to die in the gutter. He had eventually been found by a patrol car that just happened to spot him. But by then it was too late. He was pronounced dead at around 23:30 last night, which is about the time that I thought he came to my room. So did I dream that? I wish I could remember what happened...
