The Box of Demons

by Daniel Whelan

  As Ben left for school that morning, his grandad was already out in the front garden, reaffixing the guttering to the side of the house. Ben tried to sneak past, fearing awkward questions about how the gutter could have been torn away, but instead all he got was a few grumbles about ‘the ruddy storm’, and a begrudging acknowledgment that, ‘It could have been worse – they’ve lost half their roof down the road.’

  Ben should probably have felt guilty about all the destruction. He was, after all, the reason it had happened. But his mind was at ease, for when he had woken up on the morning after the Battle of the Orme, the Box was empty and the demons were gone.

  The last thing he remembered was curling up under the trees next to Llety’r Filiast. And so it was a little disconcerting to wake up in his own bed at seven thirty with no idea how he had gotten there.

  Bleary-eyed, he surveyed his bedroom. His satchel had been dumped in the corner, all damp and muddy, and his ‘stealth’ clothes lay strewn all over the floor, soaking wet and streaked with dirt. He swung his legs out of bed and as he put his feet on the floor he suddenly remembered he’d hurt his ankle, but now he felt no pain. He wrapped his duvet around himself and shuffled over to his satchel. His copy of Sacred Orme was gone, and so was his grandad’s torch, but the Box was still there, tucked snugly inside, safe. It had been ambling along at its normal pace ever since he’d woken up, but as soon as he touched it, it swelled. It was somehow clearer than he had ever heard it; it did not seem to be louder, and it hadn’t been particularly muffled before: it was just more precise. Each individual element of the music rang out. It was as if he had never heard it properly before, and now it made sense to him.

  He pulled the Box out of the bag, and set it down on the floor. It bore no sign of the blast it had emitted. He ran a hand across the top of it, a gentle gliding stroke, before easing the lid open. He was expecting the green light, or some other sign that it had changed, that it was now a demon-slaying machine, but it was no different. He let the lid flap back, and the Box yawned open.

  Nothing happened.

  It was empty. He could see the bottom of it, could put his hand inside and feel the wooden base. He wrapped his knuckles on it a few times. It made a hollow knocking sound.

  There were no demons. In all the years that he had been carrying the Box around, he had never seen the bottom of it. Opening the lid always led to the demons manifesting, always. But now they were not there. The Box’s music played a joyous tune and Ben felt a rush of happiness. It was like the Box knew him now, and there was nothing to dampen or drown out its sound. It blew a breeze of fresh air through his brain, scattering all his questions away like they were seeds on dandelion clocks.

  The week that followed was the easiest week of Ben’s life. Without the demons to distract him and with the Furies still safely on suspension, school improved immeasurably: he started to feel less socially awkward, less out of place. He did not become instantly popular, but it seemed to him that the disappearance of the demons had taken the edge off the strangeness that had marked him out for exclusion, and getting through each day was no longer a test of his endurance.

  As the week progressed, he enjoyed a deeper and deeper relationship with the Box. Every day the music grew more complex, and every day he understood it better.

  After the incident with the cake slice, it had been decided that Ben would take a few weeks off from visiting his mother and so on the second Sunday of February, a week and a half after the Orme, he was enjoying a lie-in while his grandparents were at Drylands Hall. Or at least he was, until the telephone started to ring.

  The caller was persistent, and by the fifth or sixth ring Ben reluctantly hauled himself out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and sloped off downstairs, the cacophony continuing throughout. He didn’t know why he was bothering. No one ever rang for him, unless it was his grandmother, calling to tell him where the jam was or to remind him to record some boring programme about cows or something.

  ‘What?’ said Ben.

  ‘Nnnn. What kind of a way to answer a phone is that?’

  ‘Tegwyn?’

  ‘It is I. Come to the shop.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I said so. Come to the shop.’

  The line went dead. Tegwyn did not like using the phone. He suspected it was being bugged by the government, who obviously have nothing better to do than to monitor the rate at which die-cast elves are bought and sold on the North Wales coast. Ben shrugged, replaced the receiver, and headed into the kitchen. No sooner had he put a few rounds of bread into the toaster than the phone rang again.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Nnnn. Why haven’t you left yet?’

  ‘I’m still in my pyjamas.’

  ‘We know what you’ve been up to, you little turd. The Weekly News. Llety’r Filiast. I’ll say no more.’

  Ben raced into the dining room. He dug out the North Wales Weekly News from his grandad’s pile of papers, and could hardly believe the front page. Taking the stairs two at a time, he ran to his room. The phone began to ring again, but he ignored it. He dressed quickly, and was out the door in five minutes flat.

  The headline read:

  SATANIC RITUALS ON ORME?

  ANIMAL SACRIFICES ROCK LLANDUDNO

  The never-dusted blinds of the Broken Forge were drawn shut, and a highly detailed drawing of a dwarf saying ‘WE ART CLOSED’ was stuck to the front door. Ben pressed the rusty doorbell, and waited. It was either one of those annoying doorbells that didn’t make a sound, or it just didn’t work.

  After a few minutes he heard a shuffling inside. To his right a gap opened up in the blinds, and an eye briefly appeared before the slats snapped shut again. Behind the door, a symphony of unlocking began as latches were drawn back, bolts were undone, and chains were lifted and dropped. The performance crescendoed with the door opening just wide enough for Tegwyn to poke his head out. He looked from left to right and then to the left again, at which point he noticed the bicycle.

  ‘Nnnn. What did you bring that for?’

  ‘You wanted me here quickly, didn’t you?’

  Tegwyn looked left-right-left again, sighed, and reluctantly opened the door wide enough for Ben to wheel his bike inside.

  The shop stank of glue, even more than it did on a weekday. The Warmonger diorama had been cleared away, and in its place was a long trestle table, covered in old newspapers, with a selection of newly assembled models slowly drying on top.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ said Tegwyn, as he completed a coda of locking up. ‘In fact, don’t even look at it. Stick your bike by the counter and come with me.’

  Ben did as he was told, at least as far as the bike was concerned. He couldn’t help but gawp at the rows of miniatures as he followed Tegwyn through the hatch in the counter. Tegwyn stopped in front of the bead curtain that separated the shop from Out-the-Back, turned to Ben, and intoned:

  ‘Are you ready to come inside the circle?’

  Ben nodded eagerly, and the Box greeted the thought with a little trill of happiness.

  Out-the-Back turned out to be something of a disappointment. Naturally, it stank. Most things to do with Tegwyn stank: either of paint, glue, old paper, or body odour. Out-the-Back stank of them all. It was a cramped labyrinth of metal bookcases full of unsellable stock, lit by a dim red bulb and covered in a fine layer of dust. The spaces between the rows were narrow, and Tegwyn was forced to turn side-on in order to be able to squeeze through.

  As they progressed deeper into the room, the stock got older, mustier, and less desirable. Ben had supposed that Out-the-Back would be Eden. He could see now that it was not: it was a graveyard, and an unloved, untended one at that.

  After they had walked down a row of shelving that Ben could have sworn they had passed before (he would not be surprised to find out that Tegwyn had been leading him round in circles, either in an effort to impress him, or to make sure he didn’t remember the way) they came to a short corridor, at the end o
f which was a feeble wooden door with a padlock on it. The passage was mostly taken up by a bank of old metal lockers. Most of them had their doors open, revealing discarded chocolate wrappers and crusty paint pots, but the last two were locked. One had Tegwyn’s name written on it in ornate gold script. The other had a piece of white gaffer tape stuck to it, on which was written ‘THE GIRL’ in thick black marker. This had been crossed out with a biro, and underneath, in a different hand, was written ‘LUCY’.

  ‘What are you grinning at, you little turd?’ said Tegwyn as he held open the door.

  In front of them was a narrow staircase covered with ancient grey carpet. It may have been a different colour once, but it had long since been given over to crumbs, grit and house dust mites. The narrowness meant that Ben had to ascend first, as it would have been impossible for Tegwyn to pass him on the stairs. Faded, dated wallpaper covered the walls, upon which hung a variety of posters and wicker objects.

  At the top, the passage opened out a little wider. The stench of incense added a new note to the chord of unpleasant smells. The carpet continued its run (or the mites continued their run with the carpet) down a dark corridor. Tegwyn took advantage of the wider space to unceremoniously barge Ben into the wall.

  ‘Careful there,’ sniggered Tegwyn, taking hold of the handle of the door at the end of the hall. ‘Clumsy.’ He took a deep breath, and grinned the smuggest grin that Ben had ever seen. ‘Are you ready to meet the Grand Druid for the whole of the North Wales coast?’

  ‘Um . . .’ said Ben. Tegwyn did not wait for more of a reply than that, and with a theatrical flourish he threw open the door.

  Inside what Ben assumed was Tegwyn’s living room sat a man in his thirties. He was wearing grey tracksuit bottoms, a mustard-coloured shirt, and a black waistcoat covered in a sequinned pattern. His hair was brown, too short to be long and too long to be short, and his chin was poorly shaven. He was fleshier than in the picture on the back of Sacred Orme, but Ben recognized him at once as the author, Terry Owens. He got up from the knackered old settee and offered his hand.

  ‘Benjamino! I’m the Grand Druid for this area, but you can call me Terry. Tell me, Ben, do you like Doctor Who?’

  ‘Err, well . . . not really. No.’

  ‘Yes, well, I suppose it’s not what it was. Would you like a cup of tea? And a biscuit?’ He gestured to what looked like a coffee table. It was piled high with books and magazines, on top of which sat a teapot, some chipped mugs, and a paper plate full of Rich Tea Fingers. Ben took one and sat down.

  ‘Now, you know we’re druids, don’t you? So you can imagine that when we – I mean the druidic community, not just me and Teg here – saw this story in the Weekly News, well, we became a bit worried. It doesn’t look very good on us, talk of animal sacrifices and the like. So now I’ve got grander druids than me breathing down my neck, the council asking why there are people shedding blood on historical sites, and a lot of worried pagans asking questions. So I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind helping us out. Teg tells me that you bought my book, Sacred Orme: Neolithic Monuments on Llandudno’s Ancient Beachhead. Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘Erm . . . yes?’ said Ben.

  ‘Splendid,’ he said, clapping his hands together in delight. ‘So what did you think of Llety’r Filiast when you went there? It’s wonderful, isn’t it? So spiritual. The ground throbs with it.’

  ‘I didn’t say I went there.’

  ‘Don’t lie, you little turd. He’s the Grand Druid,’ said Tegwyn.

  ‘You didn’t need to. Druidismis ancient and varied, Benjamino. We are alive to changes in the natural world, especially to the spiritual rhythms of our sacred spaces,’ said the Grand Druid. ‘And we have a druid who works as a copper in Rhos-on-Sea. They found your copy of Sacred Orme: Neolithic Monuments on Llandudno’s Ancient Beachhead at the site.’

  ‘That could be anybody’s copy,’ said Ben.

  ‘Nnnn, we’ve got you now. That’s the only copy ever sold so we know! We know!’

  ‘Now, Teg,’ said the Grand Druid, ‘there’s no need to crow. Look, Benjamino, we’re not going to report you to the police or anything, we’re not like that. We’re just a bit worried about you, that’s all. What were you doing up there?’

  ‘I’d like to go now, if it’s all the same to you,’ said Ben, standing up.

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ said Tegwyn. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘We can’t keep him here against his will,’ said the Grand Druid. ‘If our guest wants to leave, then kindly show him out.’

  Ben gathered up his satchel. Tegwyn scowled his way across the room, and held the door open. Once Ben had crossed the threshold into the corridor, the Grand Druid spoke again.

  ‘We know about the markings on the ground in Llety’r Filiast,’ he said. ‘We know what they mean.’

  Ben stopped. He wondered why the Grand Druid had let him get all the way over to the door before speaking and decided it was because the Grand Druid watched too much television.

  ‘We know your pet recently passed away. The police were involved, and three girls at your school were suspended. We’re wondering if that’s got anything to do with this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He means why’ve you been sacrificing goats, you little turd?’ said Tegwyn.

  ‘I don’t mean that at all,’ said the Grand Druid. ‘The combination of symbols you drew on the Orme are for rites pertaining to the summoning of the departed. They are ancient and powerful, as old as recorded language itself. Probably older. What we’re worried about is a situation where there’s a rogue druid, if you like, running around North Wales trying to bring something back. Like a beloved rabbit.’

  Ben laughed, and the Box played a few mocking triads to match. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oi! You can’t talk to him like that,’ snapped Tegwyn. ‘He’s the Grand Druid.’

  ‘You need to be careful, Benjamino.’ The Grand Druid reached into his back pocket and produced a deck of business cards bound together by a red rubber band. They were curved slightly from where he had been sitting on them. He took one and handed it to Ben. ‘You can always come and see us if you need to. We try to come together just before high tide, so we can connect to the sea, you know? We meet at the Old School Youth Centre in Towyn. There’s a little tide table on the back there.’

  The card was grubby, and had ‘TERRY OWENS: GRAND DRUID, PROFESSIONAL SCRIBE’ printed on it, followed by a local phone number. ‘Tide table’ was probably too grand a title for the biro scribblings on the back of the card: it was a list of dates and times for the next few months. Ben shoved it into his pocket, and left. Tegwyn followed behind, jangling his keys and muttering something bitter and incomprehensible.

  Chapter Eleven

  Death and the Maidens

  Around a week later, Ben was walking home from school with as much of a spring in his step as he ever had. The half-term holidays were a week away, and he was looking forward to a whole week of listening to the Box without the annoying interruption of school. Ever since the Orme it had been making the most beautiful music, and now that the Forge was somewhere he did not want to be, it was fast becoming his only leisure activity. It soundtracked his thoughts and feelings perfectly, and each day he looked forward to being able to seal himself in his room and listen to all the places it would take him.

  He was about halfway across the waste ground when he noticed a dead tree trunk belching out a yellowy smoke, and stopped. Jenny stepped out from behind it in full school uniform. She took a long drag on her cigarette, then blew the filthy smoke she had taken into her lungs right into Ben’s face. He coughed. A lot.

  ‘Awww. Are you all right there, Bendy? We’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘But you’re suspended,’ protested Ben.

  ‘Not any more. Pigs couldn’t prove nothing so they have to let us back. Did you miss us?’

  ‘Yeah, did you miss us?’ said Sally, grabbing his shoulders
and pulling his satchel off his back. She upended it, and the Box squealed as it hit the ground.

  ‘Oh my God, that is so sad,’ said Sally. ‘He’s got a jewellery box.’

  ‘Why’ve you got that then, Bendy?’ said Jenny. ‘Or should I call you Wendy? Bendy Wendy, the little girl with a jewellery box.’

  Sally held the Box upside down and started to shake it. The music became juddery and unhappy, and skipped a few beats. ‘It’s empty. What’s the point of that?’

  ‘Give that back,’ said Ben.

  ‘Aww, ickle Wendy wants her jewellery box back,’ said Jenny. ‘Give it here, Sal.’

  Sally launched the Box over Ben’s head. It made a terrible sound as it flew through the air, ending in a wince-inducing sting when it finally thudded into Jenny’s arms.

  ‘I suppose we should thank you for getting us time off school,’ she said as she threw the Box to Nikki. The smaller girl giggled as she caught it. Ben spun round, but Nikki had already thrown it back to Sally. He spun again, and again, the Box whining and stinging all the time as he pivoted to face each Fury in turn until Jenny stopped. She was panting more than Ben, even though she’d stayed in the same place.

  ‘What you been saying to the pigs about me, then? You been telling them that I killed your rabbit?’ Jenny dangled the Box out in front of her, and Ben reached forward to snatch it. He knocked it out of her hand, and ducked to catch it before it hit the ground. Jenny growled, and launched her whole body at his middle. He folded, the air rasping out of him as he hit the muddy ground. The Box flew backwards over his head. He tried to turn, but before he knew it Jenny was clawing her way up his body. She straddled him, and leaned forward so that her spot-covered face seemed impossibly, grotesquely large.

  ‘I was grounded for two weeks. Two whole weeks,’ she said. Ben could smell her foul breath, a mixture of nicotine and lip gloss. ‘And what for? For nothing. No evidence. Just a little wuss and his dead rabbit.’

  Ben flailed his arms in front of his face, squirming and pushing in an attempt to shift her. Her skin was clammy and cold, and he winced to touch it. She moved forward, so that she was sitting on his chest, and grabbed his arms. She caught the right one and pulled it back, bringing her knee to rest on it so that it was pinned to the ground. ‘Crying over some stupid little wabbit. Like, grow up. It was practically dead when we got there anyway.’