The Box of Demons

by Daniel Whelan

  ‘I don’t know if I can get it high enough to smash it,’ said Ben through gritted teeth. ‘It’s really . . .’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ interrupted Kartofel. ‘Watch out, here comes the light.’

  Ben dropped the link. Poking up through a trapdoor in the floor was a green glow. It lit up the cell for the first time, revealing that the only wall that did not have a demon chained to it was in fact a massive door. It was made of the same bright red wood as the Box, and had the same four symbols carved into it. But it did not hold Ben’s attention for long. As the light rose up through the floor, the shards combined to form a huge ball. Ben stared at it, enraptured. It was like being able to look into the sun without hurting your eyes; he could see the intricate details of the burning beauty of the orb, the minute nuclear reactions on its surface. Its light warmed the room, and he felt full of love, and possibility, and confidence. He could hear Kartofel trying to drag the chain away from the light, but could not turn to look.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s wonderful. You’ve got to see this. It’s so . . . it’s just . . . wow.’ He had never felt anything like it. It was so positive, so inspiring that he wanted to be inside it forever. It was the smell of fresh bread, Christmas mornings, new Warmonger models. It was everything that had ever happened to him that was good.

  And then it passed.

  The light sank back into the trapdoor, spreading out into the cement between the flagstones. As it passed, it took with it all of the good feeling it had brought, and more besides. Ben sank to his knees, and crawled over to the trapdoor, hoping to find some residual warmth there, but the old wood and the round steel handle were icy cold.

  ‘Oh, what’s the point?’ he said.

  Kartofel crept slowly out from behind one of the links, which he had been using as a makeshift shield. ‘Watch it, that’s the light talking, that is. That’s what it does. It shines, goes, and you feel rubbish.’

  Ben clawed at the trapdoor. He was prepared to pull at it until his fingers were sore, if that was what it took to feel the warmth again.

  ‘D-d-don’t do it, Ben,’ said Djinn. ‘Down there’s the Darkness.’

  Ben took hold of the handle, and tugged it open. It was a strain – the door was heavy and the hinges stiff – but he succeeded in opening it. It made a loud thwomping noise as it hit the stone. He pulled himself over to the gap, and poked his head through it.

  ‘You don’t wanna go in the Darkness,’ said Kartofel. ‘There’s nothing there. It’s just black.’

  ‘Where else can I go?’ Ben shouted. ‘This is hopeless.’ He rolled on to his back, and ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it. He wanted to cry, but even that seemed like a waste of time.

  ‘It’s just the light. It’ll pass,’ said Kartofel. ‘Get over it.’

  Ben lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. All the rubbish of the past five weeks – of the past fifteen years – played over and over in his head. He started to groan, a world-weary lament from the bottom of his soul that went on for several minutes.

  ‘So what do you think of our pad?’ said Kartofel in a gap between moans.

  ‘Cold and depressing,’ said Ben.

  ‘Fair dos. Can’t say I like it much either.’

  ‘How do you get out? When you’re not chained to the wall?’

  ‘We open the lid, dummy. The big wooden wall.’

  Ben got to his feet, and stumbled over to it. He lay against it, pressing his shoulder into the wood while he pushed with his feet. It held firm.

  ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘Course it’s locked,’ said Kartofel. ‘There’s no music. Must be the angel. That’s what happens when he’s mucking about with it. No music, no exit.’

  Ben slid down the wall until he was sat with his back against it. Little by little, the negative thoughts were fading away, and he started to feel less helpless.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ he said. ‘I’m going down the hatch. The Seraph isn’t here, we can’t open the lid, so there’s only one place left.’

  ‘N-n-no!’ said Djinn, ‘N-n-no one ever returns from the Darkness.’

  ‘How do you know?’ said Ben. ‘Has anyone ever gone down there?’

  ‘Are you mental?’ said Kartofel. ‘It’s the frickin’ Darkness.’

  ‘Right then,’ said Ben. ‘Here goes.’

  He stared down into the Darkness. It was aptly named.

  ‘Tch, I hope you’re not going in there before you’ve let us out,’ said Kartofel.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ said Ben. He sat on the edge of the pit, his legs dangling down into the void. He closed his eyes and shuffled forward into the pitch-black hole below.

  He did not fall very far, and soon felt the shock of impact as he landed on another stone floor. He opened his eyes, and then he closed them. And then he opened them again, just to be sure. It was so dark that there was no difference between the two. He started to grope around, exploring his surroundings.

  ‘B-B-Ben?’ said Djinn from above his head.

  He looked up, and could just make out a small, slightly less black square in the ceiling. He reached up to touch it, and found that if he stood on his tiptoes he could grab the ledge.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’m all right. I’m going to find The Seraph.’

  ‘Bet you wish you had me with you now, you git!’ yelled Kartofel.

  With his arms out in front of him, Ben edged forward. The walls were covered in wooden panels, the same familiar texture as the Box. Wherever he was, it was narrow. He began to edge his way along, shuffling through the passage, hands pressed up against the walls as he made his way into the Darkness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Into the Darkness

  He did not know how long he spent walking around. He could not remember how far he had come, or how long it was since he had dropped through the hatch. It seemed like a long time. All he knew was that a moment ago he was groping along the corridor in the dark, just like the moment before that and the moment before that.

  His arms and legs started to grow heavy, and he became tired of walking. His feet ached. The corridor was endless. He plodded on, feeling no variation in the wood as he stumbled along.

  And then he saw it. It was a speck at first, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. He willed himself onward, his limbs doing their best to move as quickly as he commanded them. As he approached the light, he started to feel a little warmer, a little more hopeful. He stopped and blinked at it a few times, but the light did not stop: it kept growing as it moved towards him. He realized that it was the green light, and even as he felt it shine on him, he was aware that it could take its love away as easily as it gave it out. The thought of being stuck in the Darkness and feeling that wretched terrified him.

  The light was soon strong enough to illuminate the corridor. Ben’s eyes whizzed around the passage, taking in as much as he could. He saw that he had not long passed another trapdoor in the ceiling. His thoughts were like lightning: the closer the light got, the clearer he was able to think. It was no wonder that he had not found a way out of the Darkness if the exits were all up there.

  He turned and ran for the gap in the ceiling. He leaped up to it, like a basketball player, and was amazed by his own athleticism. He took hold of the ledge, and pulled him himself up, popping his head into a murky grey room lit by a single candle flame.

  ‘That was quick,’ said the flame. ‘Did you find the winged wally?’

  Ben dropped down. He could not believe that for all the time he had spent in the dark, he had travelled so short a distance. But he could not afford to dwell on it. The green ball was still shining its way towards him, but now it was much closer. Ben ran in the opposite direction, feeling its heat on his back as he went. The radiation was feeding him, making him run faster, his confidence growing as he tore down the corridor, not daring to look back. The hotter it got, the closer it was; the closer it got, the more he believed he could outrun it.

&nbs
p; He saw the thick oaken door too late. As each long stride brought him closer, and his stopping distance got shorter, all he could do was bring his arms up in front of his face as he hurtled into it.

  To his surprise, it swung open easily, and he fell through into a large octagonal chamber with a high domed ceiling. It was lit by hundreds of candles, sitting in iron chandeliers suspended from the roof. It looked and smelt like a cathedral. He pulled up abruptly, skidding along the thick burgundy carpet as he did.

  And then the light hit him at full speed.

  It was the best thing that had ever happened to him. It was the best thing that had ever happened. He felt life in every part of him, in every muscle. Body and mind erupted in happiness, and positivity, and health.

  And when it was gone, when the full force of the light had torn through him and moved on, then came the crash. He felt utterly alone, and all he could do was lie on the floor and wait to grow old and die.

  He heard his name being called, but he felt so pathetic that he was ashamed to answer. Nevertheless, the voice continued, insistent. He managed to summon the strength from somewhere to press his palms against his ears but it didn’t work very well. He wished he hadn’t bothered.

  ‘What?’ he yelled. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Ben, you must rise. Time is short.’

  He thought he recognized the voice, but still didn’t want to get up. He pressed his hands harder into his ears, and still he heard it: ‘Ben. Ben. Ben.’

  At last, the speaker got the message, and stopped. Ben breathed out, and took his hands away. As soon as he did, the voice began to sing ‘Abide With Me’. Ben recognized it as another dusty old hymn from school, to be endured or ignored. It had never meant anything to him.

  Until now.

  The voice was so clear and beautiful that he felt full up with it. Energized, he pulled himself up off the floor, and scanned the room for the source of the voice.

  ‘Ben,’ it said. ‘I am in here.’ Like the dark corridor, the walls in the new room were covered in deep red wooden panels. The carpet was more like a rug, and was cut into a neat octagon in the centre of the room, an island surrounded by a moat of varnished floorboards. He could see a door in the far wall. It was small – Ben would need to duck to pass through it – with a wooden handle and a tiny letterbox window in the centre of it.

  ‘Ben, please. We are running out of time.’

  He ran towards the door and peered in through the slit. The Seraph was standing in the middle of a small room, his clothes torn, his wings in tatters.

  ‘Open the door,’ said The Seraph. ‘Quickly. I am weak.’

  Ben pushed hard, but it would not budge. He threw his full weight behind it, jumping at it, trying to break it down, without success.

  ‘How do I open it?’ he called out in frustration.

  ‘Pull?’ said The Seraph. Ben did so, and the door swung open easily. The floor inside was stone, but the walls and ceiling were all covered in the same wooden panelling as everywhere else.

  The Seraph’s face was bisected by a huge scar which ran from the back of his head, down between his eyes, and through his nose. His robes were torn open at the chest, and he was covered in claw marks. Ben threw his arms around him. The angel winced, and recoiled from the embrace. As he pulled away, embarrassed, Ben saw that The Seraph was carrying a more serious injury: what had once been his hand was now more like a paw, the fingers dissolved almost to the knuckle.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It is the wood. I cannot touch the wood. It is like the Box itself,’ said The Seraph. ‘I tried to open the door, and this happened. How long have I been here, in Worldly time?’

  ‘About a month.’

  ‘So short a time? I was afraid we had missed our chance.’

  ‘Time is a bit funny in here, I think,’ said Ben. ‘I was wandering around for hours and I only moved a few steps.’

  ‘Then we have no time to lose. I will need you to lead the way.’

  Ben gulped. ‘I don’t know if I can. It’s very dark in there.’

  ‘I will take care of that,’ said the angel, and his aura throbbed, like a light bulb warming up. ‘Lead on.’

  Ben stooped out of the open doorway, making sure to hold the door for The Seraph, who roared in pain as he passed through; his wings could not help but brush the frame. Once he had crossed the stone threshold, he was faced with another challenge: a wide stretch of red wooden floor between him and the carpet. He extended his wings as best he could, and hopped into the air. It was like watching a duckling learning to fly; he lacked the strength to make anything other than an extended jump. He landed in a squat at the edge of the carpet, and had to take a moment before he could stand. Ben instinctively went to help, but was waved away with a flick of the angel’s withered hand.

  ‘We must continue,’ said The Seraph. ‘Show me the door.’

  A splash of liquid hit Ben’s head. He looked up, and a few further drops hit his face. ‘I think it’s starting to rain,’ he said as he wiped the water away. He held it out for The Seraph to see.

  ‘Indeed,’ said The Seraph. ‘I assume that it was some kind of ritual that brought you here?’

  ‘The druids. They were saluting the tide.’

  ‘Very well. Things are about to get very wet.’ As if on cue, water began to run down from the centre of the ceiling, like a tap had been turned on. ‘Run to the door and hold it open. I will leap across as best I can.’

  Ben nodded. There was a sudden roar, and murky green water began to cascade into the chamber, stinking of salt and sewage. In no time at all it was at knee height, and rising quickly. Ben waded through the water, and pulled the door open. The Seraph ran, and jump-flew into a roll as he dived over the wooden floor and into the Darkness. Ben dashed in after him, and slammed the door.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We run,’ said The Seraph. ‘Where is the exit?’

  ‘There’s a hatch in the ceiling somewhere up ahead.’

  ‘I will look out for it.’ The Seraph started to run, his wings scraping against the wood panelling as he went: if it hurt, he did not show it. He did not stop. The only indication that it was affecting him at all were the floating embers of burned feathers that sprayed out behind him as he ran.

  They heard a creaking sound from deep in the bowels of the blackness. It reverberated around the halls, chasing after them. The door to the octagonal chamber was getting ready to burst.

  ‘How much further?’ said The Seraph.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ben, ‘look for Kartofel’s light.’

  ‘I think I see it.’

  Ben craned his head over the angel’s wings, looking for the small grey square in the ceiling. The Seraph suddenly stopped, and Ben crashed into his back. It was like running into a wall: The Seraph did not move, and Ben bounced backwards.

  ‘It is not the light we are looking for,’ said The Seraph. ‘It is the light of the Box, look!’

  The speck had appeared on the horizon, and was shooting towards them at a tremendous pace, seemingly growing in size as it did.

  ‘We can still reach the hatch in time,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s go!’

  The Seraph turned, and Ben saw genuine terror in his face. ‘That light is the Box in its purest form. It will erase me from the Creation.’

  Behind them, the creaking sound became a belch as the door splintered and vomited out torrents of water. It rushed towards them, splashing up the sides of the corridor.

  ‘We need to go now,’ yelled Ben. ‘If we don’t the water will push . . .’

  The Seraph snatched Ben up before he could finish his sentence. He ran a few paces before diving forward, unfurling his wings as best he could. He soared towards the light, yelling out in the celestial tongue. He banked to one side, so as to avoid brushing his wings.

  ‘There it is!’ said Ben, pointing up to the square in the ceiling. The Seraph thrust Ben forward with his good arm, and he clung to the ledge, his chin resting on his
folded arms as he tried to pull himself up.

  ‘About time,’ said Kartofel. ‘Can we go home now?’

  Ben felt the press of wings on his back. The Seraph was also dangling from the ledge. The water rushed past them, rocking them both. Ben kicked his legs, trying to find purchase to hoist himself up. His feet were starting to get warm as the green light approached: his body tingled.

  ‘Help me,’ said Ben.

  ‘What do you want me to do? I’m chained to the wall, remember?’ said Kartofel.

  Ben gasped. ‘I can’t get up,’ he called to The Seraph, but there was no reply. The angel was being overwhelmed; Ben was his only shield from the light, and the water was pushing them closer all the time. If they were to hit it, it would not be long before Ben would feel hopeless, and in all likelihood drop off the ledge into the dark water to be swept away into the bowels of the Box forever.

  But first he felt a rush of positivity. The light was making him more determined, and he reached out for anything he could use to pull himself up. He pawed blindly at the floor, the water beneath drenching him, threatening to pull him away at any moment.

  His hand found bone. Orff had managed to slump himself along the floor so that he was lying flat, and had kicked his legs out towards the trapdoor. Ben grabbed Orff’s ankle with both hands and pulled himself up. The demon’s beak groaned open in mute agony, but he did not withdraw the leg, or kick: he kept it tense, allowing Ben to scramble up through the hole in the floor.

  He should have been terrified, but he had no time for that. He took hold of The Seraph’s good arm and hauled him up through the gap. He heard the sound of bones cracking as the angel’s wings met the resistance of the stone floor.

  ‘We have to get out,’ gasped The Seraph.

  ‘The demons are chained,’ said Ben.

  ‘Why should that matter?’ said The Seraph. ‘Let us open the lid and make our escape.’