Old Flames, Burned Hands

by McGregor, Tim

  “Why are you still here?”

  She knelt down to his level, forcing him to see her. “I know you’re angry but something’s happened. It isn’t safe to stay here right now. Pack a bag and get Molly and go.”

  “Why, so you can have the house to yourself? Get out.”

  “Listen to me!” She knocked the tumbler away and it clunked across the floor. “You and Molly are in danger.”

  “Hoopdee-doo. Like this shitty situation could get any worse.” He turned the volume back up and then took the scotch by the neck and stood the bottle on his knee. “My house, my rules. My Alamo.”

  Tilda lowered her head, hashing her brains for some way to get through to him in his state. Stone sober, her reasons for leaving sounded absurd. What story could she concoct to convince him now?

  “She’s telling you the truth.”

  The voice grumbled up behind them and Tilda’s gut ran cold. Gil stood in the doorway, leaning up against the jamb. “You’re not safe here. You need to get your daughter and find somewhere else to spend the night.”

  Shane’s jaw just hung there, eyes piebald, trying to process what he was seeing. His gaze rolled slowly from the intruder to his wife. “You brought him here? Into our home? How cruel can you be?”

  The confusion and pain in his eyes was unbearable. “Shane…” she uttered. It was all she could think of to say.

  Shane launched out of the chair with the bottle tight in his fist. Winding up like a pitcher he hurled it at the interloper. “Get the fuck out of my house!”

  Gil ducked the spinning missile. It sprayed him with scotch as it dented the wall and clattered to the ground. Wiping the mess from his face, he glanced up to see Shane charge at him like a toro.

  Shane slammed the homewrecker into the wall. Locked his hands around his throat to crush the bastard’s windpipe. His teeth gnashed at every obscenity he could muster. “Cocksucking-son of a bitch-piece of shit-faggot!”

  Gil grimaced but he made no move to stop the man from trying to kill him. “Let go of me.”

  “Stop it!” Tilda pulled Shane off but her husband was a rigid column of rage, unstoppable and superhuman.

  “Fucking kill you motherfucker…” Shane’s eyes glassed out in hatred, lost to reason and his snarls reduced to a single word, ‘kill’, uttered over and over like a mantra.

  Gil’s slammed him away. Shane caterwauled back into the Lazyboy and he and his chair toppled over. The Fleetwood on the turntable jumped and the needle skipped from Dreams to the chorus of Go Your Own Way.

  Tilda shrieked at Gil to stop and rushed to Shane.

  Shane wheeled to his feet with one hand clutching his ribs. Tilda reached out to help him up but he pushed her away and squared his eyes on Gil. A lopsided grin on his face. “Round two, asshole.”

  Gil raised his palm. “No more.”

  “You wrecked my life. My family. You think you can get away with that shit?” Shane lurched for the fireplace and rattled the poker from its stand, brandishing it like a weapon. “There’s a price to pay, asshole. And I’m gonna flay it from your hide.”

  “Enough!” Tilda stood between the two men, arms outstretched like a referee. “Both of you.”

  “Get out of the way, Tilda” Shane snapped.

  “No.” Tilda motioned to the weapon in Shane’s hand. “Put that thing down.”

  Gil turned away, no stomach left for fighting. “This is hopeless.”

  “Don’t you turn your back on me,” Shane barked. “Step into the light, asshole! Let me see your face.”

  Tilda blocked his way. “Put the poker down.”

  “No,” he snarled at his wife. “I wanna see his face. Or do you wanna bullshit me some more about this being your dead boyfriend!” He stepped around his wife and barked at the figure skulking in the shadows. “Face me, you son of a bitch! Have the balls to look me in the eye.”

  Gil obliged, stepping into the thin light of the lamp.

  Shane’s eyes crinkled in confusion, the weapon in his hand falling to his side. He had seen pictures of Gil, old snapshots that Tilda kept in a box along with other Polaroids from her life before they were married. The man standing in his living room was the same as the one in those old snaps. He looked to Tilda. “What the hell… This is some kinda sick joke.”

  “It’s not a joke,” she said.

  The record on the turntable came to an end. The arm swung the needle back to its cradle with a clunk and the turntable shut down. The room went silent.

  Gil spoke softly. “Shane, the circumstances are weird. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you got hurt in all this.”

  Shane flinched as if stung. Something about this man uttering his name flushed blood to his eyeballs. He charged, swinging the iron at the bastard’s skull with enough power to crush it like an egg.

  Gil dodged and the poker cracked his forearm as he blocked the strike. He grabbed for the iron but Shane was too fast. He pivoted round and smacked the rod square onto his enemy’s ear. Gil dropped to one knee, his ear split in two and blood trickling fast down his neck. Shane was already winding up for another swing when Gil lashed out.

  Gil rocketed forward and stove Shane’s head into the wall. He heard Tilda screaming but it was all white noise now. He pinned Shane’s neck to the sheetrock and his lips curled back over his sharp teeth.

  All Shane saw was a leering devil face, teeth gnashing an inch from his nose. Things clarified in an instant. Long dead Gil Dorsey was neither ghost nor hoax. No shared spectral mirage; he was something far far worse.

  Tilda pushed herself between them and Gil backed off. Shane slid to the floor, clutching his bruised throat. She knelt before her husband. Shane recoiled at her touch then gripped her arm in a vise. “Stay away from him, Tilda. He’s fucking evil.”

  “Easy,” she cooed. “Take a breath.”

  He clamped onto her wrist. “He’s not human, Tilda…”

  “I know what he is.”

  “No, you don’t! He’s a monster. What have you done? You brought this monster into our lives? Our home?” He pushed her away as if she was diseased. His face caught somewhere between terror and revulsion.

  Tilda shivered. The flesh on the back of her arms goosed at the chill but it wasn’t just her husband’s disgust that brought on the shudder. The temperature in the room had dropped suddenly, fogging her breath in a vapour.

  The single lamp winked out, as did the ambient light from the hallway. The whole house going dark at once. Shane and Gil both disappeared in the pitch.

  “Gil?” she pleaded. “What’s happening?”

  She heard his footsteps creak the wood floor. Then his silhouette framed up against the light in the picture window.

  “They’re here,” he said.

  THE HOUSE ACROSS THE STREET went dark, the lights flicking off like a power outage. The house adjacent to it blacked out. Standing at the picture window, Tilda watched the streetlights of Neptune Avenue wink out one-by-one like blown out candles.

  “The whole street’s gone dark,” she murmured.

  “What the hell?” Shane crossed to the wall switch and flicked it up and down but no light came. “Who’s they?”

  Tilda lurched for the phone. Stabbed 911 into the keypad. “I’m calling the police.”

  Gil locked the front door. “They won’t get here in time.”

  “Who’s out there?” Shane barked, enraged at being ignored.

  “Dangerous people,” Gil said. “Do you have a gun?”

  “A gun? No, I don’t have a gun. Who are these people?”

  The dispatcher’s voice crackled over the phone, asking for the nature of the emergency. Tilda stifled the panic in her throat and blurted out that she was in danger and needed the police immediately. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  “Stay calm, ma’am.” The dispatcher’s voice was tinny and dispassionate through the receiver. “What is your address and how many people are with you?”

  “I’m on Neptune Avenue. Number twenty-s
even. There’s three of us here.”

  “Do you know who these people are?”

  “No. They tried to kill us earlier.”

  “Are there any children in the house?”

  “Yes. No. My daughter’s not here. Are you sending someone?”

  “The police are on their way—”

  Noise broke over their heads. The tinkle of shattering glass followed by a thud from the upstairs bedroom.

  Gil looked at the ceiling. “They’re in the house.”

  “Oh God,” Tilda pleaded into the phone. “Please hurry. They’re inside now.”

  “Son of a bitch. Who the hell is this?” Shane marched for the stairs.

  Tilda grabbed his arm. “Don’t go up there.”

  “And let them just break in? Screw that.”

  “Listen to her, Shane. You don’t want to mess with them.” Gil took the phone from Tilda and set it down on the table without hanging up. The dispatcher’s voice crackled on like the buzzing of a housefly.

  A new sound, the racket of more breaking glass but this time coming from the back of the house. The snap of wood as the backdoor was blown in.

  “Goddamnit!” Shane paced in frustration.

  Tilda clutched at Gil. “What do we do? Should we run?”

  “No. Stay together. If we can hold them off until the police come, we’ll be okay. The coven will scatter when they hear the sirens.”

  “Coven?” Shane blanched. He dug his cellphone from his pocket and activated the tiny flashlight. The thin beam arced over the door leading to the hallway. Nothing moved. He swept the light across the floor until he found the fireplace poker he’d lost. He scooped it up, held it high. “Who are these assholes?”

  “That’s what we need.” Gil reached for another fireplace tool but found only the dustpan. Snapping the pan away, he handed the iron rod to Tilda. “Aim for the face. The eyes, if you can.”

  Their breath misted in the throw of the tiny flashlight. The walls ticked and creaked around them as the temperature dropped. A rumbling underfoot, as if a subway train was blasting through the cellar. The floor rattled, the walls shook. Picture frames dropped from their hooks and crystal tumbled from the shelves. The whole house was under attack, as if the nightmarish things outside wanted to shake the structure from its roots and plow the walls in.

  “Jesus Christ.” Shane jawed the air in disbelief.

  And then it stopped and the house stilled. A pane of glass tumbled from the cracked sideboard and chimed against the floor.

  Tilda reached for Gil. “Are they gone?”

  “No.” Gil nodded at the phone in Shane’s hand. “When they come, shine that light into their eyes. It will blind them.”

  Shane froze. “Do you hear that?”

  A low scratching sound, impossible to pinpoint its source. Shane aimed the light at the hallway. There was nothing there but the grating noise grew louder. Closer.

  “Shane,” Tilda whispered. “Look up.”

  He swung the weak beam up. The thing overhead scrabbled across the ceiling like some demented crab. Its wretched face gibbered at them, black drool stringing from its diseased lips.

  The flashlight fell to the floor. The vampire dropped onto Shane, flattening him. He screamed out in terror, a sound his wife had never heard until now.

  Tilda swung the rod, cracking it against the monster’s back. Zero effect. It pushed Shane down and popped its lamprey teeth, drizzling dark spittle across his face.

  Gil kicked it off, tumbling the thing away. Its pale eyes radiated hatred but its shriek of betrayal was cut as Gil attacked it, stomping its head underfoot until the skull imploded in a balloon-burst of gore like a blighted pumpkin.

  Something shot out of the dark and freight-trained Gil into the wall.

  Tilda ran to help him, the iron swinging up, but a dark shape erupted from the floor and its withered scarecrow face gibbered at her. She swung hard but the thing batted the weapon away and smacked her to the ground. Her back walloped flat to the hardwood, knocking the wind from her lungs. The wraith curled back its dark lips and lunged at her throat.

  It stopped when the cold iron pierced its skull. Shane speared the poker through its ear. It tumbled leeways off Tilda, poisoned blood spraying from its eardrums. Shane threw his shoulder into the thrust, driving it further in until the wraith twitched and flopped like a spastic.

  Tilda flailed away from the geyser of blood and rolled to her feet. Shane set his heel against the thing’s skull and jerked the weapon free. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” She scanned the darkness. “Where’s Gil?”

  Shane cursed. The crashing, thumping row of a struggle filled the air but all Tilda could see was the monstrosity charging at them from the hallway. And then another, crab-walking across the ceiling towards them.

  Tilda dove over the sofa to get away, felt its claw rake her shin. The sofa lifted clean off the floor as the thing tossed it from its path. It roared at her and Tilda kicked out. She backed hard into one wall then slid into another. Cornered, the wraith closed in.

  Her flailing hands bumped the framed mirror above her and something Gil had said hitched at her memory. She wrenched the mirror from the wall and swung it before her like a shield. The vampire reared back like a spooked horse, twisting away as if blinded.

  It worked. The thing slithered this way and that to avoid its reflection but Tilda adjusted the angle and pressed forward. It hissed and flailed to get away and as she pushed on, the thing backed right into Gil.

  Gil ducked its flailing claws, snatched up the iron rod Tilda had dropped and plunged it hilt-deep into the monster’s ribs. It bansheed in pain and lashed at his head. Gil plucked the weapon free and stabbed it again and again in rapidfire blows that painted blood over the walls and opened the thing’s chest into a wet wreckage of gore. The monster flopped to the ground and steam billowed up from its twisted shape. Tilda turned away from the noxious stench that issued from it as the undead thing putrefied before her eyes into a bubbling mass of inky filth.

  The flush of victory was quashed short as Tilda watched two more of the coven drop from the ceiling. One roared at her like some hellish primate and this time she was the one backing away, the mirror shield barely keeping the thing at bay. She glanced at Gil only to see him swarmed by two others.

  Chaos erupted on her left. Shane was backed into the far corner, swinging the poker madly to keep another vampire at bay. The wraith seemed to be toying with him, waiting for Shane to give out in exhaustion.

  Shane cried out for help, his voice raw with panic.

  Gil, across the room and outnumbered three to one, called her name.

  Pierced into an impossible choice of whom to save, Tilda froze up. Gil. Shane. The horrid little voice in her head woke and rubbed its hands at her dilemma.

  This is what you get for thinking you can have your cake and eat it too.

  Who’s it going to be?

  “Tilda!” one of them screamed. She couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

  Gil could handle himself, she decided. It was the only way. Shane was failing and the monster was already batting him around like a cat with a mouse.

  Driving the one before her away, she ran to help Shane and already knew the choice was wrong. Either choice would be wrong. She shrieked at the thing menacing her husband and it spun to receive a face full of mirror and shrank back. Shane broke the poker across its eyes. It flailed, clawing the air blind while averting its reflection.

  She heard her name ring out again. Surrounded by three shadowy wraiths, Gil lashed out madly to drive them back but was losing ground at every step. A fourth and then a fifth shadow dropped into the fray and Gil stumbled and it was all over. He fell to one knee and the coven pressed the advantage. The things swarmed in and Gil vanished in a void of ragged cloaks and ripping claws.

  As Gil was lost in a writhing scrum, one wraith remained apart, observing. Its countenance haughty, more ravaged and alien than the rest. The rector of this god
forsaken clan of monsters. Tilda felt her heart stop as the chieftain raised its dead gaze from the chaos to lock onto her own widened eyes. Its dark lips curled back in a pervert’s leer of anticipation.

  Caught offguard, the blinded vampire before her struck out in a wild swing and shattered the mirror. The glass fell in a twinkling mosaic, the frame splitting. The thing gnashed its teeth and Tilda flung back defenceless.

  Shane batted for the thing’s head, putting all he had into his swing. The vampire took the blow, blood squirting from its ears. It lashed out on the backswing and hurtled Shane into the wall. The impact shook the house and Tilda watched her husband slip to the floor like a broken puppet. He didn’t move.

  A ringing sound stung her ears, growing louder and louder until she realized it wasn’t a burst eardrum but a police siren. Red lights flashed in the picture window, strobing the walls scarlet. The coven, illuminated in the blinking light, retreated like cockroaches.

  Where was Gil?

  Slumped on the floor in a bloodied heap. His eyes wheeled drunkenly until they landed on Tilda. He reached out for her. Tilda dove for his outstretched hand but the wraiths sunk their claws into him and, for the second time in her life, Gil Dorsey was dragged away from her. The coven slithered back into the darkness with their prize and vanished one by one. Gil’s fingernails raked down the hardwood, flailing at something, anything to latch onto but there was nothing and then he too was swallowed up by the shadows.

  The front door crashed open, two uniformed officers storming into the room. One held her palm over the butt of her holstered weapon but the other gripped his service issue in both hands, sweeping the barrel over the room.

  He lowered the sidearm when he saw the woman on her knees in a mess of broken glass, her head hung low and her shoulders wracking in sobs.

  “Ma’am?” The officer spoke softly, careful not to spook the distraught woman.

  The first officer thumbed on her flashlight and swept the beam over the catastrophe of the family room. It appeared as if a cyclone had spun everything in the room and flung it against the walls.

  “Holy cow,” she said.