Edging forward, he kept staring at the red light. It had to be the television. It just had to be. It couldn’t be anything else …
He reached out for the door handle, twisting it left, then right, then left again. It was always stiff and took a few tries to open. This time though it was taking longer than usual, and he thought about his dad and how he spent more time with his clocks than doing something useful like the occasional repair job round the house.
Eventually the handle clicked and the door eased open, whispering across a well-worn arc in the carpet on the floor on the other side.
The smell and the heat took Lazarus’s breath away. He stumbled backwards, coughing.
‘Mate, what’s going on?’ said Craig, and this time he actually sounded concerned. ‘Is it rats?’
‘I…don’t know…’ Lazarus replied, and walked into the room.
The curtains were drawn, the darkness warm. An orange-red glow burned the walls from a fire roaring in the grate. The air had a tang of burned wood. But it was also filled with the reek that was almost making his eyes bleed.
‘So what was it?’ asked Craig. ‘TV?’
Lazarus was staring at the fire, couldn’t pull his eyes away from it, knew he hadn’t lit it.
‘Listen man,’ he said, his words drying in his throat, his brain close to short-circuiting, ‘I’ll call you back, OK?’
He cut the call before he had a chance to hear Craig’s reply. Then, as he slowly lowered the phone from his ear, he looked away from the fireplace, allowing his eyes to adjust to the reddish darkness in the room. Soon, things took shape: the sideboard, television, sofa, piano. It all looked very normal.
All, that was, except for the dark shadow, sitting in the wooden rocking chair closest to the fire, which turned to face him.
3 Bloody Wounds
Lazarus screamed.
Not like a girl. Not like a child. But like someone who had come face to face with something that demanded a scream as the only possible response.
The figure’s body was bathed in firelight, the rocking chair horribly still. Its head was bald, the skin ripped away in strips and in places Lazarus, horrified and scared beyond anything he’d ever experienced in his life before, could see the milky glow of bone. Its ears were gone, nothing more than stumps that looked like melted candles. The face was a mass of tears and cuts, slicing across it this way and that, the nose severed in half. The mouth had no lips; just great, bloody wounds where they looked like they had been torn off. Its teeth reflected the fire.
The phone clattered from Lazarus’s nerveless fingers. He pulled his eyes away, stumbled backwards, slammed into the wall, knocked his head. He turned to the lounge door, the only exit, to see the door slowly click shut. He tried to move, force his legs to drag him towards it, but his body refused to shift. Then he looked back to the thing in the lounge and found he couldn't draw his eyes away this time, no matter how much he wanted to.
Lazarus couldn’t yet tell if the thing was male or female, but it was definitely naked, or so he guessed. He couldn’t see any clothes, not unless they, like the rest of its body, were covered – no, drenched – in blood. From there on down, the figure was stripped of most of its skin. He could see individual muscles and tendons tensing, relaxing. And around the figure's feet, as they rested together on the floor, a dark pool was spreading.
But as Lazarus stared, it seemed that the thing was healing itself. He could see new skin forming, creeping fresh and pink across exposed wounded flesh and muscle, covering up veins and arteries, stemming the flow of blood. It was a slow process, but it was definitely happening. With hideous fascination, he stared as the body took form in front of him.
Lazarus’s skin was clammy and his heart was battering at his ribs; he was seconds away from throwing up. He didn’t give a crap who or what this was in his house – he just wanted to get the hell out, and fast.
‘I’m sorry I frightened you,’ said the figure.
To Lazarus the voice sounded hollow, like an echo in a tunnel, but it was definitely male.
‘I had to come now, before it’s too late.’
‘Too late for what?’ said Lazarus, ready to bolt. ‘Who are you? What the hell happened to you?’
He couldn’t stop staring. Whoever this being was, his body was a total wreck. How was he even still alive?
‘Hell happened to me,’ said the man, and his face broke into a horrible grin, like a frozen death mask.
‘Hell? What are you talking about?’
Lazarus was beyond terrified now. He didn’t even know why he was talking, why he was asking questions.
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard of it,’ said the man. ‘Only forget all that myth about the devil and pits of fire. That’s got nothing on the reality of the place. Trust me.’
Looking at him, that was the last thing Lazarus thought he would ever do. But he couldn’t help thinking that whoever he was and wherever he was from, he sounded like he knew exactly what he was talking about.
Lazarus asked, ‘How did you get in? I’ll call the police!’
The man made a sound like a laugh. It rattled like grit in a tin.
‘What do you know of death, Lazarus?’
The question hit Lazarus hard. He felt dazed by it, and angry. ‘My mom was killed in a car accident,’ he said, spitting each word. ‘That’s what I know about it. It’s the end. And there ain’t no coming back.’ He could feel the anger getting the better of him, but he did his best to maintain some control. ‘So why don’t you just get the hell out of here and leave me alone? What are you – some kind of self-harming freak who likes to turn up in people’s houses and scare them into believing in an afterlife? In God?’
The man laughed again. Only this time, much louder. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to scare anyone to believe it. They believe it when they see it. All of them do. Now, tell me – where is your father?’
Dad? thought Lazarus. What the ... ‘What’s he got to do with this?’
‘Everything,’ said the man. He stood up so quickly that Lazarus gasped. Every movement of his body was sharp and jagged, like his bones kept seizing up. ‘Where is he?’
‘Away on business,’ said Lazarus.
Suddenly he felt all the more afraid; he’d just let on that he was home alone. What would this nutjob do now, knowing that no one else was in the house?
‘Really …’
Lazarus heard the disbelief in the visitor’s voice. The man bent over, grabbed a log and threw it on the fire. Smoke and flame burst from the fireplace, scorching the darkened room. A yellow-hot ember shot from the grate and landed on the carpet. Lazarus watched as the man leant forward and crushed it between his fingers, flicking the ash off into the fireplace. He then reached up with his left hand and wiped away a drop of blood from beneath his right eye. Fresh skin lay under the blood, covering up a section of his face. But those lips were still raw, completely ruined.
'I shall not harm you,' said the man, ’but I have no time for pleasantries. Your father, Lazarus. I must speak with him.'
Lazarus was horrified – he was sure he’d never said his name, not once. ‘How do you know my name?’
The man just stared at Lazarus, rubbing his red, sticky hands together over the flames. The fire spat as the drops of blood from his hands fell into it. He leant his head forward, almost like he was praying, then he looked up at himself in the flickering reflection of the large, gilt mirror that hung above the fireplace. Lazarus could see a large bloody stain on the rocking chair.
’I know everyone’s name,’ said the man. Lazarus heard menace behind those words. ‘If it helps, I will tell you mine. I am Red. It is such a beautiful colour, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t care,’ said Lazarus, and he could hear himself choking up. God, he was scared … terrified … ‘Whatever your name is, just get out! Leave me alone!’
‘If your father is not here,’ said Red, ignoring Lazarus, ‘then you will have to give him a message for
me. I cannot wait and I cannot risk returning. As you can see from the way I look, I suffered enough for it just this once. And it took me two attempts to push through. Will you do that for me, Lazarus?’
Lazarus tried to gain some comfort from the sensation of the cold wall against his back, colder now thanks to his sweat freely running down it. What did Red mean by two attempts to push through? Lazarus remembered that stench and the nausea he’d felt – was all that to do with Red? But how? And was Red really saying he’d suffered all those injuries trying to visit his dad?
Instead of moving to leave, Red looked up at the mirror. With the index finger of his left hand, he drew two circles, a small one inside one much larger, like a fat ring doughnut. He placed a finger outside the lines, left a bloody dot. ‘This is your world, Lazarus. Where we are right now. But this…’ he pointed inside the first circle, ‘this is the land of the Dead.’
Lazarus could taste tears now. This Red guy was clearly insane. Land of the Dead? That was the stuff of horror movies, the kind of junk Craig would go nuts for.
Red still wasn’t leaving. Lazarus was really beginning to fear for his life. Why couldn’t this happen when his dad was home? When he had some back-up?
Red pointed at the smaller circle, sitting inside the larger. ‘And this,’ he said, ‘is Hell.’
Lazarus stared at the bloody, dripping lines etched on to the mirror. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ he said, ‘or what this has to do with my dad. Why are you here? Why the hell are you here?’
Red pointed at the rings. ‘These veils stop our worlds colliding,’ he said. ‘Now and then the Dead slip through.’
‘You mean ghosts?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Red. ‘But they’re few and far between. Easy to find, easy to send back.’
‘You’re still not making any sense,’ said Lazarus, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. ‘What’s this got to do with my dad?’
Red started to smudge the outer circle. ‘Think,’ he said, ‘what would happen if the veils started to fail. Can you imagine what it would be like? If the Dead could cross over easily? If Hell was set free? Because if the Dead break free, Lazarus, believe me – Hell is coming.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Lazarus screamed. ‘I don’t understand!’
Red stopped smudging the bloody lines and looked at Lazarus. ‘Your father is the Keeper, Lazarus,’ he said. ‘He sends back the Dead when they slip through.’
4 Rotten Breath
‘Shut up!’ yelled Lazarus, finally losing control. ‘Please, just shut up, will you? My dad’s in security! He advises on safes and alarms! He’s the dullest person I know! Hell? The Dead? What do you take me for? If you’re here to murder me, then give it your best shot, but please just stop talking such total crap!’
Lazarus pushed himself away from the wall, bunched his fists. At that minute all he wanted to do was smash the freak hard in the face and destroy that horrible stare. Instead, he turned on his heels and bolted for the door. But when he grabbed the door handle, pain shot through his hand. He yanked it away. A circular burn was scorched into his palm. He could smell burning, like roast pork. It didn’t hurt; it killed. The pain made him yell and he held his wrist with his other hand.
‘I did not ask you to leave,’ said Red, his voice the purr of a lion.
He was pointing at the door. Lazarus realised that the burn in his hand was Red’s doing. He didn’t know how – he just knew, and that in itself was scary enough.
Lazarus could feel panic building inside. He wasn't one for running away from trouble; he was used to being in the middle of it, often the cause. But here, facing Red, he felt trapped and desperate. This man wasn’t a lunatic, he was for real; and something about it all felt very, very wrong.
Red was at the mirror. Lazarus caught the reflection of his eyes. Then, without warning, he saw Red leap with frightening grace and speed from the fireplace and over the armchair. He landed silently and grabbed Lazarus, pinned him to the wall, his sweetly rotten breath making Lazarus want to puke, his shattered face almost touching Lazarus's own.
Red snatched at Lazarus's burned hand. Lazarus tried to pull away, but Red was ferociously strong; it felt like pulling at something welded to solid rock.
'Shush,' said Red. 'Shush ...'
The sound carried through Red’s naked teeth like the hiss of a rattlesnake, then his hand was on Lazarus's burn. Lazarus flinched as Red leaned in, his blood-wet skin glancing off Lazarus’s cheek. The burning in his hand suddenly flared up, but as he screamed, the pain disappeared in an instant.
Red let go of Lazarus’s hand and let it gently fall. He walked back to the fire.
Lazarus looked at his hand. The burn was gone, his hand completely healed.
'How—'
‘Something is wrong, Lazarus,’ said Red. ‘Someone from your side is trying to make a hole in the veil. You cannot imagine how hard it is to fill that hole once it’s dug. They have to be found! They have to be stopped! And your father is the only one with any chance of doing this!’
‘Why would anyone do that?’ asked Lazarus, his brain in full meltdown now.
‘Pity,’ said Red and Lazarus heard venom on his tongue. ‘It was pity the last time, too. It is always pity. The living feeling sorry for the Dead, wanting to cross over, to help.’
‘I can’t listen to this any more,’ said Lazarus. ‘I can’t—’
‘You have to tell your father,’ said Red. ‘It’s as if they know someone is trying to come through from the land of the living. Don’t you understand? The Dead are coming!’
‘Ignoring the fact that you’re talking total bull,’ said Lazarus, still holding his hand, staring at it amazed, ‘it’s got nothing to do with me!’
‘It’s got everything to do with everyone,’ said Red, taking a step towards him.
Lazarus could see bloody, torn footprints on the carpet. Strangely, he wondered how he was going to get them out before his dad came back.
‘I’m not listening,’ said Lazarus. He started to edge back towards the door. ‘Whatever it is you think you’re talking about, or trying to do, I’m not listening.’
‘It cannot be allowed to happen again!’ said Red.
At this, Lazarus stopped in his tracks. ‘What do you mean, again?’
‘When someone dies,’ said Red, his voice quieter, his feet slipping damp smudges across the carpet, ‘they cross the veil. At these points, if the Dead sense it quickly enough, they can slip back while the veil is still weak. And they do.’
‘So how did you get through?’
‘I am not one of the Dead,’ said Red.
‘Then what are you?’ Lazarus shouted, having had more than enough of this insane conversation. ‘A demon? That’s all that’s missing from this, isn’t it? A big demon in your story to really scare me!’
Red roared. The sound forced Lazarus on to his knees, his hands clamped over his ears. It was as if Red’s yell was trying to rip into every molecule in his body, tear them apart. Then Lazarus looked up. What he saw he knew would be burned into his mind for eternity.
He saw wings.
They exploded from Red’s back, bursting out into the room, slamming into the lounge walls. They were beaten and battered and ripped and torn, bloody like crows’ wings attacked by a cat. Impossibly large grey feathers, those that were more than just shredded remains, fluttered with every wing beat.
The right wing crashed through an old bookcase with glass doors, embedding itself into the brickwork behind. Shattered glass fell like hail and the books were hewn into a thousand pieces. The left wing smashed a picture Lazarus had never really liked and scorched a black tear through the wall. Still on his knees, Lazarus ducked out of the way of flying debris, felt it sting him as it rained down.
‘I am one of the Fallen,’ said Red. ‘That is all you need to know. For now.’
A new terror slammed into Lazarus. Was he on about angels now? But that was impossible, just the stuff of
fantasies and fanatics...
He heard himself whimper, 'Don't kill me … please …' his voice breaking.
‘Kill you?’ said Red, and he was up close again, pulling Lazarus to his feet with ease and holding him round the neck against the wall. ‘I’m trying to save you! Just tell your father what I have told you. He will know what to do. Understand?’
‘No,’ said Lazarus, his voice barely a whimper, hissing out over the soft squeeze of Red’s hand on his neck. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’
‘You need to think of the veil like a dam,’ said Red, reaching out to tap the end of a bloody finger on Lazarus’s forehead. ‘Leaks are easy to deal with. But if someone goes and punches a hole in it, you not only get a flood, the whole thing can collapse.’
Lazarus let Red speak, had no choice anyway.
'I could let them win, you know that don't you?' said Red, his fingers slipping slowly from Lazarus’s neck down across his shoulder, on to his arm. 'I could sit back and let them swarm and scorch the Earth.'
'Get off me,' coughed Lazarus, gulping to stop himself throwing up as well as grab some air.
Red’s fingers were gentle, stroking almost. And he was looking at something. Lazarus glanced down and saw those bloody, battered fingers lying directly over the scar on his arm from the car accident. Only now, strangely, the burn looked like faint, torn finger marks.
The air split with a screech like tires on wet road, but it didn’t come from the street. It came from inside the room. Red let go of Lazarus and turned sharply to the shadows in the corner. Lazarus heard bones creak as Red stretched his neck and said, 'My hounds are calling me. I must go.’
A thump of air barged through the lounge. It slammed Lazarus up against the door. He slid to the floor like he’d been hit by a truck as he felt that same sick, dizzy ear-popping sensation he’d experienced in his bedroom and in the dining room.
The darkness in the corner of the room split like a bag filled with water, and Lazarus saw something more terrible than he could ever imagine on the other side.
The Dead Page 2
