A Right Old Fiasco in Borrington

by M W Foolster

  Eyes watering, his head throbbing, he continues to thrash around wildly but is unable to break free. Gabriel forgotten, Ryan screams for help. And then he catches sight of it. The mud encrusted hand emerging through the fog that has a hold of him. Tears roll down his cheeks as he starts to pray, convinced that the dead have come for him, that this is the end. A warm sensation in his groin, thinks he has peed himself but no longer cares. Drained of energy, now too exhausted to struggle, a high pitched scream suddenly fills the air, and with it, the sudden realisation that it came from him. It shocks Ryan into activity. Be damned if he’ll give in to this evil.

  He kicks out at the dead hand but if anything, he can feel its clench tightening. That sends him into a complete frenzy. Now writhing around on the ground, Ryan uses his final reserves of energy in a desperate battle to escape its grip and finally, his foot comes free.

  Clambering to his feet, he stumbles forward in a blind panic, slips and smacks heavily into a gravestone, an agonising pain tearing through his shoulder. Is convinced that the creature is still behind him, its cold, dead hand reaching out for him. Hoists himself to his feet, staggers away, trips again, his knee feeling as though it’s about to explode, back on his feet, disorientated, limping away from the grave. Doesn’t know, or care, what direction to take, just needs to escape the creature. Glances back over his shoulder. And then he sees them. A pair of huge red eyes piercing the blackness. Grits his teeth, mustn’t scream, he just needs to keep running.

  Gabriel smacks the torch against the compacted soil at the bottom of the grave, not that it makes any difference; the batteries are dead. In his frustration, he throws it skywards but doesn’t hear the painful groan as it makes contact with the head of its unsuspecting victim. But torch or not, at least he’s retrieved the carefully wrapped bundle. Smiles at the distinctive feel of the bubble wrap within the large carrier bag, probably not a good idea to open it just yet, can check the contents when he gets it home. Now up on tiptoes, he stretches to reach the edge of the hole. After several failed attempts, he finally manages to get enough of a grip to hoist himself slowly out of the grave. The physical exertion leaves him gasping for air. With one elbow now firmly planted on the edge, Gabriel reaches out with his other hand but can feel his strength slowly ebbing away. In desperation, he scrambles around in the dark for something to grab hold of. Finally, he manages to take hold of something solid, possibly a root, and starts to pull. But the root suddenly gives way, and he’s sliding. Gabriel’s determined to hold on, but can feel his grip loosening. And then comes a sudden sharp pain in his hand that causes him to release the root. He moves his hand around in a desperate attempt to find it again, but it has gone, and there's just nothing else to grab hold of. He shouts out in frustration as he finds himself falling back down into the grave. An ear piercing scream from above ringing in his ears, thinks a woman’s scream, but what can he do? Tired, exhausted, his heart pounding in his chest, he sits huddled in the corner, peering up at the diminishing light.

  Toby rams the mobile back into his pocked having read the text from Ryan, swearing as he does so. Always the same with his brother, the impetuous bloody idiot. It would make far more sense to wait for him but no, that’s far too easy.

  Toby stares hopelessly at the endless rows of headstones, but where do you even begin? He wanders aimlessly back the way he’d come, pulling the mobile from his jeans, constantly glancing down at it. Be pointless replying, Ryan would only ignore him, but he has such a bad feeling about this. Gabriel really didn’t look like somebody Ryan should underestimate, but knowing his brother, well, he will. Forever taking stupid risks and will most likely go charging in like a bull in a china shop. Just never stops to think. Perhaps the pair of them together might be in with a chance, but Ryan on his own…

  Toby drops to his knees, scrambling around on the ground for his mobile, having dropped it on hearing the horrific scream to his right. Mobile safely retrieved, his nerves on edge, he runs in the direction the scream came from.

  Despite constantly slipping on the frozen ground, he covers the distance quickly. Thinks it sounded like a woman screaming but he could be wrong, either way he needs to get there fast. Yet another high pitched screech, perhaps twenty or so feet ahead of him. Head down, he slips and slides his way closer. With the stitch in his side having stopped him in his tracks, he leans forward, panting heavily, his hands on his knees as he struggles to breath. And then he catches sight of a glint of silver beneath the mist, moves closer and bends over it, finds himself staring down at Ryan’s switch blade. Fortunate to have avoided falling into the fog covered grave having passed within inches of the hole, an extremely worried Toby continues in the same direction.

  Having heard yet more footsteps thundering past overhead, Gabriel now has more than enough motivation to get his backside into gear. The distant screams, the slow shuffling sounds now followed by somebody running, knows he needs to get out of here and fast. Adrenalin coursing through his veins, he takes a running leap at the side of the grave, heaves himself free of it and collapses face down on the grass. And then his blood freezes on hearing the whispered voice,

  “Are you there, Satan?”

  Gabriel, too afraid to move, starts shivering violently on hearing the whispered voice becoming more forceful.

  “I can hear you, Satan… Come to me… NOW.”

  Using his elbows as leverage, Gabriel belly crawls towards a large headstone. Now leaning back against it, he once again hears,

  “I know you are there, Satan.”

  A petrified Gabriel sits shaking with fear as the whispered voice seems to be getting ever closer to him.

  “Satan… You will do as I tell you… I am commanding you to come to me... Now.”

  Gabriel’s imagination runs riot. Like most people he’s heard stories about these sorts of practices, but never really took it seriously. Can almost visualise the black robed Satanists stood in a candle lit circle, chanting as they summon the beast from below. And there's always the sacrificial victim. Please don’t let it be him they intend sacrificing, after all, it’s not as though he’s an innocent virgin. Or does that even matter.

  No longer whispering, an angry male voice has Gabriel leaping out of his skin,

  “Satan… I am ordering you to come to me... NOW.”

  Gabriel forces himself back against the headstone, head resting on his knees, eyes closed, praying that they haven't seen him. And then he feels it. A hot fluid trickling slowly down his arm. Scared witless, unable to open his eyes let alone move, his mind in total turmoil, no longer thinking rationally, convinced that it’s the sacrificial blood of some poor virgin running down his skin. Shaking uncontrollably, he finally musters enough inner strength to lower his hands to the ground and slowly ease his body away from the flow of warm liquid. And then comes the excruciating pain in his left hand. Unable to control himself, he shrieks out in agony, and then gasps in shock. He can barely believe his own eyes as he looks down at the small but muscular hound that is ferociously savaging his hand. Razor like teeth clamped down on his flesh, shaking it's head fiercely as it tears at his skin, blood dribbling from its mouth. Overcome by panic and still in shock, he shakes his arm wildly in a desperate attempt to free himself. The silence is now pierced by Gabriel's screams of pain, the ferocious beast having sunk its fangs even deeper. Loses his balance and falls to his knees as he continues to battle with the animal, his bloodied fingers desperately grabbing at the hounds collar as they thrash around together on the frozen ground. Gabriel gasping for air as he fights to free himself, and finally, the animal loosens its grip. Now laying on his back and with his strength rapidly failing, he can barely manage to hold the writhing beast away from his face, red drool dripping from the vicious yellow fangs just inches from his nose. With one final surge of energy, Gabriel thrusts his arms skywards, releasing the hound as he does so. Rolls on to his side just in time to see it hurtling through the air towards the empty grave. Raises himself to his knees as he strug
gles to catch his breath. But any relief felt is short lived.

  Yet again Gabriel's screaming out in fear, but this time it's at seeing the fierce red eyes appearing out of the darkness, and glaring down at him. He exhales deeply as he struggles to his feet, forcing a smile at seeing the dog smack heavily into the red eyed entity with enough force to send it flying backwards into the empty grave; taking the vicious hound from hell with it. He limps towards Butner's gravestone, and bends down to pick up the bag. Gabriel offers a silent prayer of gratitude that his ordeal is finally over, or so he thinks, because his heart is suddenly in his mouth on hearing the deep and rasping voice bellow up from the grave.

  “You are mine and I will devour your soul.” Followed by an evil cackling laughter.

  His hand still dripping blood, Gabriel barely has time to comprehend what's happening before his mouth drops open in shock. A ferocious growling announcing that hound from hell has now returned. On seeing the dog leap free of the grave, Gabriel swears loudly as he turns and runs, the snarling beast giving chase.

  "Are you there Satan?”

  And then DS Fuller finally catches sight of the sodding dog bounding towards a gravestone.

  “I can hear you Satan … Come to me…. NOW.”

  Walking slowly towards the dog so as not to spook him.

  “I know you are there, Satan.”

  He can now see the mutts silhouette clearly and he's no more than a few feet away.

  “Satan… You will do as I tell you… I am commanding you to come to me.... Come here now.”

  But what happens next leaves DS Fuller feeling totally confused. One minute he catches sight of Satan peeing against a gravestone, the next he sees him flying through the air. He’d heard him growling and snarling just prior to that but was unable to see what had had riled him. And then came the blood curdling screams. Admittedly he'd hesitated at that point, and had even contemplated fleeing the scene, but he'd held his nerve. As for the dog, he can only assume that the stupid animal has run off again. And in all honesty it's not as though the dog is his problem. Sure, he feels sorry for Mabel but enough is enough, he can't go charging around looking for the poxy mutt all sodding night. As for Gabriel and the Mohican, not even a sniff, could be anywhere. With his nose running, his eyes watering and now shivering uncontrollably from the bitter cold, he just wants to get the hell out of the sodding place. The DI can come look for himself if he thinks he can do any better. Trudging reluctantly towards the gravestone where he’d last seen the dog, he hears something scratching.

  "Satan is that you? Will you bloody well come here now."

  Getting no response, he is about to give up on the animal but then hears panting,

  "Satan?"

  Listens for a response.

  "What the fuck!"

  Eyes bulging, mouth quivering, he stands rooted to the spot. Starts to wonder if he's about to wake up from a nightmare, this just can't be happening, why is it always him? What can only be described as a floating ghoul with piercing red eyes is fast approaching, and the DS is convinced that he is about to become it's victim. With its long straggly hair, its bone white face, it's vicious pointed teeth protruding from a savage mouth and glowing red eyes it looks as though it has been summoned straight from hell. Having momentarily snapped out of his stupor, he takes several paces backwards and then mouths a silent shriek as the ghoul screams at him,

  “You are mine and I will devour your soul.” Followed by a hideous cackling laugh.

  Too afraid to breath, let alone move, he can only watch on as the ghoul misses him by inches and collides heavily with the headstone next to him, the impact leaving the ghouls head hanging at a forty-five degree angle. Gulps as he hears a loud groan, thinks it sounded human but can't be sure, and that's then followed by a distinctive rattling sound coming from the ghouls head. Gasping with fear as it starts to rise back up into the air, and with his legs now shaking violently, the DI takes hold of the headstone to steady himself. And then it speaks again, only this time faster,

  "You are mine and I will devour your soul.” Laughs and then repeats it again." You are mine and I will devour your soul.” Same laughter.

  Legs like jelly, his heart pounding loudly in his chest and still too afraid to turn his back on this hideous creature, DS Fuller can but stand and stare. He watches as the ghoul wavers around unsteadily, its head bobbing up and down at strange angles, one of its red eyes now flashing sporadically. The flashing eye suddenly disappears into the darkness, leaving just the one red orb peering down at him. But still it repeats over and over.

  "You are mine and I will devour your soul. You are mine and I will devour your soul. You are mine and I will devour your soul.”

  The ghoul suddenly veers off at an angle, seemingly having lost interest in DS Fuller, who has seen enough. A brief glimpse over his shoulder to confirm that the creature isn't following him, and he runs full pelt towards the crumbling mausoleum he'd passed on the way in.

  4 The Day After the Night Before

  Bare feet thumping heavily on a wooden floor shatters the silence. A cold draft whistling in from the open window, he can but stand and watch as the grubby net curtain dances wildly in the breeze. A street lamp casting an eerie orange glow throughout the room. His naked body shivering violently. A merciless hammering piercing his skull. Legs unsteady, body rigid, his head spinning. An overpowering stench of rotting meat filling the air, making it hard to breath, his mouth hanging open, desperately gulping in oxygen. The foul odour working its way deep into his throat, a taste of bile but he mustn't gag.

  Still frozen to the spot. Why won't his legs co-operate? And that incessant drumming. He becomes aware that something is dripping. Listens intently, his eyes drawn to a dark oak unit, TV sat on top. Empty CD cases scattered across it. A glass laying on its side, contents spilt, a small pool of dark liquid snaking it its way slowly across the wooden surface between the CD cases and towards the edge. Large dark blobs thundering mercilessly towards the wooden flooring below, exploding loudly on impact, reverberating pitilessly through his head.

  His hand goes to his face, skin feels hot and damp. He attempts to look around the room, still bathed in an orange light, his eyes struggling to focus. His mind confused, nothing making any sense, the scale of the carnage in front of him brings a lump to his throat, the room is totally trashed.

  A wooden coffee table, overturned and blocking the exit, one of its legs having punctured the plasterboard wall next to the door. The wooden flooring is carpeted in books, newspapers and clothing. Drawers emptied and tossed to one side. The lampshade crushed to pulp, a table lamp dangling precariously from a bedside table by its cord, the dying bulb's element still flickering. He reaches for the clunky old white alarm clock lying face down, the time showing as 6.30. Underwear scattered across the room, a crushed cigarette packet still in its black packaging, peeking out from between some white boxer shorts. Wardrobe doors swung open, broken glass shimmering on the wooden flooring.

  Something nagging away at the back of his mind, a repressed memory trying to battle its way through, so confused. A cold sweat now creeping over him, skin feeling clammy, chest tight, breathing heavily. Damn it, he needs to think clearly, get a grip, take control, now is not the time to deal with this. He attempts to push it all to the back of his mind. He needs to hurry, to concentrate.

  There’s a dark, smudged stain on the light switch but he ignores it and flicks it to on. The light is blinding. Blinking rapidly, he’s barely able to keep his eyes open, but the room gradually comes back into focus. He moves the wooden table from the doorway, muddy footprints clearly visible on the mustard yellow rug beneath it. Hand now shaking, he grasps hold of the doorknob, and slowly turns it. Pushes the door open. He cringes, head splitting, cursing the loud screeching as the hinges reluctantly allow the door to slowly open. Now into a dark, narrow hallway, the vomit green carpet sucking nosily at his feet. Climbing a small flight of creaking stairs, he hesitates momentarily, his ear pressed
firmly against the grimy wooden door. Is met by silence, and decides it's safe to enter. Pulling the light cord, he stands frozen to the spot, momentarily stunned at the shear horror of what is standing opposite him. Is it even human?

  The gaunt, sunken face, the ghostly white complexion, the mouth drooling gunk, the heavily bloodshot eyes bulging wildly from its head. What is that red gore around its mouth, smeared across its beard? Its lips drawn back, teeth exposed and chattering viciously. An open gash to the forehead and dried mud caked to its hair. And the nauseating stench that suddenly hits him is unbearable, leaving him in no doubt that something has died in here. He closes his eyes, opens them, blinks hard, opens them again, struggling to focus but is still met with the same ghastly image. Head pounding, stomach churning, and with an overwhelming sense of desperation, he raises a hand, pushing his palm directly into the face opposite. It’s met with a cold, damp and slippery surface. He sighs heavily, finally pulling his hand away and stares intensely at the stranger staring out at him from the mirror.

  ‘Fuck. How many beers did I have last night?‘

  He flushes the toilet, opening the window as far as the hinges will allow. He cups his hands under the cold tap, shuddering violently as he splashes ice cold water into his face. Feeling more awake, he summons up the courage to once again look at his reflection, and speaking aloud to himself.

  “Jason Sinclair, you are a total arsehole.”

  His mouth feels disgusting, he sticks his tongue out and his eyes are met by a sickly yellow film.

  "That doesn’t look good."

  There is a slight improvement to his appearance though, at least he no longer resembles a rabid bloodhound. Piercing blue eyes stare back at him, this beard definitely suits him, a few grey flecks amongst the black but, well, it adds character. The girls in work said the beard enhanced his strong jaw line, no idea exactly what that means but sounds good to him. Saves shaving anyway.