A Long term Agreement (part 2)

The dream was always the same down to the minutest detail; he would find himself wading through a sea of mutilated corpses, while giant rats gnawed at his trouser legs. Behind him, the world was being devoured by the big guns, but what lay behind him on the battlefield did not terrify him as much as what he was walking towards. He would have gladly turned to face the carnage, but he was drawn inexorable towards the forest in the distance. “Keep up or die, poacher”. The words drifted to him above the roaring of the big guns, he wanted to call out to the boy in the top hat. “Come back and finish me off, I would rather die here in the mud”. But his mouth was crammed with something, he would spit out lumps of human flesh, but before he could speak his mouth would fill again. In his mind images of her terrible beauty and the memory of her corpse-like flesh as he lay with her, played a constant loop. He would wake with the feel of her cold lips on his, and the sound of her voice whispering in his ear.

The poacher had lost count of the times he had reached for a gun to end it all, but in his heart of hearts, he knew that not even death could prevent the fulfilling of their agreement. Because, if he had learned anything over the long years since he had first met the blonde woman. It was the fact that she had not saved him; she had condemned him to a fate worse than death. The proof was there every time he looked in the mirror, in over seven decades since he sat with her and ate the devil’s stew, his appearance had not changed. The reflection in the mirror showed a man in his late twenties, even though he was just two years shy of his hundredth birthday. The pale woman had given him long life and riches, and in turn, he had handed her his soul. He had become the vessel through which she perpetuated her evil, a price that had become increasingly hard to bear with the passing of the years.

The silence of the room was broken by a familiar sound; it was the sound of him whimpering like a frightened dog. It was how he always was when waking from the dream, the glowing hands of his watch on the bedside table showed three a.m. In the beginning, he would have tried to return to sleep, but the fear of entering the same dream would prevent him. So he threw back the covers and rose, there would be no more sleep for him this day. He wrapped the expensive dressing gown around him and crossed the darkroom to the window. Pulling back the velvet curtains he looked out at the exclusive square surrounded by expensive houses, sometimes he forgot which city he was in, or which of his many properties he had lain down in. The quiet residential square was the refuge of the wealthy, and as much removed from the bustling city as the muddy killing fields of the western front. But no matter where he laid his head, there would be no hiding from her.

The big house was silent save for the ticking of the tall pendulum clock in the reception hall, as he made his way to his study. The servants would not be stirring for another three hours at least, but he had become accustomed to being alone in these fine dwellings. Nowadays people referred to him as Sir Anthony or Mr. Greeves. But at times like this, he was reminded that he would always be the poacher, a common thief, and murderer. At least that was what he had started as until the blonde woman gave him all of this and made him much worse. In the study, he flicked the main switch, and the lamps came on banishing the shadows to the corners of the big room. The poacher filled a large glass of vintage cognac and sat in his favorite fireside chair, he flicked another switch and the gas fire ignited into life. He gazed into the flames and was reminded of his life, for the fire was just a coal effect, faux just like his life.

The poacher continued to be mesmerized by the flames as his mind drifted to his benefactor, she had given him everything he possessed. His wealth, his prestige, and place in society, she had even given him the name Greeves. To many, it would appear that he had been blessed, but only he knew he had been cursed. He had been seduced by the pale beauty; he had given himself body and soul to something that was not of this world. His eyes were drawn from the flames, and he found himself instead staring at the portrait that hung from the chimney breast. The eyes of the only woman he had truly loved returned his gaze, she was everything thing the blonde woman could never be. Her raven hair and tanned complexion were in stark contrast to the gold hair and deathly pallor of the woman he owed his soul to.

He had returned from the war to a life he could only have dreamed of; a country estate and a fortune in the bank awaited Anthony Greeves on his return. But even more startling was the fact that no one questioned his identity or his rights to all this wealth. The poacher spent the first couple of years looking over his shoulder, constantly waiting to be found out. Sometimes he would even imagine that someone had called out the word he feared most. “Imposter”. The word would ring out in his mind at some gala reception, or society dinner. He would turn to face his accuser only to find those standing near him watching him with admiration. But as time passed and everything he touched turned to gold, he began to think less of who he had been. For a while, he even succeeded in convincing himself that the blonde seductress was a figment of his imagination, the product of a fever brought on by an infected wound.

He raised his glass in a salute to the woman immortalized in the portrait, but the image of Rebecca stared back at him accusingly. She had once loved him with a breath-taking passion, but he had taken from her what she treasured most, and that love had turned to hatred. He had taken her most precious belonging, and he had used it as part payment of a debt that he would never be finished paying. His mind jumped to that time when the existence of the blonde woman could no longer be denied, that which he had banished from his mind intruded in his new life. The poacher took a deep swallow from his glass and the brandy scorched his throat, he willed his mind to let go of those memories. But Rebecca continued to stare down at him, and he heard her voice deep inside him. “Remember poacher, for such memories are who you are”.

He had married Rebecca after a whirlwind romance, and for the first time in his life, he felt whole. She touched him in a way that no other woman had done before, the baggage he carried with him seem to fade away in her presence. The young couple was the toast of society, and he vowed that the day he put the ring on her finger was the start of a new life. When she became pregnant he felt that the past had finally been laid to rest, the Christmas of nineteen twenty was to see their child entering the world. It was a time of rare happiness for him, and the time he was last to experience such happiness. The first snows of winter were when he started to have the dreams, and a feeling of deep foreboding settled over him. He became jumpy and anxious, but Rebecca was too engrossed in the pending birth to notice.

The memories brought with them a pain that he could hardly bare, but he knew that wherever she was now, Rebecca wanted him to feel that pain. It was early December when the snows carpeted the countryside, and the poacher began to feel that someone was watching him. He would walk into an empty room and see movement in his peripheral vision, only to turn to find himself alone. He would walk the grounds and hear footsteps among the trees as if someone was following him, or half-glimpsed figures staring through a window. But worst of all were the dreams; dreams that echoed with the words “Keep up poacher or die”. Dreams he would wake from paralyzed with fear, and the feeling of cold lips lingering on his. These were harbingers of what was to come, the first payment of their agreement was about to fall due.

He awoke on that faithful morning from the depths of the dream; it was still not yet light outside. Beside him his wife stirred restlessly in her sleep, she had been experiencing bouts of pain that heralded her imminent labor. The poacher slipped silently from the bed and wrapped himself in a dressing gown, he looked out the window at a world carpeted in white and something caught his eye. Grabbing his clothes from the bedroom chair he left the room closing the door quietly behind him; he dressed in the bathroom and made his way downstairs. Standing inside the front door his hand trembled uncontrollably as he turned the key, he knew that what lay beyond that door would be terrifying beyond comprehension. But he was also aware that it was something that could not be avoided, after all, he willingly consented to the agreement.

The startling white of the carpet of snow was broken by a set of footprints leading towards the woods; the footprints were those of a child that had walked barefooted in the snow. As if in a trance the poacher walked in the direction of those woods, his stout brogues obliterating the small footprints he followed. A dark silhouette of a small figure waited for him just beyond the treeline, a small figure wearing a top hat. “Keep up poacher or die”. The words drifted to him followed by mocking laughter and to his eternal damnation the poacher complied with the devil child’s instructions. Once again he found himself following the creature as if his life depended on it; he would lose sight of the boy but the footprints marked the trail. After what seemed like an eternity he saw the illumination of a fire ahead of him in the trees, there in the clearing at the center of the woods, he found her.

The cloaked figure sat by a fire beneath a shelter fashioned from dead branches, the cowl obscured the features of the figure but there was no mistaking who it was. “Come Anthony and sit with me at the fire, it is cold but soon we will eat.” The terror inside him was like a nest of squirming snakes, but he could no more stop himself from walking to her than he could hold back the tides of the sea. The figure rose to greet him and removed the hood and he gasped in the presence of her terrible beauty, her lips were cold as the grave as she crushed them against his. His skin tingled as if an electric current had passed through his body, and he wrapped his arms around her. Later when she told him what he must do, he wept silently but he knew he would not refuse her. Two nights later he returned to the woods carrying a small bundle wrapped in white, on his return journey the sound of an infant crying reached his ears, but it was quickly silenced.

The memories faded and he was aware of the hot tears that streamed down his face, and for a moment he thought the woman in the portrait offered him a cold smile. In the beginning, he thought he had fooled her, he had told her the child had been stillborn. But the look in her eyes soon told him differently, and she could not conceal her hatred for him. In the end, he was glad to see her go; there had been many more women since, but he felt nothing for the others. The women that had come and gone since served only one purpose, they provided him with means to make installments on the debt he owed. He had carried so many bundles wrapped in white that he had lost track of them, or else his mind just refused to process the utter horror of it all. He would follow the child in the top hat through the dark of night, and he would deliver what the blonde woman asked of him. But the worst of it was he partook of the meal, time and time again, and the world around him aged while he remained young.

The sounds of someone stirring echoed through the quiet of the big house and the poacher managed to drag his mind from the pain of what had gone before. Soon the servants would be hard at work preparing for the day ahead, and he realized he had grown tired of the city. There and then he made his mind up, that a change of scenery might help dispel the melancholy that was threatening to drown him. But even as he made plans to return to his house in the country, a familiar feeling stirred in the dark regions of his mind. He fought back against the thoughts this feeling brought, but in his heart, he felt her presence. Somewhere out there the otherworldly woman was becoming hungry, and he knew that it would soon be time for another installment of his debt. Often years would pass without the blonde woman making an appearance, but as sure as night follows day she would inevitably return.

The winter finally relinquished its hold on the land, and nature sprung to life. The poacher had not returned to the city for quite a while, and he had even managed to draw a veil over the memories that haunted him. The dreams had not plagued him since he had taken up residence in his country estate, and a small part of his mind even began to hope that it had all come to an end. He allowed himself to hope that the seductress had found another vessel to fulfill her unnatural desires, perhaps his account had been marked paid in full. The longer the dreams stayed at bay, the more he allowed himself to hope. A strange thing had happened lately that fortified that fledgling hope; he had looked in the mirror to find the first traces of silver in his hair and the hint of wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Perhaps the nightmare would finally draw to a conclusion, and he would be allowed to live and die like a normal human being. As spring took a firm hold over the land, the poacher became convinced that the agreement had finally been settled in full, and he began to hope for a normal life.

The priest uttered the words he thought he would never hear again, and his hand trembled so much that he thought he would drop the gold ring. But the poacher’s happiness was tinged with the fear that it would all begin again, he had not seen sight nor light of the blonde for a very long time. However, now that he had decided to find love again, the old fears pushed hard against the fringes of his mind. The absence of the dream and the fact that he found himself aging at a normal rate was the final catalyst he needed to resume a normal existence, but the small voice of doubt in the back of his mind refused to be silent. Things would be different this time he had convinced himself, and he had taken precautions. The moment the ceremony finished and he took his bride to the car, Anthony Greeves would cease to exist.

The poacher had worked hard to put his plan in motion, not least the effort he made to convince his new bride of the need to assume new identities. But if he had learned anything over the long years, it was the skill of sounding convincing. He had arranged for all his assets to be liquidated, and he would take his bride and turn his back on this life forever. He had even chosen a bride that was just past her prime for childbearing, it was the one chance he was unwilling to take. Marcella had long come to terms with the fact that she would never be a mother, and this suited him just fine. He had not for one moment fooled himself into thinking that he could have what he once had with Rebecca, but at least he would have company for what remained of his life.

The gentle waves lapping against the golden sands gave him a feeling of tranquillity he had never previously know, and the setting sun turned the sea to liquid gold making the place look magical. Here in this paradise, it was impossible to even imagine the blood and carnage of the western front, and the poacher had managed to convince himself once again that it was all just a psychotic episode. The French doors of the shore side mansion opened directly onto a private beach; here it was possible to believe that he was insulated from the evils of the world. The poacher viewed this private island as a sanctuary that could not be breached; he was willing to spend his remaining years here. The blonde seductress had been consigned to the darkest recesses of his memories, and there she would remain. He had paid far too much, for far too long, and as far as he was concerned the agreement had been fulfilled.

Marcella was like a child at Christmas time, it was the happiest he had seen her since they met. She danced around the drawing-room with a radiant smile. “It’s a miracle, my beloved; we have been blessed with a miracle.” Her words cut deeply into him like poison barbs, the stupid, stupid woman, she could not tell the difference between a miracle and a curse. The room swayed in his vision and he had to sit down, the smiling woman took his reaction as overwhelming happiness. He found himself staring at her womb with murderous thoughts; in his mind, he convinced himself that she had betrayed him. After all, she had told him that she was barren, so whatever was to follow would be her responsibility. That night he was awoken by the dream, he went through the French doors to the beach. There in the moonlight, he saw them, a child’s footprints in the sand. The window carried the faint words to him. “Keep up poacher or Die.”

A long term Agreement (Part 1)

It was late evening before his hearing began to return; before this, the explosions were only discernible to him by the vibrations of the muddy ground he clung to for dear life. The quagmire of mud shuddered and undulated with each impact of the heavy shells; as if some gigantic creature were burrowing upwards from the bowels of the earth. The artillery round that had exploded near him hours before had cast him like a rag doll into the shell hole, and the world had suddenly grown silent. Now that the great meat grinder was gearing down for the night, the first sounds he could hear were the screams of the wounded and dying. At first, the sounds were muffled and appeared to come from a great distance, but as his hearing recovered the screams burrowed into his brain like parasites fuelling his fear.

The behemoths that had turned the landscape to a blood-filled abattoir had fallen silent, and the screams were only interrupted by the intermittent sharp cracks of sniper fire. Darkness began to settle over no man’s land, and eventually, even the screams faded to muffled moans. The fading of the light gave him the courage to shift his position from where he lay, and he slithered on his belly to the top of the shell hole. Any thought of making a break for it was dashed when the cloud cover parted, and the battlefield was illuminated by bright moonlight. He looked longingly at the forest in the distance; the nearest trees had been stripped of leaves, branches, and even their bark by flying shrapnel. But beyond those skeletal trees that pointed accusingly to the heavens, the vast ancient forest lived on, as if in defiance to man’s attempts to kill it.

Looking behind him he could see the outlines of razor wire that marked the position of the trenches he had started from that morning; it was less than a hundred yards from him. But he had no intention of ever returning to his lines, he had his fill of king and country. He and millions like him were to be sacrificed for lines on a map, so the rich could grow even more obscenely rich. No matter what uniform you wore, or what language you spoke, you were still only cannon fodder. The fat generals at the rear sent wave after wave of young men to their deaths, or to live like vermin among the mud and corpses. While they puffed on their Cuban cigars, drank vintage Cognac, and fucked French whores.

 The moonlight was suddenly lost as a flare lit up the vista brighter than daylight; he gaped wide-eyed at the devastation surrounding him. The broken corpses of men hung like obscene decorations from the razor wire that appeared to grow like thickets of brambles from the blood-soaked ground. The flare slowly sank to earth only to be followed by another, and so it went on, and the battlefield remained brightly lit. The crack of rifle shots intensified as snipers on both sides exchanged fire, and he withdrew from the exposed rim of the shell crater. Crouching midway down the slope of the crater, he found his eyes being drawn to the corpses that populated the bottom of the shell hole. The bodies were arranged around the stagnant pool of rainwater as if they had struggled from its depths and lay exhausted after their efforts.

The pyrotechnics floating slowly to the mangled earth created flickering shadows that gave the corpses the illusion of movement. Even in daylight, it would have been impossible to determine which side the dead men had come from, out here in no man’s land the universal color of uniforms was a muddy grey. A movement in his peripheral vision drew his eyes to a particularly damaged body; the right arm was missing and the right side of its face and skull had been shaved off as if a gigantic blade had passed over it. He watched in horror as the head began to turn, it would begin to turn in his direction only to fall back, then start the same movement moments later. A fresh flare lit up the night and he saw the cause of this movement, a rat the size of a large domestic cat was gnawing at the ear of the dead man. Pulling juicy morsels from the lobe and causing the head to move.

In the light of the flare he now became aware that the shell hole was teaming with these vermin, they fought and clawed at one another in their haste to get their share of the dead flesh. The level of fear quickly rose in him, he had witnessed first-hand what these scavengers were capable of. Every soldier knew that one bite from those devilish creatures might cause disease, and he had heard tales of swarms of them eating wounded soldiers. The number of vermin grew by the minute until they covered the corpses in a heaving mass; some of those that could not reach the bodies began to take an interest in him. Several of the big rodents approached him without fear; he watched in horror as a huge one reared up on his hind paws and sniffed the air in Peter’s direction. Peter grabbed a handful of stones and threw them at the rats; the rodents scurried away but soon returned. He had not slept properly in days and the thought of falling asleep here among the rats terrified him, when the latest flare began to fall to earth he made his move.

Leaping from the shell crater he took off running in the direction of the distant forest, crouching as low as he could he tried to make himself as small a target as possible. Taking a meandering path he made it fifty yards or so, before his boot planted on something slippery and he tumbled headfirst into the mud. He had no sooner hit the ground before another flare lit up the battlefield, laying here in the open ground the feeling of vulnerability terrified him. He looked behind him to see what had tripped him up and discovered to his horror that he had trodden on a wounded soldier. The man was closer to death than he was to life, his abdomen had been sliced open spilling his entrails onto the ground in a sticky mess. It was this mess he had stepped in, but the wounded man was past all feeling and only a heartbeat from the next life.

It seemed to take an eternity for the flare to fall to earth, and as soon as it did he was up and running again. He had spent most of his life running from one authority or another, and he tried hard to call on his base instincts of survival. He had started life as a poacher and graduated to serious crime from there, he had raped, stolen, and murdered. Yet so far he managed to avoid capture and the hangman’s noose, now he prayed that his luck would not run out. He had so many different identities in his short life that his real name no longer mattered to him, even the name he had enlisted under belonged to someone else. Those of the criminal fraternity that knew him for any length of time knew him simply as the poacher. He was less than a hundred yards from the woods when the next flare went up, he never heard the shot but he felt as if someone had struck him in the shoulder with a sledgehammer.

For the second time that day, the poacher was lifted from his feet and deposited in a shell hole. Only this time when he landed in the mud he lost consciousness, and when he came around the front of his tunic was soaked in blood and he felt weak. The poacher did his best to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids felt as heavy as lead. Despite his best efforts sleep overtook him, and with it came the strange dream. The dream centered on a blonde-haired woman, a woman of rare beauty but with the deathly pale complexion of a corpse. The poacher was both smitten and yet terrified by the woman, for even in the dream he felt her otherworldliness. Whispering in his ear she promised him so much, yet even in his dream state, he knew there would be a great price to be paid for what she offered. The blonde woman leaned over him and offered her hand, but the gesture only caused him to whimper in fear.

At first, the poacher thought he was still locked in the dream; it was the only sane explanation for what he saw before his eyes. The scruffy-looking boy hunkered on the edge of the shell hole, watching the poacher with a disinterested expression on his filthy features. The child was barefooted and wore short pants and an army-issue tunic, which was several sizes too big for him. On his head, he wore a silk top hat that had seen better days; and was nonchalantly eating an apple, as the sniper’s bullets whizzed past his head with the sound of a swarm of angry wasps. The poacher struggled to a sitting position and the child smiled as he groaned in pain, that smile and the child’s eyes were as cold as an arctic night.

What do you want child, why are you here?” His throat was parched and the words came out in a hoarse whisper, the boy turned his face towards the heavens as if searching for an answer to the poacher’s question. Then without a word he leaped from his position and landed on his feet beside the poacher, something about this strange child terrified the wounded man. Up close the boy looked even younger, and his smile appeared even more menacing. His teeth were crooked and ended in needle points, and a vision came to the poacher’s mind of those teeth gnawing at human flesh just like the trench rats. The ragamuffin whipped off the top hat and bowed from the waist, in a manner worthy of a pantomime actor. “I have been sent to rescue you, soldier, although you hardly seem worth the effort. Were it up to me I would just as soon put you out of your misery.” The boy’s right hand reached behind him and reappeared holding a lethal-looking dagger, he held the knife close to the poacher’s face and the blade glinted dully in the moonlight.

An involuntary whimper escaped the poacher’s lips and the urchin laughed softly, but his humor did not reach those cold eyes. Before he had a chance to say a word the boy replaced his hat and grabbed the front of the poacher’s tunic. He was hauled to his feet as if he were no more than a manikin; the strength of the child was unnatural. “Follow me poacher and do not fall behind, for if you do I will come back and slit your throat.” The devil child practically dragged him to the parapet of the shell hole, where he released his grip and started in the direction of the forest. “Keep up or you die poacher.” The boy remarked over his shoulder, before walking through no man’s land as if he were on a Sunday morning stroll. As if in a trance the poacher followed on behind him, in his mind he knew that he had only a very slim chance of avoiding a sniper’s bullet. But he also knew that the child would not hesitate to carry out his threat.

As if by a miracle they managed to reach the broken part of the forest without as much as a stumble, but by the time they had negotiated the skeletal trees the poacher’s strength began to desert him.  The wound in his shoulder was on fire, yet he was covered in a clammy sweat and shivering with the cold. Every step required tremendous effort and his legs felt like jelly, the strange child was barely discernible among the trees far ahead of him. The gradient began to rise sharply until he finally could not find the strength to put one foot ahead of the other. His vision began to blur, and the ground lurched until he found himself staring at the stars. His last thought before slipping into unconsciousness was how in the hell did the boy know he was called the poacher.

The poacher drifted in and out of consciousness, but he was never awake long enough to make out his surroundings. Where ever he was, it appeared to be perpetually night, with only the flickering lights of candles or torches keeping the shadows at bay. When he finally came to, it was to the sensation of someone slapping his cheek. A pale blur was all he could make out of the features of whoever was squatting by his head. “Wake up poacher, the mistress will be here soon. Try to look as if you are worth saving.” The voice sounded familiar but it was a while before he realized it was the ragamuffin that spoke, he was struck once again by a stinging slap on the cheek. He gathered what strength he had left and struggled to a sitting position, but a wave of dizziness washed over him and he puked. Nothing came up but bile and it burned his already parched throat like acid.

The boy just managed to move back before being covered with bile, the poacher looked up at him and the look on the child’s face made him gasp. “But for the fact, the mistress wants you as a pet, I would gladly slit your throat, poacher.” The child’s words were spoken with such venom that the poacher felt the cold fingers of fear grab his insides. Whatever this thing was he was no child, the voice sounded young but the tone of the voice was old and filled with hatred. The boy in the top hat turned on his heels and withdrew into the shadows, leaving him to try and make out his surroundings. The area felt vast and dank, tallow candles burned at intervals along the stone walls, but he could not make out any features in the place. The poacher had a feeling he was in a subterranean room, he tried to stand but a fire erupted in his shoulder. The stench of corruption wafting from the wound told him he was badly infected, he lay back on the cold stone floor and closed his eyes.

Time passed without anyone coming near him, the fever burning in him caused his mind to fly elsewhere. He lost himself in a cascade of visions from his past life that paraded through his mind, women he had laid with and men he had killed came to visit him in his mind. The sound of an infant crying drifted through his head, but the cries were quickly silenced. At one stage he became aware of disembodied voices nearby, he could not tell what they were saying but he knew they were discussing him. The poacher tried to open his eyes to see who was there, but it was as if the lids had been sewn shut. He cried out but even in his mind he could not make out his words, then he felt hands on him as his tunic was roughly ripped from his body. Flesh as cold as that of a corpse touched his body, and then a searing pain sent him spiraling downwards, into blissful darkness.

The next time he regained consciousness the fever had passed, he was weak but he did not feel as near to death. He rose gingerly on to legs that threatened to fold beneath him and made his way to the nearest candle. Taking the tallow candle from its holder, the poacher held it aloft to gaze at his surroundings. He was in a vast cellar the walls were of carved sandstone, at the far end of the room rows of bottle wracks stood against the wall. To the left of these he spotted a stone staircase leading upwards, he made his way to the staircase with a gait like a newborn fawn. At the top of the stairs, he found himself in the ruins of a grand reception area, a hallway branched off to the right and a faint illumination was visible. The poacher made his way towards the illumination; it was coming from a door that stood slightly ajar. The smell of something cooking wafted from the open doorway, and he followed it inside.

At the center of the once fine drawing-room, a brazier stood, and above it hung pot from a tripod. The smell of a meat stew made his mouth water and his stomach grumbled, the boy in the top hat was stirring the pot with his back to the poacher. “Come in and be seated you are just in time for the meal.” The voice drifted from the shadows that clung to the edges of the room, and it was a woman’s voice. Something about the sensual voice was both appealing and yet terrifying, and the poacher stared in the direction it came from. “Join me over here.” The voice had a seductive tone to it that made his skin tingle, he found himself walking towards the shadows as if he were hypnotized. At the back of his mind, a small voice pleaded with him to run from this place, but it was as if he no longer had control over himself. The sound of a match being struck was followed by a tiny flare of light. He watched the disembodied flame, as it moved through the darkness until it met and ignited the wick of an oil lamp.

The hand holding the lamp was small and delicate and the color of polished porcelain. The remainder of the person’s features were lost in the folds of a cowl of velvet; the garment was the color of an old bloodstain. The oil lamp was placed on a marble-topped side table, and the hand adjusted the wick until the corner of the room was illuminated. “Take a seat Anthony; we have much to talk about. But first, we must eat.”  The poacher gasped at the mention of his birth name, the only person that had ever called him that was his mother and she had long since gone to fertilize the earth. The small pale hand gestured to a wing-backed armchair opposite, and the poacher sat. When the woman sitting across from him reached up and removed the loose hood, the poacher’s heart skipped a beat. The blonde-haired woman was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, and here in the real world, she was vastly more terrifying than the dream. Her piercing green eyes held his, and he felt like a deer caught in the headlights. He could feel her inside his head, and his innermost thoughts were laid bare to her.

The boy in the top hat suddenly appeared at his side carrying two bowls of steaming stew, one he gave to the mysterious woman and one to the poacher. The delicious smell of the food caused his mouth to fill with salvia, but every fiber of his being pleaded with him not to eat. “Eat poacher, this food will sustain you, I have brought you back from the brink of death.” The woman’s voice was soft but there was no mistaking that she was ordering him to do her bidding. He lifted the spoon and disturbed the meat resting beneath the liquid in the bowl, what he saw horrified him. Fighting back a wave of nausea he closed his eyes and spooned the food into his mouth as quickly as he could. From the far side of the room, he heard the mocking laughter of the boy, and in the deeper shadows others joined in. “Eat up Anthony, for when you are finished I have an agreement I wish to discuss with you.” The blonde-haired woman’s words chilled him to the bone.

A Time Of Darkness (Part 5) conclusion.

The door to the rectory stood open, the darkness inside felt anything but welcoming, he stood with one foot on the doorstep and the other planted firmly on the path leading to the front gate. A strange feeling like a weak electrical current coursed through his body, as the adrenaline, filled him with nervous energy. Michael was aware of what his stance might look like to a casual observer, standing there on a winter morning paralyzed with fear of entering his home, he must surely look deranged. His clothes were still damp from the night before, and the stench of the deserted warehouse clung to him. The grey light of dawn brought with it a fresh onslaught of sleety rain, and the choice was taken from his hands. Either he took control of his fears and went inside, or he stayed here until he suffered hypothermia.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves he tentatively reached inside the doorway and fumbled for the light switch. His trembling fingers found the cold Bakelite switch and he held his breath, he pushed down on the nub and prepared to take flight should anything untoward be revealed. The soft click of the switch engaging sounded like a gunshot in the still of the morning, and his heart skipped a beat. The hallway was illuminated by the dull yellowish light of the low wattage bulb. Michael stared in disbelief at what was before his eyes. The narrow hallway was just as he found it the first day he turned the key in the lock, the heavy mahogany hallstand he had witnessed rendered to pieces the night before, stood undamaged where it always had stood.

Nothing inside the front door looked out of place; the sickly sweet stench of corruption that overwhelmed his senses last night was absent. In its place were the familiar smell of the old house, the smell of old books, and a faint odor of damp. But instead of feeling immediate relief, Michael was overwhelmed with a feeling of despair. For right before his very eyes, he was witnessing the evidence that he must surely be losing his mind. If everything that had happened here last night had all been a figment of his imagination, then the only answer was that he was suffering from some mental malady. He entered the hallway and closed the door behind him; in the silence of the house, he could not feel anything untoward or menacing.

 Michael made his way upstairs slowly and cautiously, only to find that everything was as it should be. He stripped in the bathroom and took a long hot shower, and once he was dressed he took the clothes from this morning and yesterday from the bathroom floor. Going back downstairs he bundled the soiled clothes in the washing machine and turned it on, in the kitchen he had to force himself to look in the sink. The soup bowl and spoon lay in a pool of nothing more sinister than congealed soup, but instead of being pleased about this, he felt dejected.

 Everything he had witnessed since returning to the rectory pointed to only one thing, he had suffered some kind of a psychotic episode. It terrified him to think that such an episode might be only a harbinger of something worse, just the beginning of a downward spiral into madness. As a young priest, he had spent time visiting various mental institutions, to offer those confined there some spiritual solace. These places and the unfortunate inmates confined there always left him depressed, and the reason was the fact that he dreaded the thought that someday he might be among them. He pushed these thoughts from his mind and prepared breakfast; after he had eaten he would decide the best course of action to take.

The food was devoid of any flavor and he ate without any enjoyment, the dark fears of going insane hovered at the margins of his mind. Later he tried to look back over the old priest’s notes, but they were a constant reminder that he was traveling in the same dark direction as Grimes. Sitting in the rectory surrounded by reminders that the religion he had worshiped had somehow become relegated to musty old spaces such as this, only served to deepen his sense of hopelessness. He had struggled with faith in the institution, but he had stubbornly clung to his belief in God. But he now found himself wondering whether his belief in God was also misplaced. After all, neither the institution nor God had helped Joseph Grimes in his time of turmoil, was he too to be abandoned to the malaise that was unsettling his mind.

The dark thoughts playing a constant loop in Michael’s mind had gripped him in a sort of paralysis, and they threatened to drag him spiraling downwards to a cationic state of fear. The shifting shadows in the room alerted him to the fact that time had elapsed without him noticing, he looked at his watch and was horrified to see that more than two hours had passed since he returned to the rectory. He had become a prisoner to his thoughts and fears, and he suddenly realized that he was totally and utterly alone in the world. He had dedicated his formative years to the church, and in those years his parents had died. Only now the full truth of his existence became clear to him. He had no friends or even acquaintances he could confide in.

The icy fingers of fear clenched his entrails, and his heart rate climbed steadily until it pounded in his head like a bass drum. Cold clammy sweat covered his body like a damp shroud, but the part of his mind that held stubbornly to rationality told him he was experiencing an anxiety attack. This part of his mind insisted that he take some action to break the negative train of thought. Michael forced himself from the chair and began to pace the room; he was fighting hard against the urge to once again flee blindly from the house. He went to the back hall and took the wax jacket from the peg; he found the keys to the church and left the rectory. Once outside the claustrophobic setting of the rectory, his mind began to calm. He would go to the church and seek guidance from god.

The darkness was absolute when she came to, and for a moment she thought that something had been placed over her eyes. A part of her understood that she should be terrified, yet there was a distinct lack of emotion in her mind. Her mind seemed to be operating on two different levels, one of which understood that something was wrong, while the other part did not seem to care. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess of confusing and contradictory messages, which made no sense. Sally struggled to remember the events that had brought her to this, but her mind would not be still. Thoughts and memories waltzed through her mind with abandonment. Images of her faux past and her real past intermingled and melded, as they filed past her mind’s eye like a carnival parade. A noise somewhere above her resulted in a shaft of light that caused her to close her eyes, the sound of footsteps was followed by a sensation like a bee sting in her neck, and everything faded again to a different type of darkness.

The interior of the church was dark and gloomy and it seemed to perfectly compliment how he felt inside, the absence of parishioners was emphasized by the fact that not a single offertory candle burned by the altar. Michael made his way hesitantly down the center aisle towards the chancel; even the normal echo of footsteps in the building was different. The sound of his leather brogues on the terracotta tiles sounded strangely muffled and subdued. On either side of the aisle, the effigies of the saints watched his progress, it was as if they were aware of his failures and disapproved of his presence here. The emptiness of the great building was exaggerated by the absence of the alabaster figure that once hung above the altar; part of his mind told him it was a sign. He had the feeling that not even God wanted to linger in this parish; the holy water in the font to the left of the altar had a green scum forming around its edges.

Michael knelt at the altar rails and tried to imagine a new crucifix hanging high above the altar, and offertory candles filling the area with soft illumination. But all that would come to mind were the crime scene photographs of the defilement of this church.  He wondered why God could be driven so easily from his house because in truth he had no sense of his deity anywhere in this cavernous building.

 A gust of wind found its way through some gap in the stained-glass windows; it made a soft sighing sound that was amplified by the emptiness of the church. Michael lifted his head and glanced nervously behind him, expecting to find someone standing there. His eyes found nothing other than the statutes of the saints, glaring indifferently at him from the shadows. He had to struggle to prevent himself from loudly admonishing them, for their obvious lack of empathy for his plight.

He remained kneeling at the altar rails until his legs began to feel numb, but the divine intervention he had desperately sought did not materialize. In despair he got to his feet and wandered about the old building, seeking some connection to a God that seemed to have abandoned him. The whitewashed stone of the interior walls had long ago faded to grey, and every nook and cranny seemed festooned with cobwebs. The obvious neglect of the building only served to intensify the feeling that God no longer dwelled within these walls.

 At intervals, marble plaques had been mounted high on the walls, some as a tribute to the almighty and others as a lament to lost loved ones. They seemed to Michael just a sad reminder that the church once had a thriving congregation. He stopped beneath a plaque dedicated to the loss of a loving wife. “Until the day breaks and the shadows flee away” The excerpt from Song of Solomon adorned the bottom of the heart-shaped plaque, and Michael wondered why he still felt the shadows gathering.

The sense of hopelessness grew deeper, as at every turn he was reminded that God was far removed from him. Michael had somehow strayed from the flock, but the good Shepard had declined to seek his return. He had felt closer to God when he stood staring into an Atlantic gale than he did here in a church. He sat wearily in one of the oak pews, and the first thing he noticed was the thick layer of dust that clung to his clothes. One question kept playing a loop in his head. “Why had he been brought here?” It was then he made up his mind, he must seek out the man that brought him from the haven of the cottage. This thought helped to arrest the downward spiral of his mind, and he got up and made his way back to the rectory.

The moment his eyes fell on the Black Bakelite phone the newfound sense of purpose evaporated, the inanimate shape instilled an immediate feeling of dread upon him. The memory of that insidious whispering brought a wave of nausea, and a sudden urge to flee almost overwhelmed him. He backed out of the room like a man confronted by his greatest fear, making his way to the kitchen he reached for the whiskey bottle. It was only after a couple of stiff drinks did he find the courage to make the call. Even then his hand trembled as he dialed the number, while he waited for the call to go through he found himself holding his breath.

When Jimmy McCarthy’s voice came on the line, Michael could have cried with relief. The simple fact of hearing another human voice, felt as if a great weight was lifted from him. The words poured from his mouth in a torrent, as he told the bishop his innermost fears. The man on the other end of the line remained silent, as Michael found himself rambling on and on like a man deranged. Everything that had troubled his mind since the day he had left for the cottage, came pouring out in what must have sounded completely incoherent. It was only when Michael lapsed into an exhausted silence did the other man speak, and even then there was a pause that made Michael wonder if the line was still open.

When the bishop did speak his words were delivered in a measured soothing voice, had he not been so emotionally drained Michael might have detected a slightly mocking tone. He might even have caught the barely disguised hint of amusement in his comforter’s voice, but as a victim of abuse, he was willing to cling to the first person that showed him the slightest hint of understanding. The feeling of relief just to be told that everything would be okay was like a breath of fresh air to a drowning man. Bishop McCarthy even committed to traveling to see him that very evening, and Michael never thought to ask him why they would be meeting in the church and not here at the rectory. But such details did not enter his mind, he was just happy with the fact that he had reached out and the bishop was willing to help. Once the call finished he felt as if he had just climbed a mountain, he sat back in the chair and dozed off almost immediately.

The faint illumination of a distant street light gave the darkness of the room a greyish tint; he struggled from his slumber like a man trying to free himself from quicksand. The fogginess of sleep clung to his mind like cobwebs, and it took him a while to figure out that he had fallen asleep in the chair. It was another while before the thought hit him that he had somewhere to be, only then did he remember the phone call with the bishop and he was due to meet him in the church. Jumping from his chair he switched on the lamp and looked at his watch, it felt as if he had slept for a long time. The hands of the watch read seven fifteen and a sigh of relief escaped his lips, he was not due to meet McCarthy until eight. He made his way upstairs and for a reason, he could not fathom out, Michael dressed in his full clerical garb.

 The moment he opened the door of the rectory it was almost snatched from his hand by the force of the wind, the driving rain monetarily blinded him. A peculiar feeling came over him that it was a mistake to go to the church, and only then did he begin to question the reason why McCarthy had chosen to meet him in the church. Convincing himself that his doubts were driven only by anxiety, he hung his head and started across the churchyard. The shadows of the swaying branches appeared like skeletal hands reaching out menacingly to block his path. It felt as if he was alone on a stormy sea, far removed from the rest of humanity. When he approached the great oak door of the church, he hesitated as a feeling of foreboding settled over him.

The inclement weather steadily increased in ferocity until the wind appeared to be pushing him towards the door, bracing himself he turned the wrought iron ring and pushed the door inwards. The nave was in darkness and in the distance a faint illumination was visible in the chancel, the electric lights were operated from a bank of switches in the sacristy and if he was to proceed he would have to do so in darkness.

The feeling of foreboding intensified and he called out the bishop’s name, the only reply was the echoed of his voice as it rebounds off the stone walls Reluctantly he made his way down the main aisle, and as he drew nearer the altar he saw the illumination came from two candles place on the altar. When he was just feet from the altar he realized the candles were made of black wax, and the flames burned a strange bluish color.

Michael immediately knew that something was wrong, he had been lured into some kind of trap. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to turn and run from this place, but the strange flickering blue flames drew him hypnotically towards them. Once he had reached the altar he spotted the ornamental knife placed between the candles, he could not help himself and he reached out and picked it up. Its blade dripped a dark liquid onto the marble top of the altar, in a dream-like state he held the knife and sniffed the liquid.

 The coppery smell of blood was unmistakable. In his peripheral vision, another illumination appeared, and he turned to find the Bishop approaching. “Hello, Michael I am glad you decided to join us.” The bishop was standing mere feet from him now but did not seem to notice the blood-stained knife. Michael sensed movement in the shadows, and he knew they were not alone. “We are about to rededicate the church, and your presence is greatly appreciated. It is time that you worshiped a God that recognizes your worth.”

Michael backed away from the bishop in horror, as whispering voices erupted from the shadows. He turned to run with the knife still grasped in his hand. “Michael I am disappointed with you, I am offering you a great privilege that will bring immense rewards.” Michael turned and stumbled towards the main door until Jimmy McCarthy’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks. “Before you go Michael there is something you need to see.” Against his better judgment, he turned towards the bishop, just in time to see the man raise the torch in the direction of the altar. Michael’s eyes followed the movement of the torch and he gave an involuntary cry as the thing above the altar was illuminated.

 Michael dropped to his knees and the ornate knife fell from his hands, the horror he felt was overwhelming but he could not drag his eyes from the abomination that hung where the crucifix had been. Sally had been butchered and hung upside down, like a carcass in an abattoir. Everything went blank and the next thing he remembered was pulling open the door, he ran blindly from the church with the bishop’s words following him. “You can’t escape this Michael it is your destiny.” Time skipped forward again and he was behind the wheel of the car, and the city was in the rearview mirror. But the one thought that kept running around his mind told Michael he could not escape this.

The howling wind buffeted him and threatened to sweep him from his feet, and the pounding of the waves far below him was deafening. He had no recollection of coming here, but for the first time in a long time, he felt strangely calm. Far out at seeing the lights of a ship blinked on and off as it rose and fell in the waves and he wished he was on the ship. Michael thought of the bishop’s last words as he fled, and he knew that they were not finished with him. After all his fingerprints were all over the murder weapon, they would hang this over his head until he complied with them. Only God could deliver him from this, this thought had a calming effect on him. Michael stepped into the darkness and for a moment it felt as if he was soaring towards heaven on the wind, but the darkness claimed him and pulled him down. The sound of his body striking the rocks was lost on the sound of the waves pummelling the cliff face.    

A Time of Darkness (Part 4)

He was just about to return the handset to the cradle when the call went through; the soft ringing sound in his ear startled him. He had been attempting to make this call since finishing breakfast, but each time there was a loud click and the line went dead. Now that the phone was ringing, he suddenly had an irrational urge to hang up before someone answered; he had spent a sleepless night thinking exactly what he would say to the man when he rang him. He must have thought up a hundred different ways of broaching the subject, only to discard them as soon as they had been formulated. In the end, he had decided that he would just come right out and ask him why he had ignored the old priest’s pleas for help, but now that he was presented with the opportunity he was not nearly as confident. The inclement weather from the night before still had a grip on the world outside the window, and the rain had gotten heavier, while the wind howled in the eaves of the house. Winter had come early this year, and it was looking like it would be a hard one.

The leaden skies outside allowed little natural light into the room, and he had switched on the desk lamp. But for some reason the shadows at the edge of the room appeared threatening, he found his eyes being drawn to these shadows while he waited for the call to be answered. Michael felt nervous for some reason, or anxious might be a more accurate description. When the loud burst of static came through the ear pieced he jumped, the line seemed to go dead again and he was about to hang up. “Hello”. The single word was lost on a fresh wave of crackling and whistling on the line, so much so, that he wondered whether he had imagined hearing a voice. But the whispering that followed could not be dismissed as his imagination, he could not understand the words but they terrified him. Even though the language was not one he understood, certain words seemed vaguely familiar.

Time seemed to stand still and the world withdrew until he felt the phone in his hand was all that remained between him and oblivion. The whispering continued uninterrupted as if the speaker did not need to breathe, he felt the strange monologue boring into his mind. The voice had a strange insectile quality to it that brought Goosebumps out on his skin. An image of things crawling through mounds of dead leaves, made him shudder. How long the incident went on he could not say, but when the line finally went dead he felt exhausted. The hand holding the phone was tingling as if in the aftermath of an electric shock, and he felt nauseated. He replaced the receiver in the cradle and slumped back in the chair. He felt as if all his energy had been drained from him, and a feeling of defilement clung to him. Michael got up and went to the bathroom and was violently sick, a feeling that he was unclean drove him to strip and stand beneath the shower until his skin glowed bright red from the heat of the water. He walked naked to his room and crawled beneath the bedclothes, within minutes he had fallen into a deep and troubled sleep.

It was late evening when he woke, he had slept through the day but yet he felt exhausted. It took a great effort to drag himself out of bed and get dressed, he felt as if he was coming down with something. His body ached all over and he felt slightly feverish, it was only when he went to the bathroom and saw his discarded clothes that he remembered the phone call. The memory of it brought with it a wave of anxiety, how long he had listened to that insidious whispering he could not say, but even the thought of it instilled fear in him. Making his way to the kitchen, his mind was preoccupied with what he had heard earlier. Something about that whispering terrified him, but yet he had the nagging feeling that there was something vaguely familiar about it. He put a can of soup on the cooker and sat at the kitchen table to wait, the smell of the heating soup made his mouth water and reminded him he had not eaten since breakfast.

He spooned the soup into his mouth as he wracked his brain as to what could be familiar from the whispered monologue. Finally, a half-forgotten memory came to him and he put the spoon down, he had heard something like it before. It was back when he was in the seminar; one of his tutors had read a few passages from a book. The language was Aramaic, but outside of academia, Michael could not think of anyone that spoke that ancient tongue. Nothing had made sense since he had arrived here, a dying parish where the parish priest had been abandoned to his fate. A bishop that ignored the cries of help from a man that was suffering mentally, and now he felt as if his mental faculties were somehow under threat. He needed to shake off this lethargic feeling, and try to get to the bottom of this. He decided that another look at Grimes’s notes would be a good place to start.

Michael had lost his appetite now and picked up the soup bowl to take it to the sink, he emptied the contents in the sink and the wave of nausea overwhelmed him. What had remained in the bottom of the bowl was not soup; it looked like liquefied flesh and was crawling with maggots. He just managed to get to the back door and open it, when the contents of his stomach exploded from his mouth into the rain-soaked yard. Long after his stomach was void of any remaining soup, he continued to be wracked with empty retching. When the retching finally passed he was completely drained of strength, and the bile from his stomach had seared his throat making it difficult to swallow even his saliva. He could not face going near the kitchen sink, so he went upstairs to the bathroom for a drink of water.

Sally gripped the bottle of cheap wine as it was a lifebuoy, and huddled tighter against the concrete pillar beneath the overpass. The spot she had decided to bed down in for the night was less than ideal; rivers of rainwater ran inches from her feet. The howling wind blowing in off the river seemed to target her, and the thin sleeping bag she had been given at a local charity did nothing to keep the cold at bay. Deeper inside the space beneath the overpass a fire glowed and she could just make out the sound of muffled voices. She looked longingly at the comforting glow of the fire, but she was too afraid to approach it. The cheap wine burned a trail down her throat, but the coldness inside her remained untouched. She had spent the day trying to regain the life she had created in her mind, but it was gone forever. All she was left with was the grim reality, as to how and why she ended up on the streets.

The imaginary family images were exposed for what they had always been, just a crazy old woman’s attempt to convince herself that she once had a life. This imaginary past had been carefully constructed in her mind; it was filled with bittersweet memories and pain. But it allowed her to believe that she had once been a normal person, and how a twisted act of fate that she had no control over, had robbed her of that life. As painful as this was, it was far more palatable than the truth she was left with. Sally had spent her life up until she was eighteen in the orphanage, and somewhere along the line, she began to equate the sexual and physical abuse to love. On the outside, she could not cope with the absence of this tough love, so Sally invented a different history for herself. Tilting the bottle she drank deeply in the hope that sleep was not far off, and in the back of her mind, she hoped for the courage to end it all.

Michael paced the bedroom floor his mind racing with doubts and anxieties; now and again he would stop and gaze out the window at the driving rain. Had the weather been better he would have left the house to walk, and he had a suspicion that if he did, he would not return to this place. Ever since the phone call and that creepy whispering voice, his nerves had been on edge and he could not think straight. An irrational fear had settled over him, and he could not shake the feeling that he was not alone in the house. Like a child that fears the darkness he had switched on every light in the house, but from where ever a shadow remained he felt malevolent eyes watching him. He had tried praying for guidance and an end to these fears, but when he did the words were drowned out by the memory of that awful whispering. Michael was quickly beginning to understand just how the old priest must have felt in the end.

The terrifying feeling that something malevolent had entered the old rectory had gained a foothold in his mind and was gaining strength by the moment. Michael could not shake the feeling of being trapped, the outside world appeared impossible distant. He was drowning in a dark sea of his fears; he tried desperately to quell those fears. Willing himself to think rationally, he took deep breaths through his nose and realized them slowly through his mouth. He had grown too comfortable in the self-exile at the cottage, and coming here he had been thrown in at the deep end. It was just his mind reacting to the stress; this line of thought brought some kind of calmness to his tormented mind. At least until the whispering began again, that insidious insectile voice appeared to come from everywhere at once. When the bedroom door burst open and slammed against the wall, he ran from the room.

Clamping his hands tight against his ears, Michael ran down the hallway and descended the stairs. All about him doors slammed and objects smashed against the walls, the whispering was interspersed with mocking laughter. A faint spark of hope was ignited when he reached the door without being physically harmed, but he could not get the door opened. It was as if it had been nailed tightly to the frame, behind him the house itself seemed to have come alive. Lights dimmed until they were almost extinguished, and the shadows were alive with movement. The sickly sweet stench of decay wafted over him from deeper inside the house, and the thought of attempting to navigate the passage to the back door terrified him. He turned once again and threw all his strength into trying to open the front door, the whispering felt like shards of glass in his brain.

Exhausted with his efforts and overwhelmed with fear, Michael dropped to his knees and began to pray as he had never done before. The lights began to grow brighter and that insidious whispering faded until it was barely audible. Slowly but surely the house seemed to return to normal, a feeling of relief began to make itself felt in his mind. He stopped praying and strained his ears for any sound in the house, but a deathly silence had settled over the house. The short-lived sense of relief was shattered by the thought that the silence was unnatural, just like a lull during a storm before it resumed with increased vigor. The silence was broken when the hallstand was suddenly propelled by an unseen force; the heavy stand flew through the air and smashed against the wall at the foot of the stairs.

The house was filled with voices that cried out in anguish, the voices came from all sides at once. He was reminded of tuning a radio and getting snatches of conversations with the rotating of the dial, when he thought he heard his mother call his name he was filled with despair. The voices faded into silence only to be replaced with that awful whispering, but it was different this time. Michael could understand the words. “You were right Michael to question your faith. Your god has deserted you, just like he deserted the old priest and the old priest’s faith was stronger than yours. Your god cares nothing for you or this parish, it is time to reflect Michael on whether you want to serve a god that does not care whether you live or die.” The house grew silent again and the front door opened in, Michael got to his feet and ran into the rain-drenched night.

Michael ran blindly through the night, the biting wind and driving rain soaking the warmth from his blood. When he could no longer run he just shuffled aimlessly through the deserted city streets, he tried to make sense of what had just happened but his mind was filled with debilitating fear. In his flight from the rectory he had left in his shirt sleeves, the cold seeping into him made him feel weak and lethargic. It became a chore just to put one foot in front of the other, the small part of his mind that could still work rationally, urged him to find shelter. Sometime near midnight, he sought shelter in an abandoned warehouse, there among the stench of stale urine and the scurrying of the rats he lay down. He had made up his mind he would not return to the rectory until daylight, and even then it would be only long enough to clear out his things. Whatever was at play here was too powerful for him, and he also knew that he was a failure as a priest.

She awoke in the cold of the predawn and was immediately overcome by the intense feeling of loss, the images from her dream tried to fade but she held onto them with all her willpower. These were not the images of an imaginary life, she had been dreaming of her past, and it was as real and vivid as if she was back there. The soft shaking of her shoulder that coaxed her from her slumber in the dormitory, the whispers telling her to be quiet. The feeling of his big strong hand grasping hers, the coldness of the air seeping through her thin nightdress, as he led her down the dark silent corridor. The strange tingling all over her body brought on by the mixture of apprehension and fear, but she also remembered the feeling of pride that she had been chosen. She still held a vivid image of the door and the room that lay beyond it.

But once she crossed the threshold of that room in her dream, the images became blurry and jumbled. Up until the point when the priest would start to cry, she could still see him wracked with sobbing. He would beg her forgiveness and ask her to kneel beside him and pray, but in her dream, the wooden crucifix high on his bedroom wall looked many times bigger than she remembered. Later he would send her back alone to the dormitory with a promise it would not happen again. She would lie shivering beneath the threadbare blanket, her body throbbing with a dull pain. But she knew he would come for her again because she was special, he had told her so. In her mind, she knew he must love her, and all this was just a test to see if she was special. A sudden thought came to Sally and the memories of the dream were replaced with a sobering thought, if she was special and he loved her, then why did they throw her out to live on the streets once she turned eighteen?

Deeper inside the shelter of the overpass she heard the other rough sleepers begin to stir; she struggled to her feet and gathered her belongings. The dream that she had struggled to hold on to, had lost its appeal now. It was just another reminder that no matter what she was willing to do, that no one cared for her. With a heavy heart, she loaded up her trolley and headed in the direction of the penny dinner’s charity, here at least someone would care enough to give her a hot drink and something to eat. Deep in her mind, a notion stirred, something told her that her time was not long. Outside the grey stone building, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air, and the queue had already begun to lengthen. She had been there less than ten minutes when the big black car pulled up. She watched as the rear passenger side door swung open, in the dark interior of the car someone spoke and called her name. Elation filled her as she suddenly realized he had come back for her after all these years, the priest did think she was special.

He had slept fitfully and woke shivering with the cold, for a moment he wondered where he was and how he had gotten here. He made his way through the rubbish-strewn warehouse to the street outside; dawn was yet to make an impression on the wet streets. His mind refused to accept the memories of what had taken place at the rectory the previous night, here in the waking city the whole thing felt ridiculous. By the time he had started for the rectory Michael had convinced himself that it was all some kind of hallucination, after all, he had felt feverish earlier in the day. He must have been brewing some kind of sickness for the past few days, and this is what had brought on the episode last night. He rounded the corner just in time to see the homeless lady walking to the car, something did not look right she looked as if she was in some kind of trance. He called to her and she glanced briefly in his direction, but then she was inside and the car was pulling away.

A Time of Darkness (Part 3)

The large room was lined on three walls with ceiling height mahogany bookshelves, the contents of those shelves were cloaked in shadow. But the man sitting behind the huge antique desk could list the titles of most of the volumes by memory. He had dedicated most of his life searching through old dusty tomes, although many of the books contained in this room were extremely valuable he could not care less about them. Unlike some people who displayed private libraries such as this as a status symbol, this man had read these books. A lot he had not read in their entirety, but many he had read from cover to cover. Reading was not a leisure time activity for him; it was solely a tool of research for him. There was a smaller library he kept, but this was concealed from prying eyes. The books in that particular library he valued above anything else he possessed, they were the books from which he had learned most.

The tall grey-haired man took his eyes from the shadowy bookshelves and allowed them to wander over the numerous antiques and antiquities that populated the room. Outside the huge window, dusk had crept in, the items he liked so much to admire began to lose clarity and meld in with the growing darkness in the room. He switched on the banker’s lamp on his desk; its green shade cast a soft pool of light that covered little more than the area he sat in. At the far end of the room, the fire had died down to nothing more than glowing embers, both of these pinpricks of light only served to make the shadows in the corners of the room more impenetrable. He rose from behind his desk and walked to the drinks cabinet, where he filled a good measure of rare Irish whiskey into a crystal tumbler. When he resumed his seat he held the glass beneath his nostrils, he inhaled deeply of its fragrance but put the glass back on his desk without drinking from it.

The man was well aware that by denying himself the pleasure of drinking the whiskey, he would only hone his appetites for the pleasures to come. The library was his haven of contemplation; he would lock the door and immerse himself in thought without fear of disturbance. He had spent the best part of four decades living a lie, pretending to serve one god, when he had long ago pledged allegiance to another. But the world was changing and pretty soon he would no longer have to conceal his true self, he was about to oversee a major step that would ultimately lead to the coming of a new kingdom here on earth. “It is better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven.”  The words from the old poem came unbidden to his mind, but he savored them and smiled. Turning his chair to the window he gazed out into the rain-sodden night and allowed his mind to imagine all that was yet to come.

It was not a sound that alerted him to the presence, for the only door to the room was securely locked and the key was on the desk behind him. The deathly quiet of the room remained undisturbed by even the slightest of sounds, yet he knew instinctively that he was no longer alone. What had alerted him to this was far more subtle than a sound; it was a small but sudden fluctuation in the temperature. The reduction in the temperature raised the fine hairs on his forearm and the very air in the room seemed to grow denser. But most of all it was a scent in the air, and the feeling he was being watched. He swiveled the chair to face the room, and his eyes went to a corner of the room where the shadow appeared denser than elsewhere. He strained his eyes to see what lay in the shadows, and he fancied he could make out a dark shape there.

“Greetings Jimmy, I felt it was time we had a little chat, perhaps you even have a progress report for me.” The whispered words had a strange quality to them, a certain lilting tone as if the owner of the voice was reading from a script. The voice itself had a strange modulation to it like the rustling of dried leaves in a breeze, and even though the words were spoken with perfect clarity. It felt as if the English language was not native to the speaker, yet Jimmy could never identify what accent if any the man had. Even though there was no hint of movement from the shadows, the tall man was suddenly standing in front of the desk. This never ceased to unnerve Bishop McCarthy, locked doors or great distances would not protect you from a person like this. If person was even the right word to describe him, in his mind Jimmy thought of the man as an entity as opposed to a person.

Now that the man was standing closer the scent was stronger, and Jimmy unconsciously wrinkled his nose against the pungent odor. His mind tried hard to come up with some comparison for the smell, but it was like nothing he could think of. The nearest he could think of was how a scavenger might smell after devouring something dead, a hyena perhaps whose fur carried the stench of offal or carrion. The man standing before him was tall with an angular face, he wore a mustache and goatee beard of ebony black hair, his hair was ebony and oiled back. The eyes were the most striking feature, they seemed impossibly dark but yet they seemed to glow. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, but McCarthy knew he was far, far older than this. His hands were folded at waist level and looked too old for his body; his fingers were elongated and gnarled like tree branches. The man’s intense gaze made him feel uncomfortable, and if he was honest McCarthy would have to admit this man terrified him. But if one was to cement his place in the new world order, then he would have to be an ally of creatures such as this.

The bishop remained silent, for to speak out of turn in the company of Azazel might prove a costly error, the creature standing before him seemed content to just stare into his eyes. But he also knew that Azazel was seeing beyond his eyes, he could feel him inside his head. It was something he had experienced on many occasions before; it was an extremely disconcerting experience to find your innermost thoughts being examined as if under a microscope. This strange experience always left the Bishop feeling somehow violated, but it was a price he had to pay for his role in all this. The bearded man smiled knowingly and broke off from his observations, instead allowing his eyes to roam about the room and its contents. The feeling of something probing his mind was gone, but the bishop was left with a dull ache in his head and felt slightly nauseated.   

“Is everything in place for the ritual, and more importantly is your man on board?” The strange rustling sound of his voice seemed to be coming from somewhere inside McCarthy’s head. For the first time since he felt the presence in the room, McCarthy felt panic building inside him. He had not even made O’Rourke vaguely aware of the part he was expected to play in all this; he had intended to tread carefully in doing so. But it seemed the entity standing before him was working from a different schedule, but it was a delicate matter on how he would answer the question. There would be little point in lying as Azazel would read him like a book, but neither did he want to incur the man’s wrath. The man standing in front of him raised one eyebrow in a quizzical expression, as the silence grew in the room. In the end, McCarthy just told him the truth, and the silence in the room became overbearing.

The driving rain played a tattoo against the window panes of the room, and the wind found its way through the gaps in the old window frame, its sound was akin to a moaning lament. Even though he had the warmth of the whiskey in his belly and the heat of the fire on his face. Michael O’Rourke could not suppress the shiver that went through his body. Staring at the sheaf of papers he held in his hand, a feeling of guilt crept over him.  He was torn between needing to find out what had caused the old priest’s decline, and the guilt of going through the man’s private diaries. But in the end, he knew he had little choice, even though the thought of what he might find filled him with trepidation. The moment he lifted the first sheet of paper to begin reading, the moaning of the wind intensified and the glass panes rattled in their wooden frames.

It was late into the night before Michael finally left the papers down; they had made for difficult reading. In the beginning, Joseph Grimes’s entries had been relatively concise, but as they progressed the entries became more difficult to decipher. Until when he was nearing the most recent entries, they appeared to deteriorate into the ramblings of a troubled mind. Michael left his seat and poured himself a stiff drink, returning to his seat in front of the fire he massaged his temples, to ease the tension headache he could feel coming on. Of all the emotions he was feeling at this time, the strangest and most potent was shame. He had just read the harrowing experiences of a man that was obviously under extreme mental anguish, yet Grimes had held steadfast to his faith right up until the very end. Yet here was Michael a much younger man that had not experienced half of what the old priest had gone through, and he was willing to walk away from the faith he had sworn to keep.

Most of what he had read was troubling, yet he had a niggling feeling that he was missing something important in the papers. The fact that Joseph Grimes was convinced that he was being tormented by dark forces, pointed to a man that was losing his touch on reality. But there was something in those papers, which sounded alarm bells in his mind. There was just so much in the papers that were simply delusional, yet he could not shake the feeling that he had missed out on something of importance. The throbbing at his temples has spread across his forehead like a belt-tightening around his head; he closed his eyes and put his head against the back of the chair. Within minutes he had drifted into an uneasy sleep, while outside the inclement weather intensified.

The images from the dream followed him into his awakening state; the headache had dissipated but was now replaced by soreness in the muscles of his shoulders. Michael eased himself into an upright position and gingerly suppled out the cramped muscles. The image from his dream was still emblazoned in his mind’s eye; it was of Bishop Jimmy McCarthy on the night he had visited to ask Michael to come here. A half formulated thought suddenly struck him, and he reached for the stack of papers just as a gust of wind caused the window to open violently into the room. The stack of papers was lifted into the air and scattered about the room, he just managed to turn from the window he was securing in time to pull the sheet of paper from the fire.

The contents of the fire were nothing more than hot ash now, but the paper had begun to curl and go brown at the edges. Had it remained there for a few moments longer it would have ignited, Michael studied the scrawly entries and it became clear to him. The thing he had been trying to pinpoint was there in front of him in black and white. The old priest had reached out to Jimmy McCarthy on several occasions for help, but the bishop seemed to have ignored all the requests. He had written to the bishop without reply and phoned only to receive no callback. Michael could only imagine how these letters appealing for help, were worded, it would be obvious to anyone reading them that the man needed medical help. But for that reason alone it should have alerted the bishop that something was wrong at St Edna’s, but yet the bishop had specifically told Michael he was not aware that anything was wrong until after the old priest’s death.

Thinking back now something became clear to him, right from the moment he had seen the bishop’s car parked outside the cottage, he had felt it was a foreshadowing of trouble. A premonition was developing in his mind; he was beginning to feel that he was being set up in some way. Michael tried to break the train of negative thought playing a loop in his mind, he attempted to rationalize it away by convincing himself that it was just a result of his struggles regarding his faith. But try as he may, he could not shake the feeling that something dark was at play here, and he had been placed at the center of it. Michael knew in his heart and soul that he would need to confront the bishop with concerns if he was ever to understand the situation here. But he also knew that he would have to tread carefully, as he was having doubts as to whether he was even thinking rationally concerning the situation at St Edna’s.

A little less than twenty miles from where Michael struggled with his thoughts regarding the old priest and his parish, someone else was in deep reflection regarding St Enda’s. The bishop picked up the glass of whiskey with a trembling hand and inhaled its fragrance. The thing that went by the name Azazel had left, but the cloying scent of him still hung in the air of the library. The bishop gazed around the shadows of the room, and an involuntary shudder went through his body. This room where he loved to spend time now seemed sullied by the presence that had come here uninvited. At times such as this, the bishop would sometimes feel his commitment wavering, but deep in his heart, he knew he had made his bed and now he must lie in it. Azazel had left him in no doubt that he was not willing to wait much longer. The church was to go through another consecration, but not the one that Michael O’Rourke had in mind. The thought of Michael O’Rourke brought a pang of fear to the bishop, like an icy hand clawing at his entrails.           

What if he had been wrong about Michael, had he misjudged the man, was Michael O’Rourke the right choice for the job? The questions came hard and fast to his mind, like a river in flood carrying with it the thing he detested most, self-doubt. He had always liked Michael; he had seen something in him when he was scarcely a child as an altar boy in his parish. He had led Michael into the clergy and molded him; he had even placed Michael in situations that would challenge his faith. Every interaction he had made with Michael was designed to lead to this place in time, so why now did he have so many doubts? But in his heart, he knew the reason, and the visit from the dark man had brought it to the surface. He was on the cusp of achieving a long-term goal, and he was afraid.

Michael would need a nudge and the creature that had just left the room would be the one to do it, Michael needed to know the power of what he was dealing with. He would learn what it was truly like to feel fear, and he would learn how hopeless it was to stand against such power. Michael O’Rourke wanted to know what had driven Joseph Grimes to the brink, and he was about to witness it first-hand. Only when he had lost all hope and the fear was eating him from inside like cancer, the bishop would pull him back from the brink. McCarthy would offer him a lifeline; he would show him that the only way to survive this was to embrace the darkness. Michael O’Rourke had been chosen to the first priest in this city to lead a parish dedicated to a different god, it would be the start of many such churches dedicated to the darkness.

The wind howled through the darkness of the cemetery and buffeted against the steel door of the crypt. Behind the steel door, Sally had finished her bottle of medicine but sleep had still evaded her, shadows appeared on the stone walls of the crypt that had never been there before. She turned the wick of the oil lamp to its highest, but the shadows were not banished. The safety she once felt in this place had deserted her, and disturbing thought that no place in this city would ever be safe again tormented her mind. She closed her eyes and tried hard to conjure up an image of her family, but none would come. Instead, her mind showed her images of shadowy figures, which projected menace. The part of her mind that she always kept closed insisted on exposing the painful truth, she had no family. The memories she clung so stubbornly to, were just figments of her imagination, the images were stolen from so TV advertisement she had seen in a shop window.

Sally Mc Govern wept as she had never wept before; the despair that flooded over her was a dark sea that threatened to drown her. The only thing that had prevented her from ending it all had suddenly been snatched from her. The illusions she clung to were bittersweet and brought their pain with them. But it was a pain that allowed her to believe that she had once belonged in the world, now that those illusions lay in ruins she was just an empty shell. Any sense of ever having belonged was disappearing like grains of sand between her fingers; she desperately tried to remember the prayers she had been taught at the orphanage. When they would not come to mind she pleaded with God in her words, as her body was wracked with sobs. Outside in the darkness, the tall stranger listened to her anguish, and he smiled.