Contents

Title Page

Anarchy Books

Other Works

Dedication

Introduction

Monsters Anonymous

Mikey

Whitechapel Transfer

The Palace of Dead Rock Stars

Tummy Bug

Something Fishy This Way Comes …

The Call of Home

Priorities, Priorities

Tabasco Source

What about Bob?

Red Meat

Are You My Mummy?

Pound Of Flesh

End of Knights

Author’s Notes

Acknowledgements

Copyright Information

Monsters Anonymous

by

Theresa Derwin

Published 2012

by

ANARCHY BOOKS

Woodhall Spa

Lincolnshire

UNITED KINGDOM

www.anarchy-books.com

ANARCHY BOOKS

Woodhall Spa

Lincolnshire

UNITED KINGDOM

www.anarchy-books.com

First published worldwide by ANARCHY BOOKS 2012

Copyright © Theresa Derwin  2012

Theresa Derwin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Mobi ISBN: 978-1-908328-50-2

ePUB ISBN: 978-1-908328-51-9

ARTWORK by York Berlin

COVER DESIGN by Mongrel Jones

Internal photograph by Lee Hartnup

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, now or yet to be invented, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This novel is wholly a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed herein are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and to events or places, is entirely coincidental unless otherwise accredited.

Other works you may enjoy, published by

ANARCHY BOOKS:

Thriller & Horror

Serial Killers Incorporated by Andy Remic

Monstrocity by Jeffrey Thomas

Vivisepulture [anthology] by Various

Dark Asylum by Matthew Cowden

A Jar of Wasps by Luis Villazon

Trajectory by John S. Barker

Fantasy & SciFi

The Office of Lost and Found by Vincent Holland-Keen

SIM by Andy Remic

New York Nights by Eric Brown

The Black Seas of Infinity by Dan Henk

Monsters Anonymous by Theresa Derwin

Mainstream

Gig by James Lovegrove

Young Punks by Paolo Sedazzari

New York Blues by Eric Brown

The Last Reef by Gareth L. Powell

Silversands by Gareth L. Powell

For Younger Readers

Fynoderee by Alexander Caine Duncan

Rocket Cat by Andy Remic

We also publish several full-length albums to accompany various novels:

Serial Killers Incorporated by th3 m1ss1ng

Monstrocity by Das Sombreros

SIM by th3 m1ss1ng

GIG the album by James Lovegrove

Young Punks by The Mice

All books and albums available from

www.anarchy-books.com

We also offer a mail-order service.

Please see website for details.

For Loylie, Mom and Marj

Rocking it large in Heaven.

Introduction

By Theresa Derwin

Hello and welcome to Monsters Anonymous. This is an anthology of short horror stories with a twist. There are no deep meaningful messages hidden here; no secrets of the universe revealed. This is brash-fiction.

In this anthology you will find a collection of stories that I hope will make you smile, possibly make you squeamish, but most of all entertain you. Brash-fiction is what it says on the tin; it is a collection of horror stories that are bold and in your face.

From Marilyn Monroe zombies, to the search for the Holy Grail at the end of the world, a vibrator that possesses its innocent user and a support group for the Universal monsters inhabiting our world, this anthology is fun with a capital F.

There is plenty of humour, a good dose of gore and characters that will stay with you long after you’ve finished the book.

So welcome, and step into Monsters Anonymous.

Theresa Derwin

May 2012

Monsters Anonymous

"Hello, my name is Jeremy and I'm a vampire."

"Hi Jeremy," chanted the other monsters in unison.

Jeremy took a deep breath and calmed himself. By his very nature he was a loner and wasn’t used to sharing. Ugh, such a sentiment, he thought was very strange. But desperate times called for desperate measures. He’d nearly been caught feeding last week for the first time in centuries. He had to take control of his – life.

“Please continue,” Fay said.

Jeremy gave her one of his legendary dashing smiles showing his surprisingly gleaming white teeth, raising one dark eyebrow in acknowledgement.

Fay was worth an eyebrow raise; she was rather petite, barely five feet high, but she had a slim yet curvaceous figure, sparkling blue eyes and luscious lips that Jeremy could just imagine biting into. Not that he would get far. Fay was, well, a fey, and although her powers were somewhat subdued outside of Fairie, he would still suffer the consequences should he attempt a dalliance.

She was also the Chair of Monsters Anonymous.

He had decided to attend and assess the potential of the group after spying a discreet advert in the local tabloid, with just a phone number to contact.

‘Trying to curb your appetite?

Want help?

Those pesky, monthly changes taking over?

Then look no further; call this number and talk to us about what support our group can offer.

Ask for Fey

Call 0845 999 666

All types welcome’

Jeremy had swiftly realised that ‘Fey’ was not a typo; indeed it was a designation or race if you will. Her magical, dulcet tones and powers of persuasion had convinced him to try the group at least once. Now here he was, surrounded by the eager eyes of a collection of strange creatures willing him to share.

With another deep breath he began.

“I am rather – mature,” he started, “a little long in the tooth.” He smiled at his own joke then continued with a masculine, throaty voice. “I remember Victoria, I remember the Depression. I remember many things.

For centuries I have managed my condition with few irregularities, apart from that time in London 1888. I must admit, I got a little carried away before things became uncomfortable and I had to depart for Europe for a while.

I returned after the travesty of the Somme, although that did keep me in food for a few years. In fact, the wars that have raged through the twentieth century have kept me in food for quite a long time.

I didn’t really become – hungry – until this year. And then I became excessively hungry. It is rather difficult in this technologically savvy society to hide one's identity. Yet this internet reliant world has in fact assisted me. Facebook – such manner of people who share their lives, their very existence, on a forum which anyone can access. Yet it does have its advantages. I believe the term is dating sites?

I scoured these sites until I found the correct gullible type who would willingly meet a handsome stranger and go with them to hotel rooms.

I fed from four or five before I became a danger to myself.

Then, temptation overcame me, for the most unobtainable beauty. Her name was Joanne Tudor; such a regal name for such a regal creature of exquisiteness, with lips as red as a slaughtered lamb. I met her at Sainsbury’s where I had gone one evening to get a bottle of Vodka to make my own version of a Bloody Mary. She worked, I think it is called, as a checkout girl.  I spoke to her for nigh on six months, courting her before she agreed to meet me in a local public house.

I played with her, cat to mouse at first, teasing her, touching her long chestnut hair, staring into her hazel eyes. We talked, and then she accompanied me to a Travelodge nearby.

And then my friends, and then, I did feast!

I slashed my talons into her curvy, olive flesh, until it revealed its juicy morsels of soft red meat. I tore my fangs into her ripe neck, ripping out pieces of tissue, supping from the lifeblood in her veins. I slurped and slurped, laughing hysterically as I ate and ate and ate her away. And then there came a knock at the door.

Unthinking, intoxicated on her essence, I opened the door, my suit covered in scarlet. The maid screamed, so I tore her apart too then fled into the night.

So, my dark friends, I must learn some control.

I must learn to curb my appetite.”

Jeremy sighed theatrically as he finished his story.

Then the tentacled monstrosity sitting to the left of the circle awoke with a start and a guttural cry of “Cthulhu fhtagn, Cthulhu fhtagn!”

“Hey,” said Ivan the were, “looks like the big green beastie is awake again. That’s about the only sharing you’ll get from that guy. Hah!”

A couple in the group laughed, then the thing, the heinous thing, a monstrous hybrid of real and mythical animals; a colossal winged beast (well, at least seven feet tall), dived on Ivan.

Though its wings were puny compared to the scale of its bulk, they wrapped themselves around Ivan’s hirsute form.

Its hide was a foul black-green of nightmares. Writhing tentacles sprouted from its head, dancing out to touch Ivan’s skin.

He could feel their ghastly texture as the mountainous febrile appendages caressed his cheek, squirming, oozing a blackish slime. As one tentacle inserted itself into Ivan’s mouth he gasped then gurgled an apology and the monster withdrew its limb, with a brief unnoticed ripple of his facial tentacles.

It wasn’t long before it was fast asleep again.

Obadiah Wentworth Cthulhu III normally didn’t get involved much with the group, simply sat there oozing otherworldly power.

“God he takes it personal, doesn’t he?” Ivan wheezed.

“It’s your own fault,” Edith, his equally hirsute partner mocked, “if you’re gonna tease an Old One.”

Obadiah the old one continued to snore, oblivious of the distraction he had caused.

“Well,” Fay interrupted, “thank you Jeremy, for sharing with the group.”

Jeremy nodded then Fay addressed the room, “Can I ask for a volunteer to be Jeremy’s sponsor during this difficult time?”

Faces turned away or looked down until Fay glared at each and every one of them.

Finally, Amen the mummy begrudgingly put up a dirty bandaged arm and mumbled something inarticulate in response. He was always a bit tricky to understand thought Fay, what with his mouth covered with bandages.

With no other volunteers forthcoming, Fay took a breath then smiled.

“Thank you Amen, much appreciated. If you and Jeremy can stay behind after the meeting I’ll talk you through the procedures.”

“Most grateful!” exclaimed Jeremy, gesturing towards his ancient sponsor, “I look forward to working with you.”

Amen mumbled his acknowledgement then put his arm back down.

Mr Riddle, who sat next to Amen tapped Jeremy on the shoulder and whispered in his ear; “That thing about 1888 – don’t kid a kidder. I was there, and it wasn’t you, my dear chap.”

“Ahem, well you see, poetic license,” said Jeremy and blushed, as much as the undead can blush.

“Ivan,” Fay said, “as you’re feeling very vocal today, how would you like to go next?”

“Pleasure,” Ivan said, then began his story.

This time it was Edith’s time to snore, having heard his tale many times. She might be in love with him, but she didn’t have to tolerate his crap.

“Hi, Ivan here, and I’m a were-jaguar,” he said with a grin.

“Where should I start? Right, probably with my wife Edith there. I used to call her a bitch all of the time. Who knew I was right hey?”

Edith awoke at the slander, then scowled meaningfully at her husband who just ignored her.

“We were out camping one night over a bank holiday weekend. I was nineteen. We took along a few beers and there was about four of us. We’d rented a cabin in the woods. It had to be trouble didn’t it? Four kids stopping in a cabin in the woods. We were asking for trouble.

I fired up the barbecue and we threw some burgers and sausages on it. Kyle helped me by chucking me a beer every now and again as I cooked the meat. Edith was busy snogging some bloke, don’t remember his name. We weren’t a couple then. All I remember was that I heard him scream, this loud almighty holler.

It had gotten dark when we weren’t looking and the moon was full.

That’s when I saw Edith tearing into this guy, eating his face off, ripping out his intestines. And she was hairy as hell! Covered in fur all over. I thought it was a joke or something.

So I went up to her, tapped her on the shoulder and she turned round with this big snarl, her jaw was like a foot longer and there were all of these teeth, dripping blood, pieces of flesh and saliva. And phew did her breath stink!

“'What The Fuck!” I screeched, and she left off eating her boyfriend and jumped on me.

Next thing I know I’m in the hospital, all hooked up with wires and shit, and Edith is sitting opposite me waiting for me to wake up. She looks at me all sheepish like, and says, “Ivan, I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you about my monthlies.” And I was like, “It’s okay, it’s cool, what happens now?”

So then she tells me that each month I’m gonna get hairy and turn into a were! And I was like, “no way!”

But what do you know, next month I ache all over, cramp up, then turn into one furry motherfucker and eat my neighbour. Nearly got caught.”

“Are you done?” Edith growled.

“Well Bab, you see …”

“Don’t Bab, me,” she snapped, “you know that was utter bull.”

She turned to the group then. “I’m sorry folks, but Ivan has a penchant for exaggerating events. It’s my turn next week, so you’ll hear the truth then!”

“Sorry Bab,” Ivan said, “But, let me tell them at least one truth. We’ve been doing this three years now, but it doesn’t stop the hunger. The hunger, it’s always there man.

It’s always there. It’s an addiction.”

Always there, thought Jeremy. Even through his lies, Ivan had hit the nail on the head. The taste of blood; the feel of it coursing through his veins, running down his throat. There was nothing like it in this world or the next. When he’d tried to go cold turkey a few decades ago, it had left him a shaking, gibbering, wreck, a mere shell. Just the smell of a woman’s skin near him had made his mouth salivate and the shakes increase. Cold turkey didn’t work; neither did expending all of his energy with one big feed to sustain him. He always wanted more. Always. So that’s what brought him here tonight.

“Thank you Ivan, Edith,” Fay said, acknowledging them with a nod.

Jeremy watched with interest as the meeting continued with Fay as Chair, various creatures coming forward to tell their tale; The Beast from the Blue Lagoon, all scales and waterlogged, complaining how he didn’t get to meet many people because he was, well, so obvious. It was hard to jump out of the Edgbaston reservoir on a regular basis and take a walk, though his part time work as a detective did help him to mingle. There were frequent joggers who ran the course of the reservoir, which is why he’d got into trouble with a petite blonde a few months back. He had a thing for petite blondes. He made Fay nervous.

Then there was a chap called Dr Woolaston. He looked ordinary as far as Jeremy could tell; a human physique with red hair and a salt and pepper beard. But there was something not right about him. And when he told his story about his medical experiments, Jeremy knew why he was so unnerved. That guy was the real monster. You didn’t need teeth or claws to be evil.

A few more stood up to talk but it was Uma that scared him; with her sleek body, pale skin and under her hat, a dozen squirming, writhing, snakes that hissed and danced in motion as she talked.

All she wanted was to be able sustain a relationship without the chap turning to stone on her or without having to constantly wear contact lenses.

Jeremy truly pitied her.

Next spoke Riddle, a gentleman of his time, then Cally, a young rather pale wench who it appeared liked to eat brains.

Before long time had flown and the meeting was over.

“Hey, Green Boy!” Ivan called, shaking his tentacled friend, “Mate, wake up. It’s time to go home.”

With a final snort the Old One woke up and snarled its thanks.

“Jeremy, Amen,” Fay called as the monsters exited the room, “this won’t take long, I promise. I just need a moment of your time.”

***

Ivan knew he was being followed. His hackles rose, the hair rising on the back of his neck as he walked home that night.

He could take them on, whoever they were. It was still two weeks off full moon but he was damn strong and knew how to fight.

He got to his city centre apartment and took his keys out, glancing left and right as he let himself in.

When he got home he told Edith.

Paranoid again, he figured. Nothing jumped out at him.

***

Edith tried her keys but their apartment door was locked from the inside.  She knocked again and there was still no answer. He’d been ignoring her texts and calls all day now and she was starting to worry. She hadn’t seen him since last night and they were supposed to go to their meeting tonight together. They’d arranged cover at the firm and got a babysitter for Josez.

What if he’d had an accident or something? Or even worse, pissed off someone in the group. He wasn’t the easiest to get along with, even she could admit.

“C’mon Ivan, open the door!” she yelled up at the window.

No answer. Shit.

If he was sleeping when she got into his apartment, next full moon she was going to tear him to pieces.

The cricket bat she carried in case of an emergency came out at last. If this didn’t qualify as an emergency she didn’t know what did. She whacked the bat into the lock, finally smashing it off and opening the door, then yelled up the staircase to their sitting room, “Ivan, I’m coming in whether you want me to or not!”

Still no response.

Sighing in frustration, she climbed the stairs.

The smell of something putrid hit her before she’d got halfway up.

She started to run up the stairs then, fear crawling up her spine. Something was definitely wrong. She hoped to God Ivan hadn’t lost it and killed a friend or the postman. It was all they needed.

She yanked open the sitting room door and the smell got stronger.

And then she saw what was left of Ivan, sitting propped up on the sofa surrounded by cushions, as though he were chilling watching TV. There was a gaping ragged hole where his chest once was, blood spattered over his gauche shirt. His head flopped back on the sofa, his tongue lolled out, turned a mottled shade of blue.

Edith let out a scream then ran towards her husband, cringing in shame as the hunger which came with the scent of blood, rushed in on her.

She let out a shaky growl, her appetite warring with her grief as the sight of Ivan’s corpse invaded her. Swallowing another growl, she stepped forward, peering into his chest cavity, his empty chest cavity.

His heart was gone.

***

Edith fled the apartment in a panic, sobbing as she ran to the only place she could think of to go, her meeting.

She was due there tonight anyway and the group, they would know what to do.

She burst through the doors of the community centre, collapsing into Jeremy’s waiting arms. He’d smelled the stale blood lingering on her skin the second she’d come through the hallway.

Jeremy scooped her up and carried her to a spare chair from the circle where the group gathered in waiting.

Fay let out a small gasp and rushed over to her.

Amen shambled over to where Jeremy cradled Edith in his arms and handed her a glass of water, which she sipped gratefully as Jeremy rocked her and Fay stroked her hair. Everyone had gathered around them, everyone except the tentacled snorer that is, as Jeremy whispered words of comfort to the distraught were-jaguar.

“Tell me child,” Jeremy said, “what has happened?”

“Ivan, Ivan,” she panted, short of breath, “he‒”

“Shhh, it’s okay child.”

“It’s not!” she screamed, pushing away from Jeremy’s soothing arms, “It’s Ivan.”

She let loose another ragged scream, which turned into a helpless sob.

“Edith,” Fay whispered, “you can share anything with us, you know that. Anything.”

Raising the glass to her lips again she took a large gulp of water and steadied herself, controlling her breathing as Jeremy made swirling motions, rubbing her back gently to stabilise her.

“Mmmummh,” agreed Amen.

Edith took another breath and handed the empty glass to the mummy.

It was time to share.

***

She told them about how she’d found Ivan, the blood, the gore, the deliberately relaxed position she’d found him in, apparently watching TV as the gaping hole in his chest mocked the semblance of life.

“What do we do?” asked the Beast from the Blue Lagoon, who these days preferred to be called Harry.

There was no question in the group that it was indeed a we situation. They would sort this out together. There was no way they could involve the police either, which Fay pointed out.

“Fay’s right,” said Harry, “we need to keep this amongst ourselves.”

“I’m sorry to mention this,” Jeremy said, grasping Edith’s hand, “but we will have to think of a way to dispose of the bod – of Ivan. We can show him the respect due, but it must be us that sorts this out.”

The monsters nodded their agreement as one, even the Old One.

“But why the heart?” asked Jeremy. “Who would take the heart?”

Edith raised her head and started to talk in a quivering voice.

“There’s a legend,” she started, “with our kind, about the heart. If a were wants to reverse the curse, then they have to eat the heart of the one that turned them. But Ivan – he, he didn’t turn anyone. He was so bloody careful!”

“Child, you can’t know that for certain, he was in our small group after all.”

“I can!” she yelled, “I trust him. He had it under control, I swear.”

She started to cry again and Fay continued to stroke her hair.

“Enough for now,” Fay said, “Dr Woolaston, take Edith home. Harry, Jeremy, Amen and – oh, forget it, you three, we’ll make arrangements and do what needs to be done. The rest of you, meeting cancelled for tonight, so see you next week. Edith, give me your keys luv.”

Edith passed the keys to Fay with clammy fingers, then Dr Woolaston leaned down and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the exit.

Amen waved at them as they left the room, with a final mumble of empathy.

***

Body safely buried beneath a building site, and a small service having been held in memory of Ivan, the group resumed its meeting the following Wednesday minus Cally. Although she was a zombie, she was still a little shy around blood and guts, so maybe last week's shenanigans had disturbed her. That was Harry’s theory at least.

Fay started the meeting, and it was Riddle’s time to share.

Riddle was a robust chap with long thick hair and a trimmed goatee. He was wearing the most outrageous waistcoat in bright green over a black t-shirt with white skulls on it. Despite the t-shirt, Jeremy had already decided they came from similar eras based on their brief conversation the first week of his arrival, and he remained convinced of this from Riddle’s impeccable speech patterns and seemingly polite manner.

“Hello there, my name is Shaw Riddle and I’m afraid, at least I do not believe, that there is a name for me. Cannibal is perhaps the closest, after all, I do partake of a little red meat now and again.”

Riddle continued and Jeremy found himself almost joining their tentacled member in a timely nap. It wasn’t that Riddle was boring as such, just unbelievably self-centred. He could stop his hobby at any time; there was no biological compulsion or need to make him eat the flesh of humans.

Riddle finished, then it was Harry’s turn to speak, which Jeremy found most entertaining.

Following the meeting, Jeremy approached Fay to ask a quick question, but found himself in a queue.

“Are you sure, Fay?” Harry was asking.

“Of course Harry, there’s no need to worry. I’m positive Cally is fine. She may have overindulged or may have lost a limb or something. You know it’s happened before.”

“If you’re sure then,” Harry answered doubtfully, “see you next week.”

“Bye,” Fay called.

Jeremy swiftly forgot his question and addressed Harry; “Walk a while?” he asked.

“Er, yeah, sure, if ya like,” Harry answered, donning his usual disguise of rain Mack and fedora to hide his excess of scales and gills, “what’s up?”

“This Cally girl,” Jeremy replied, “what with the happenings involving the jaguar last week, and now this Cally disappearing, do you not think it rather strange?”

“Not really, I mean the thing with Ivan was scary, but Cally’s done it before, and zombies are a strange lot. Besides, we had a bloke called Jasper here last year and he went off without a by your leave, then a postcard turns up a month later from LA. She’ll be ok.”

“Fair enough, I shall accept your word on the matter,” Jeremy answered, then bade his farewell and they separated.

***

Despite Harry’s assurances that nothing was wrong, Jeremy’s instincts told him otherwise, particularly as Amen did not arrive the following Wednesday.

The meeting ran as usual with attendees sharing their stories. When it got to the end of the session, Jeremy approached Harry.

“Another word, my gilled friend,” he called.

Harry, complete in his usual garb turned around.

“I note Amen’s absence,” Jeremy observed, “is it not strange that we have lost yet another member of our small group?”

“Here,” Harry whispered, dragging the vampire into a corner, “I hear you. I spoke to Fay earlier and she says there ain’t nothing to worry about, but I got to admit, I have my doubts.”

“Good, my friend. Would you come with me to Amen’s crypt and investigate? Fay need not know.”

“Why would – never mind, let’s do it.”

It didn’t take long to reach Amen’s crypt taking the number 57 from town to Yardley cemetery. Jeremy knew the route having visited Amen a few times given his role as sponsor.

Despite assumptions to the contrary, Jeremy was not rich (not being psychic he had fallen foul of the Depression) and did not own a car.

Creeping through Yardley cemetery as dusk fell Harry was impressed by the array of fine tombstones and crypts.

“Pretty atmospheric Jeremy,” Harry said, “with a couple like us creeping around.”

“Yes”, Jeremy replied, “I believe Amen appreciated the irony of living in a crypt, and the financial benefits to be truthful.”

“Yeah, I bet the rent is kinda cheap,” Harry answered.

“Here,” Jeremy said as they finally came to a halt by a mausoleum ten feet high and barred with wrought iron gates, “through here.”

The gates creaked as Jeremy pushed them open to reveal large oak doors leading into the actual crypt. Using a key he found under a bunch of convenient weeds, Jeremy opened the heavy doors.

The smell hit him straight away, similar to the scent that had clung to Edith following her discovery of Ivan, yet less pungent, more stale and dry.

Harry and Jeremy walked into the darkened crypt and Jeremy’s night vision picked out the gruesome scene; bandages torn asunder, very little blood but still some evident surrounding the open chest cavity, the empty open chest cavity.

“This belies Edith’s theory,” Jeremy said, “for it appears Amen’s heart is missing too. Do you know of any creature that devours hearts?”

“That Riddle guy,” Harry said, “likes to eat flesh. Saying that, he likes human flesh. It doesn’t strike me that Amen’s heart here would taste too good.”

“You are right Harry. So what purpose would it serve to eat Amen’s heart? And Ivan’s for that matter.”

“Power,” Harry breathed into the still, cold air, “power. I betcha those hearts pack one helluva punch mate.”

“You have a point. So what now?”

“Let’s get out of here for starters,” Harry said, “and keep this between you and me.”

***

Harry’s plan was straightforward but Jeremy was sure it would work. He had faith in the scaly chap, particularly given his previous experience as a detective and his ability to hide very well despite his physical limitations.

They would tell no one of Amen’s passing. Then they would follow all Group members at separate times to see what they got up to and to see if they did anything suspicious. They would follow everyone except Edith; her grief was no lie. Harry would take the day watch and Jeremy the night watch over the next seven days, tailing the remaining members and Fay.

They would not even tell Fay of their plan, despite her role as Chair. Jeremy trusted no one.

It was the fourth night that their well-thought-out plans came to fruition.

Jeremy was sitting downstairs, hunched over hidden behind the bushes in Fay’s front garden.

He could hear the clink of a wine glass being placed down, a CD playing modern music, not to his taste, and he could see Fay in the kitchen with his spectacular night vision, preparing a meal.

She was dressed casually so Jeremy surmised that there were to be no guests for her meal.

Fay finished chopping onions and threw them in a pan on the stove. She splashed some of her wine into the pan then danced toward the fridge.

From the fridge she retrieved a piece of red-brown meat, which seemed to pulse under the candlelight. And pulse it did indeed, for Jeremy could now see what the piece of meat was.

Fay started to slice through the raw meat, throwing morsels into the pan, a look of desperate hunger on her features.

***

Wednesday night came quickly. The group was full apart from Amen, who Fay explained had decided to leave the group and Cally, who had been missing a coupe of weeks.  Edith, who was still suffering the loss of Ivan, couldn’t bear to attend.

It was Jeremy’s turn to share.

He stood up this time and started as usual, defining the hunger, how it controlled him, saturated his veins. There was nothing but the hunger, whether it be blood, meat or simply power.

“This is why I know what it is like, Fay,” he said, causing her to frown, as members rarely addressed the Chair directly during a sharing.

“I know how the hunger devours you Fay. I know where you were Monday night. I saw everything. I smelt everything. So share with us Fay, for once, share your hunger with us.”

Obadiah stopped snoring, amused by the new turn of events. Harry nodded at Jeremy, satisfied with his statement. The rest of the group looked at each other a little confused.

“Don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“Now Fay, really,” Harry replied, grasping her around the neck, his claws fully extended, “who you kidding?”

Fay squealed and tried to break free but she wasn’t strong enough.

“Here now!” exclaimed Riddle standing up.

“Back off,” Harry said, grasping tighter around her neck, “Fay, I’m gonna let you go, but it’s useless to fight. You may as well share with us.”

“Please do,” Jeremy said, gesturing at a chair.

Harry let go of Fay who gasped for breath, then collapsed into the chair taking a minute to get her voice back.

“How did you know?” she wheezed.

“Followed ya,” Harry said.

“All of you. We followed you all,” Jeremy said to shouts of outrage.

“Hear us out,” Harry interrupted, “hear Fay out first.”

The shouts died down and Fay smiled briefly then sighed.

“Okay,” she said at last, “I’m ready to tell you all.”

And so she did.

Fay was a lesser fey, less powerful than most.

She had arrived in this version of Earth determined to make a living, use her power and escape the discrimination in Fairie. It was a world of class distinction and cruelty, and being lesser fey, Ariadne as she was known then was subject to torture and abuse. She had to escape.

She ran. She changed her name. She started working for a local law firm as a legal secretary, but it wasn’t enough. Even there she was treated with spitefulness, deemed less than the lawyers.

That was when she decided to usurp power in the only way she knew how; stealing and eating the hearts of other supernatural creatures. That was the reason she started the group; easy access to monsters. And who would miss them? No one, she was sure.

“How do you think this makes us feel?” Woolaston asked.

“I – I – I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone, well, okay, maybe I did, but do you blame me?” Fay stammered.

Vulnerable to her natural charms, Harry handed her a hankie.

“It’s okay doll,” he said, “just don’t let it happen again. We’ll work through it together, as a group.”

“Are you insane?” Riddle murmured.

“No, he’s not,” Jeremy said, rubbing Fay’s shoulder as she continued to cry, “she made a mistake or two. She fell victim to her hunger, but we are a support group, are we not? Here to help monsters like ourselves?”

The group considered it for a moment then nodded or vocalised their assent.

“Well then, let’s call it a night for now and resume next Wednesday.”

“Great,” said Harry, “who’s for the pub?”

There were general murmurs of agreement then the conversation was interrupted as a boy, no more than seventeen, walked into the room.

His skin was desiccated and hung from his face in tatters.

The smell of rot clung to him.

“Hi,” he said, addressing the vampire who seemed to be the authority figure, “is this that group? You know–” he whispered, “Monsters Anonymous?”

Jeremy nodded. “Indeed it is young man. Come in.”

“Great,” the kid said as he walked into the community centre, “name’s Mikey, and I’m, like, a Zombie.”

“Welcome Mikey,” said the monsters in unison.

Harry smiled as he took the kids arm.

“You’re a bit late,” he said, “we’re off to the pub. But hey, join us.”

“If that’s cool,” said Mikey.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” said Harry, “we may as well induct you there as here.”

The monsters left the community centre, Jeremy leading the group out.

Monsters Anonymous would resume next Wednesday.

Mikey

Today you’re about to read an exclusive interview with a 16yr old boy named Mikey.  As you know, I’ve been running this small local newspaper for about a month now, and I have a bit of a modest following; friends, family, that sort of thing. I’ve been really grateful for the feedback I’ve received.  And I’ve never been more grateful than at this moment.

Last night I had a call from a young guy named Mikey who wanted to share something with me. He lives locally so I arranged a visit with him so we could talk.

Mikey has been subjected to bullying and harassment at his work place because he is different, and he wants me to help him to share his experiences with as many people as I can.  Now I need you all to read this story and tell everyone you know about it.  Mikey’s story needs to be shared. He is sick and tired of the discrimination and he wants a voice.  He wants to come out.

Below I have transcribed my interview with Mikey Green. I took a photo of him and so you can see what young Mikey looks like and put a face to the name. The Daily Dead wants you to hear Mikey’s story.

TD: Hi Mikey, thanks for letting me visit.  How’s it going?

MG: Not too bad thanks. I’m a bit nervous, but it’s all good.

TD: Great. Thanks for taking the time to chat with me.  I hope my introduction will have intrigued my readers enough.  So, what is it you wanted it to share with them?

MG: Er, it’s difficult, but.  Ok, you see, the thing is I’m getting bullied at work quite badly and I’m getting so pissed off with it all, with the way I’ve been treated lately, the jokes, the snidey remarks, the looks. People don’t know I can hear or see them, but I can.  It ain’t my fault what I look like you know.  And it hurts.

TD: Why do they look at you Mikey?

MG: They can’t accept who I am, what I am.  It’s ok, I’m gonna say it

TD: Take your time.

At this point Mikey became visibly upset.

MG: Okay.  Here it is. My name is Mikey Green, and I’m a Zombie.

TD: A Zombie?

MG: Yeah, Undead person. Grr, eat you Zombie. You know; “When there is no more room in hell the dead shall walk the earth”.  But the thing is, I don’t eat people. Christ, I was a Vegetarian before I died.

TD: Okay. So how did this happen?

MG: Er, I sort of died babe.  And then I came back. (Laughs) I don’t know.

TD: That must have been a shock for you.

MG: Too right. I was well scared.  I was lucky though man, they hadn’t buried me.  So, I woke up in the Funeral Directors, I went to Mom’s and she was like “Ahhh, ahhh” and I was like “It’s okay Mom, I won’t eat you. I don’t eat family, ‘cause that’s incest. Eww.”

TD: So what happened next?

MG: Mom gave up screaming and shit, and I said “Mom, it’s all good, I’ll get a job. And I won’t eat the neighbours.” I figured the neighbour’s dog wasn’t included. Last time I’ll do that I tell you. I’m still spitting out fur.  But the thing is I couldn’t get a job. There was always a reason. You’re not qualified enough; too young; too short; too dead. Zombies are people too you know, but everywhere I went it was like I had the plague or something.  Finally I got a job and I was proud and I thought it would all be okay. And then it got worse.

TD: Where did you get the job?

MG: I can’t tell you the name.  But it was a burger place in the kitchens at the back so no one could see me.

TD: And what happened then?

MG: I need time. Not yet, please.

TD: That’s fine. Take the time you need.

We took a five minute break and Mikey was able to continue.

MG: Mom kicked me out to stay at the burger place. They had room in the back they said. Room in the back, yeah right. It was a cage in the corner of the freezer next to the frozen buns, burgers and fish fillets. Cramped, squished into a spare food cage lying on a frozen counter every night, the chill creeping into my bones. I could still feel you know. They didn’t get that. I was dead cold.

And they offered me food. The dregs of the burgers the Customers threw out, barely enough to sustain me. The hunger ripped apart my insides, trying to claw its way out, fingers of pain slicing through me. I can’t describe it. I’m so hungry all the time.

One day Shawn, one of the Managers caught me out back in the stock room. I was munching my way through a raw burger. It was out of date and was destined for the bin anyway. I wasn’t hurting no-one.

He saw me and went ballistic, called me a fucking Dead Head. Started hitting me with the broom. Whipping me like a stray dog or a horse until my left arm fell off and I had to get my Case Worker from the Zombie Coalition to sew it back on again the next night.

Then the taunts started. The nicknames, the comments, “Come here worm-feed, clean this up” or “Suck my cock and feed on 8 inches of pure meat you undead scum.” I was tempted to say yes and bite the damn thing off I can tell you. But I restrained myself.

Then they decided I wasn’t pulling my weight. They were cutting my ‘wages’, which by the way, was the cage in the freezer, a fresh uniform each week and the old meat. I didn’t get paid any money.

The meat isn’t keeping me fresh. It’s getting worse, my skin, my joints, the pieces of flesh falling away. I’m falling apart. It’s gotten so bad I cooked a Mikey Burger the other day, pieces of my old arm having fallen onto the grill. Thank God I spotted it. But isn’t my fault. I keep telling them that. If only they’d let me eat the raw meat I’d stand a chance.

So that’s why I’m here. I’m not the only one who’s maltreated. There are others. And together we are the Zombie Coalition.

I’m here to warn you. There’s a War coming, only most of you don’t know it. Give us equal rights.

Treat us fairly.

Live with us or die. It’s a simple choice really.

I’ll leave it to you.

My interview with Mikey finished at that point. He finished his drink and left the bar. So I write this to you, beware. There is a War coming.

This is Theresa Derwin of the Zombie Coalition and the Daily Dead.

Live with us or die. Your choice.

Whitechapel Transfer

My name is Inspector Jonathon Bestwick and the tale I have to tell is most shocking, disturbing, and wholly gruesome. Yet tell it I must for I cannot bear the brunt of it alone anymore. It has stagnated in my breast these ten long years. The horror of which I shall speak has been gone from London long since and now the time has come to reveal all.

It began in the early autumn of the year of our Lord 1888 in the reign of Queen Victoria. In the dream I could see her. The dead prostitute lying with her innards out for all to see, though carefully displayed as though a skilled surgeon’s hand had committed such an atrocity. This I was sure of, for those cuts were indeed frightening in their precision.

I awoke from my evening siesta with a start, a cold sweat creeping over my skin, the fear from my nightmare engulfing me. I remembered her too clearly. The throat severed, the abdomen ripped open with a long, deep and jagged wound. He had eviscerated her. The left kidney and parts of the uterus had been removed.

Her name was Elizabeth Stride. In life they had called this poor soul Long Liz, and she was the third to have been brutally murdered by the one the newspapers were calling The Ripper because of that blasted letter we had received. This murder was swiftly followed by the murder of Kate Eddowes, similarly slaughtered. I did not know where to begin my investigations. And yet, and yet it was my duty to apprehend the fiend though I had failed in this task so far. It had been over two months since the first murder.

I tried to shake the memories away from me, but I still remembered returning to my modest lodgings through the fogged streets of London following our discovery of Long Liz, the yellow glow of the gas lamps doing little to improve my eyesight nor my mood. For I was fraught with grief at the sight that I had beheld that day. Her pallid dirty corpse, flesh scarred and bloody, lay discarded like an apple core, a thin line of scarlet blood running in rivulets from her slender throat, the job only half done. The job interrupted. Yet still, he managed to claim a further victim elsewhere.

I finally shook the dream away and went to my lounge to assist with my relaxation. I had settled down on my favourite chair, my face diffused with the soft glow from my gas lamp, as I enjoyed the latest copy of Punch. I was easing my mood with a particularly humorous illustration when the door bell rang. I could hear Miss Young, my house keeper, opening the door. She was arguing with someone. Then she knocked on my lounge door to inform me that I had a visitor. It was rather late at 9pm, but Miss Young was adamant that I receive my guest persevering with “Sir, she is most insistent sir, she won’t go away.”

“Very well Miss Young,” said I, “I shall see this visitor on this one occasion. Please be so good as to bring us tea. And see her in.”

Miss Young nodded and left the room. Huffing a little I put down my copy of Punch awaiting my visitor. I was not in the best of moods, my sleep having been disturbed and filled with bloody images.

I was surprised to find a shabbily dressed young woman, of perhaps twenty-five years admitted into my chambers. She wore a cap as is common holding back a length of unkempt and straggly brown hair, and a shawl covered her delicate shoulders and the top half of her evening dress. From the patch of dirt on her cheek I deduced her to be a common lady, of the type Mayhew had interviewed some years passed. But that was of no matter.

“Please do take a seat,” I offered, standing as she entered the room.

Following a brief, somewhat uncomfortable curtsey, the young woman sat down on my chaise-longue.

“Permit me to introduce myself,” said I, “I am Inspector Jonathon Bestwick of CID. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked.

“My name is Mary Kelly. Call me Mary,” said my guest.

“Well Miss Kelly,” I replied, “how may I be of assistance?”

“It’s about the Ripper. I can help you,” she replied, “I can help with the case you’re on. I know things.”

This was somewhat irregular, a potential witness visiting me in my lodgings, but at this point I did not question it, fool that I am, so eager was I to trap and punish the creature who was stalking Whitechapel. It occurred to me that she might indeed have valuable information through her acquaintances.  Though her manner of speaking was rather unusual, and I surmised her to be a peculiar sort of foreigner, I nodded acquiescence and she continued.

“You’re not stupid,” she said, “You’ve already noticed the connection between the victims. They were all prostitutes and all found quite close by in the Whitechapel area. Your link between them is there. Your Ripper won’t be far from there.”

“I had deduced as much,” said I, “but what else can you offer me in the way of explanation?”

“Inspector, It’s me. I’m the link,” she resumed “I’m the one he’s really after Bestwick.”

“I say,” I exclaimed, “how did you come to such a conclusion?! Where is your proof?”

“It’s a long story,” she continued, briefly wiping her brow with a handkerchief, as though having an attack of the vapours “but you need to listen to me, we don’t have much time. Mary – I - am destined to die soon, in less than two days to be exact. He will sever this throat, rip open this belly, and steal these organs. But we can change that, if we work together.”

At this point Miss Young entered with tea and I served a cup to my strange guest who appeared to be predicting her own death. It is true, she was attired in the garb of a loose woman with low means and thus it was obvious to me that she may be a potential victim. So, despite her tall tale I was intrigued.

Perhaps it was fear, perhaps it was fancy, but this lady appeared to know facts regarding the mutilated state of the cadavers. Information that the Press did not yet have. Miss Young left the room and we continued with our conversation.

“What pattern have you found?” asked I, “that can convince me that you will become a victim of this monster? And how do you proclaim to know when?”

“I can’t explain. You need to trust me on this. I will die on 9th of November and it will all be for nothing unless you believe me. First, I have something to show you.”

Slowly she stood and moved towards me, her hand reaching under her shawl into her dress pockets. For one moment I was convinced it was a weapon she was about to brandish. For one second my hand reached for the pistol I kept close by in my table drawer. Then I stopped, as a tattered, somewhat faded photograph was handed to me. I gasped in shock at the image before me; a bundle of clothes thrown onto a slovenly bed, an unidentifiable lump beneath that clothing. But no, it was no bundle of clothes.

Ribbons of flesh hung loosely off the body, for a body it was. The throat had been severed down to the spine, and the abdomen virtually emptied of its organs. The heart was missing. A pitiable sight. I could almost smell the stench of death. Next, I perused the face of this victim. Though the face was not quite clear, I could see well enough. It was Miss Mary Kelly, dead, slaughtered. Yet here she stood in front of me.

***

We had progressed from tea to a drop of strong sherry. The occasion seemed to call for it. The photograph was still clasped between my fingers as I sat sipping my drink in silence, until at last I spoke.

“I cannot fathom how - ”

“Don’t try,” she said, “Just believe me when I tell you that the photo is real. Do you believe in me now?”

“I must proclaim, that yes, I do. By whatever agency this photograph exists, I can see that it is authentic.”

“Good.” Miss Kelly sat down again, content with my answer then commenced to knock back the remainder of her sherry. “The Ripper must die, before I do. I know exactly where he will be at 4.17am on 9th November. We can kill him.”

“No!” I exclaimed, “We must apprehend him and ensure that he faces trial for his crimes. He shall be punished as God wishes. But how do you know these things? And where did the photograph come from?”

With a massive sigh, this woman, this Mary Kelly, began her outlandish tale.

“Hi,” she began, “My name isn’t Mary Kelly. I’m DCI Victory Morgan and I was born in 2064.”

At this point, I thought it rather useful to down another glass of sherry.

***

I momentarily believed myself transported into a scientific romance as she spoke. Victory Morgan it appeared was the future equivalent of myself, a police detective within a large police organisation, but not a normal police department. Miss Morgan was a Demon Huntress, responsible for tracking down demons through history and banishing them to the hell in which they belonged. She had followed this Ripper through time, informing me quite reasonably that the Ripper was no mere mortal. Indeed no, she proclaimed exuberantly, the Ripper was a demon, a demon which could transfer its essence from body to body, possessing the poor soul and committing those most heinous of crimes in a different body each time. This, she insisted, was why we had been unable to apprehend the fiend, for each time it was a different person slaughtering those women with no memory once the demon chose a new host. I enquired if she too, were some kind of demon to know such things, but she did not flinch when I took out my crucifix and held it to her flesh. She did not burn.

She had been taught archaic rituals for the banishment of demons, she explained. And this body she wore did indeed belong to Mary Kelly, who the fates had chosen to die in two more sunrises. It was only her mind that possessed Miss Kelly, via something that she called a download into the neo cortex part of the brain. I struggled to understand this concept, but she further explained that in her current year of 2096 technology had advanced significantly, and as such, through use of infernal devices the mind, memories, and knowledge of a future person could be transported into the body of my contemporaries to solve cases and inflict punishment. Her police department was equipped with the knowledge to defeat many supernatural creatures including demons. This was her ‘job’ she told me. And with each demon she was able to send back in time a ‘case file’ she called it, some medium sort of paper file in a dingy brown that she showed me that contained details from each individual case including the afore mentioned photograph and the accoutrements of demon banishment. Who would suppose such a thing, thought I, a female taking on such a powerful masculine role? This, of all she had told me thus far, had been the greatest surprise.

***

I said my farewells to Miss – Morgan and got me abed. It was after 11pm by the time she left and we were to be up early the next morning, 8th November. She knew the location that her murder was due to take place but not which guise the demon would take this time. Our plan, though it was not much to speak of, was to gather together any necessary tools and ingredients required to banish said demon, depart for a late supper, then spend the night scouring Dorset Street area. I planned to include some of the regular police force in our endeavour. I would tell them that I had received anonymous information that the next victim was to be killed in the early hours of 9th November. I just had to pray that my story was believed.

I slept fitfully that night, demons, witches and all manner of supernatural creatures dancing in my head as I tossed and turned in my bed.  I arose finally, not much rested but determined to attack our mission that morning with gusto. Prior to leaving, Miss Morgan had asked me if I knew of a particular but unobtrusive place to purchase medicines. Indeed, I did, and recommended that we visit a close friend of mine. I had used Elizabeth Garrett Anderson before in my investigations. She was the most qualified and discreet Apothecary, or Dispensing Chemist that I knew of. For she had struggled to achieve recognition by her peers, and despite gaining membership of the British Medical Association and working diligently in her field at London School of Medicine for Women, she was considered far too rebellious in nature to be recognised for her talent.

As such, when treated with the respect she truly deserved, she could be convinced to assist in my police work. I sent ahead a messenger this morn as I broke my fast, entreating her to help. Being a woman who deeply cared for her sisters in life, Mrs Anderson agreed to assist with our case and Miss Morgan and I were to appear at her Whitechapel lodgings at 12:00pm on 8th November.

Miss Morgan arrived at my lodgings a quarter of eleven, which was time enough for our walk through Whitechapel. I offered my arm for Miss Morgan as we exited my lodgings. The morning was ghastly. A deep black cloud hung above the already smoky city as we began our perambulation through the grimy cobbled streets. The words of Jacob Adler sprung to mind as we left the more affluent areas of Whitechapel and descended into the heart of darkness. “The further we penetrated into this Whitechapel, the more our hearts sank. Was this London?” Indeed, such squalid, ungodly, degenerative sights we saw that made me wonder ‘was this my home?’

We continued our slow walk, revelling in the sight of dirigibles in the air above taking eager travellers on their journeys, as we continued ours by foot, enjoying the scents of baked bread, hot nuts, sizzling sausages, beer and the aromatic sputter of onions in a frying pan in the street or close by pubs and taverns that soon gave way to darker, dingier streets, where we must beware of bedpan contents being thrown from nearby windows. The aroma of hot food was now replaced with the malodorous stench of sewerage, faeces, and cloying perfume that the women of very low class wore to cover their general lack of hygiene.

It occurred to me as I walked arm in arm with Miss Morgan, that though she was dressed in cheap attire, she did not have the demeanour of the many women who hung about these streets, from Thrawl Street, to Berners Street and finally to Wentworth Street, who flaunted their wares. No, indeed not, she carried an air of respectability despite her outward appearance, and in our brief acquaintanceship, I had quite grown to like her.

Finally, feet soggy from the streets, we reached our destination, the residence of Mrs Anderson, formerly Miss Garrett.

The House Girl showed us in to the drawing room, where we had but to wait five minutes for our Apothecary friend to appear. She entered wearing a scruffy leather apron over her day dress of grey, her hair tied up in a smart bun.

“Dearest Inspector Bestwick,” she exclaimed upon seeing us, “please be seated. And please do introduce your companion.”

Before accepting the offer of a seat (tea had already been laid out), I introduced my fair companion by her true name Miss Victory Morgan and we accepted an offer of tea.

The usual small talk gave way to Mrs Anderson enquiring as to the urgency of our visit.

“It has been so long,” said she with a smile, “and yet, your request to visit has come so urgently. Pray tell Inspector, what is the ‘to do’ now?”

“It is, I’m afraid to admit,” I replied, “a matter of life or death.”

“Pray explain,” she fairly gasped.

“Well”, said I, “this will sound most peculiar, but you must believe me when I say that I do not jest. It is of the utmost urgency that you provide my colleague and I with some particulars no later than tonight. It is this Ripper that stalks this very district! I have a means of preventing further atrocities. But it must be done carefully.”

“I see Inspector. But please, how can I possibly help with this?”

“So very easily,” I said with a smile in her direction, “please permit my friend Miss Morgan to explain.”

Thankfully, my friend Mrs Anderson was of a strong constitution. When Miss Morgan showed her the photograph I myself had seen only the previous night, she did not have an attack of the vapours, indeed no. Taking a deep breath, she stood up a little shakily and went to one of the large glass door cabinets in her drawing room and took out a glass carafe brimming with an amber liquid. One of the items we had requested thought I, but no. Most generously, Mrs Anderson poured a large helping of the amber fluid into three small glass vials, passing one to myself and one to Miss Morgan, before taking a healthy swig from a vial herself.

“I always keep a drop or two handy,” she explained, “for medicinal purposes.”

As I enjoyed the smoky flavour of the spirit I could not have agreed more.

***

Had I thought we were in her apothecary suite? Not so. Though the glass cabinets were filled with a myriad of concoctions, glass jars, bottles and vials and all manner of liquids, it was nothing compared to Mrs Anderson’s innermost sanctuary.

After we had finished our drinks and were much more fortified, Mrs Anderson drew us over to her fireplace. I thought she was about lowering the fire that was steadily burning, but much to my surprise, she proceeded to turn a valve at the side of the grate that reduced the flame until it entirely disappeared. At this point, I could hear the familiar metallic resonance of what sounded like cogs and gears moving and then I saw it. Where Mrs Anderson turned a brass wheel, so the entire fireplace turned with it, gradually moving around until it was about face, but a man sized gap remained and she stepped through then called us after her. To my utter astonishment, what lay behind the fireplace was a descending stone staircase that headed downwards into complete darkness. I suddenly felt claustrophobic at the thought of taking this staircase, but I knew I had to be brave for the sake of my companions. Miss Morgan’s life in particular was dependent on our success.

Mrs Anderson lit a small portable gas lantern then led the way down the steps. We followed cautiously, and I was surprised that we ended up in what appeared to be a laboratory of sorts. It rather reminded me of the room where Mary Shelley’s creation Viktor Frankenstein created the poor creature of her infamous novel. It was a darkened stone chamber, lit only by Mrs Anderson’s lantern until she proceeded to light a number of wall mounted gas torches. At last there was light sufficient to peruse the laboratory.

It was a relatively small chamber, a table waist height in the centre of the room. Each wall held a number of glass cabinets, like the one upstairs, apart from the far wall which held a tall wall safe made from brass or iron. Mrs Anderson went towards this safe, and again, through action of a series of cogs & gears & wheels, managed to open this safe from which she took an extremely aged book bound in what looked like incredibly faded leather.

With an unwomanly grunt she heaved it from the safe and carried it to the centre of the room, laying it on the table. A distinct smell of burning or sulphur assaulted my nostrils as she opened this book. I assumed, because it had been kept in the safe for so long.

“This is what you require,” said Mrs Anderson, “but the book cannot leave here,” she continued, “you must copy down the passages you need.”

A dread chill crept down my spine as my fingers reached out and touched the yellowed pages. The writing was in a language I could not recognise. I felt my heart enter my chest and stick in my throat. The language was certainly not my schoolboy Latin. It was no language that I had ever seen.

“And this is the paraphernalia you require,” she continued.

She had left me to scribe the foreign writing whilst she gathered a series of tools together; chalk, a large jar of what appeared to be salt, an old dagger that looked to be rusty, but no, to my dismay I realised that it was covered in dried blood, and finally a selection of herbs and spices.

“They cannot cross salt,” Miss Morgan interjected, “and yes a pentagram traps them, different demons have different rituals to banish them. I just make it up as I go along until I know what I’m dealing with, but given when we are, this should do the trick,” she finished.

“I say, I do hope you are more certain Miss Morgan,” I sputtered.

At that she smiled, a most mischievous smile and I thought it how strange that someone could possibly jest at a moment like this. She must truly be an experienced Demon Huntress as she proclaimed to be. Whilst she, and in fact Mrs Anderson, seemed calm and at peace, I was cold with fear.

What if the ritual did not work? What if Miss Morgan were to lose her life because we were ill prepared or our plan was ill conceived? Clammy fingers danced down my spine again. How quick I had come to accept a supernatural hand in all of this. But what if we were wrong? What if we were wrong?

***

It was past three am and Miss Morgan and I had spent the evening enjoying a late supper near Charing Cross, only three miles or so from Whitechapel, before taking a slow perambulation to Dorset Street, the most squalid street in Whitechapel and the sight of the next murder if Miss Morgan was correct. According to her, the murder would take place in less than one hour. We needed to be prepared. As I watched, she knelt on then stone floor of her own – no, Miss Kelly’s bed chamber, drawing a large circle on the floor. Once the circle was complete, she then drew three triangles interlocked inside the circle, but the chalk was very faded, and in this circle she left a gap of just one inch, to be drawn in later by myself as she dealt with the accursed creature. Then we pulled her cot mostly over this circle, so it was almost concealed.

“Demons cannot go outside a containment field once it is created, or rather once it’s sealed”, she informed me as she drew, “The trick is to get it inside the circle before it realises what we know. And what the circle is.”

“I understand,” I answered as she passed me the chalk.

Her chambers were dimly lit, one small gas lamp. The fog outside had begun to creep further in to the district the later it became. I could hear faint footsteps echoing on the street outside, the raucous laughter of the ladies of ill repute touting their wares. The smell of sewage clung to the night sky.

Miss Morgan took her position, lying on her bed, feigning sleep, the knife and parchment tucked beneath her shawl.

I waited in the darkened corner of her bed chamber, crouched quietly hoping my breathing would not betray me to the fiend we awaited. With each breath I took I was sure he or it, would hear me.

It must have been nearly four am, when the noise awoke me from a brief slumber, what sounded like the loud ticking of a clock. I awoke with a start.

At first I heard the footsteps, almost metallic in their clipped echo. I felt that moment of fear again. A smell, almost like rotten eggs or some atrocious chemical wormed its way into my nose. A wind started to work its way outside and I could hear my own heart beating loudly, but not loud enough to cover that ticking sound. I was sure the sound of my heart beating would betray me.

Slowly, the man walked in, his movements stiff and unnatural. Though he was encased in shadow I could see he was tall, dressed in a top hat and cloak, his walking cane tapping on the stone floors in time to that infernal ticking as he walked in to the room and stopped, his head turning left then right. His face was concealed in the darkness of the room and I could not see his features. A cold sweat ran down my spine as he started to sing;

“Mary, Mary Quite Contrary how does your garden grow?”

His voice was not as I had expected. Not cockney, not common, nor refined. I could discern no accent. The chill spread further in me as I realised what was wrong with his voice. It too was unnatural. There was no joy, no fear, no pain – no life. The voice was cold, as though the creature were dead inside. I sat in my corner, trembling, clasping the chalk between sweaty fingers, fearful of discovery.

“With silver bells, and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row.”

Slower still, he crossed the room towards the cot where Miss Morgan lay, pretending sleep, taking an eternity to reach her.

“Well my pretty maid,” the voice said into the dark, “shall we dance? Shall we play? I should so like to play with you my pretty maid.”

Gradually, Miss Morgan feigned her waking and let out a short scream as she beheld a tall figure sitting on the end of her bed.

“Ahh, you’re awake,” the cold voice said, “I am so glad. I really wouldn’t want you to miss the fun.”

And then the creature laughed; a howling, screeching, animal laugh that grasped my heart nearly tearing it from my chest.

“Now!” Miss Morgan screamed, and grabbed hold of her would-be attacker.

I dived from the dark corner, my sanctuary, and dashed across the stone floor on my knees, chalk held aloft, closing the circle. The creature looked back at me, hissed, and slashed a knife across Miss Morgan’s cheek.

I heard her hiss and grit her teeth, brave woman that she is she did not scream out loud. She merely held on tight to the creature as I grabbed the jar and darted around her cot surrounding it with the salt. The clockwork demon was trapped, for clockwork it was. It was up to Miss Morgan to vanquish the creature now.

“Bitch!” it screamed, grabbing a chunk of her hair from under her cap and pulling it out. That made her scream, but she did not flounder. From under her shawl she grabbed the bloodied blade and aimed for the creatures’ breast, just as it too raised its hands, now metal claws with iron talons, and started to rip her flesh.

“Victory!” I screamed standing helpless by the cot, for I could not break the circle, “The passage, read it now, or for God’s sake woman let me!”

“Bestwick, I’m so sorry,” she cried in torment as she fought the demon, desperately trying to hold it back from her pale flesh, as it too fought, and growled and hissed, slicing away parts of her flesh, tearing into her chest, scooping out parts of her intestines so the coil of grey fleshy rope fell onto the cot below her abdomen, “no – so sorry, there is no passage. Mrs Anderson was mistaken. This is it. I die here. Mary and I both die, but this bastard comes with us.”

No, I thought, it couldn’t be. I had to get to her.

“No!” she screamed as though sensing my movement towards the pentagram circle, “Stay!”

It could not be. All this, she could not die now. It was not possible.

All I could do was stand and stare, then collapse in a heap on the floor as she fought valiantly against the creature, I, locked outside the demon’s prison as the dawn began to come over the horizon. I saw it’s features, skin darker than night, a hardened type of metal, yet eyes redder than burning coals as it’s iron talons tore into her chest, scooping out her still beating heart amid a wash of blood and guts, slicing open her throat until the blood gushed forth like red wine.

And still she fought. Impossible, but as the demon began to crush her heart between its talons, she collapsed on its form and stabbed it with the bloodied dagger, the parchment of paper pinned to its chest with her knife. The parchment was the spell, I realised!

And then the creature impossibly began to burn, a pungent smoke rising from the clockwork carcass to melt, then mingle with blood and fear as the demon began to fall apart, cogs & brass gears tumbling to the floor. Victory’s body crumbled, bloody in a heap on her cot. Just like the photograph she had shown me.

The creature was destroyed. The mystery of Jack the Ripper would never be solved and nor would the mystery of Victory Morgan.

Deflated, bereft, once I had dealt with my officers and the paperwork, I returned to my chambers. And there, on my writing bureau, I found a note from her.

“Dear Bestwick,

So Sorry, but it had to be done. I couldn’t tell you or you would never have helped me. We were always meant to die Mary and I. Always, so the history books say. At least my history books say so. But you did something good tonight, Bestwick. You might not think so, but if things go well, then you helped me destroy that demon. I couldn’t do this on my own. It had to be you. Though there will be more, of that I’m certain.

And damn, it was good to know you.

Yours truly,

Victory Morgan”

I crumpled the note and sat down at my bureau, heart heavy at the loss of my friend.

The Palace of Dead Rock Stars

The blonde was hot, damn hot for a dead chick. Not that I knew she was dead at the time. I’m not into necrophilia.

You wouldn’t know it to look at her; bottled blonde waves that just touched her nape, wide, sparkling blue eyes, full lips painted vermillion red and a slender neck resting on delicate pale shoulders. She was wearing some kind of knee-length, tight-waisted, flared skirt dress in white. Reminded me of something out of the 1950s, and damn but she looked familiar.

I stepped forward, closer to those lips, hypnotised by her girlish beauty. I felt one arm unconsciously rise up to her waist to scoop her into a hold as I leaned my mouth towards hers, recoiling suddenly as her lips opened to reveal rotten teeth and foetid breath. I gagged and stumbled backwards, pulling my arm away.

“Norma Jean,” a deep bass voice rumbled in front of me, “kill him.”

Oh shit, I thought as I stumbled back another couple of steps, how the hell do I keep getting into these situations?

Oh yeah. I remember now.

***

“Father David Simmons,” he said.

He didn’t look like your average priest. Tall, thin, athletic, shaved head and in his early forties, Father Simmons looked more like a thug than anything else.

He offered me a lean, strong and tattooed arm to shake and I found my gaze dropping to the arm questioningly.

“I know,” he answered with a laughing voice that sounded like a Northern Irish brogue. “I don’t look the part, do I?”

I nodded assent and grunted a ‘yes.’

On closer inspection as Simmons dropped his arm, the tattoo looked to be a large Celtic crucifix.

I indicated a seat and Simmons sat down opposite my cluttered desk. I wondered what the hell an Irish priest was doing in my office out of uniform coming to see a down and out Beverly Hills PI. In place of traditional priest clothing, he was wearing a pair of faded jeans and tight white vest with a leather jacket he’d slung over the chair.

“Drink?” I asked, grabbing a bottle of bourbon I kept handy for medical emergencies.

“Ah, go on then, Son,” he replied with a smile, “just to be social.”

I poured us a healthy amount and Simmons took a quick swig then placed his glass back down on my desk. Being called ‘son’ by a guy about my age was a bit weird.

“So,” he began, “you’ll be wondering what I’m after.”

“I am at that Father,” I said, taking a slug of my own shot, “what brings you here?”

With a grimace, Father Simmons pulled out a brown manilla folder and threw it on the desk in front of me.

“Take a look at the photos please,” he said.

Putting my glass down, I leant forward and grabbed the folder, turning it round and wincing as I opened it to the first photo of eight shot in glorious technicolour.

It was a body. I couldn’t tell the guy’s age from the state of the body, but the grey hair that decorated a clawed up face, with part of the cheek hanging off, put the age at about mid-fifties. Unlike Simmons, this priest was dressed in what I’d call the uniform, traditional priest clothing, but it was in tatters, the sleeves torn away from the arms.

The body lay sprawled in a dirty alleyway, most likely downtown, and from what I could see there were bite marks over the neck, hands and face, but the body was far too bloody. I’m not an expert in forensics but I know enough and I could tell it was bad.

I flipped the photo over and looked at the next one.

Same MO, different priest. This one was barely out of his teens and I almost gagged. I could imagine the stench from the amount of blood I could see spilled in the photos. All but the last were the same; priests in various states of bloodiness, bodies that had been bitten, torn, ripped and almost shredded until they were barely recognisable.

I stopped at the last photo and raised my eyebrows quizzically.

The guy looked like Gene Wilder; large wild eyes in a thin face, an aquiline nose, a mass of wilder curly hair and a slightly upturned thin smile. It was a shoulder and face shot but his build looked slight. Whoever this guy was I guessed he wasn’t a danger.

“What gives, Father?”

“That’s the man we want you to . . . apprehend. He’s the one responsible for attacking our brothers. If you can do the job, we can pay you a lot of money. And I’ll take care of the rest.”

WTF!

“Father,” I said, confused, “you do know that your men were attacked by animals don’t you?”

“’Fraid not Son,” he answered, taking another slug from his glass, “take a look at the bite marks a bit more closely. Those are human teeth. That man you need to bring to me, he’s the spawn of Satan. He is responsible for raising the dead and destroying the brothers of Los Angeles.”

I figured in retrospect it was disrespectful to laugh a priest, but I couldn’t help it. This had to be a joke. Finally, after the laughing wore off, I could speak.

“Er, Father, you been drinking too much of the Holy Communion wine lately?” I finally asked.

Father Simmons smiled, a cruel calculating smile, and before I knew it he’d reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and drawn a gun on me. A snub-nosed five shot Smith & Wesson .38.

Dammit, I hadn’t thought to frisk a priest. Why in the hell would I?

“God damn it, Father. What you playin’ at?”

“Language Son,” he said, eyeing me sternly as I sat with the handgun pointed at me. He cocked the hammer and the ominous sound echoed in my office.

“Sorry,” I said apologetically. (Force of habit). “So, let’s start again. What gives?” I took another swig of bourbon.

And then Father Simmons told me.

***

“That man, my Son,” Simmons began, “is Papa Doc Jasper Joseph Bark, formerly known as Mr. Jasper Bark. He would’ve been a Father Jasper Bark if he hadn’t failed the academic exams. We don’t just let anyone in you know.”

I grunted in acknowledgement. Simmons had the gun. I wasn’t gonna interrupt him.

Apparently Mr Bark had gone through the first few stages of entering the Catholic priesthood and failed the academic side and been kicked out. The mentor had suggested he work for charity or something but Bark had gone ballistic and said something along the lines of “You Catholics aren’t the only Church around here. Someone else will take me.”

And someone else had. Simmons had done his research. Bark had found himself a Voodoo version of a priest, a Houngan, willing to teach him the ropes, original vodoun, and Bark had started by following the Loa Papa Legba, the vodoun version of St Peter. Being partially trained in the Catholic priesthood, his conscience didn’t have difficulty switching allegiances. In his mind, it was still a Catholic saint he was following so no biggie. Then things went bad, or rather Bark did.

One little accident, a little human blood spilled and Bark was addicted, the power and thrill of the spirits washing over him, corrupting him. He became Bokor, vodoun sorcerer, Papa Doc Jasper Joseph Bark, spiller of blood and maker of death. Then there were the disappearances. And then there came Bark’s unexplained wealth.

Simmons pulled out another file from his jacket, a slimmer one. He threw it over the desk at me and I flicked through it. Only one photo this time, but lots of newspaper clippings and documents.

“Take your time,” Simmons said.

I looked at the photo first.

God Damn it, it was a mansion or a palace. Surrounded by lush greenery, trees and gardens, and with a drive a quarter of a mile long, the mansion was magnificent and had to be worth a couple of mil. At the entrance there was a large pillared gateway of wrought iron with strange symbols worked into it that would open up, I guessed, to let cars in. Through the gates was that palace, a house I’d only ever own in my dreams. It was only two storeys high but it stretched across and there were eight windows, six foot high, four on each side of the front of the building, which was made of white stonework. The door was a masterpiece of craftsmanship; heavy doors ten feet high made from wood painted black, again etched in strange carvings. Phew.

“Nice,” I commented, “your place?”

Simmons’ eyebrows twitched and he almost smiled.

“No, ‘fraid not. That palace there belongs to Papa Bark.”

I’d figured as much but just wanted it confirmed. I took ten minutes reading through the other documents and felt my eyebrows rise and a grimace attach itself to my face the more I flicked through the file.

According to the file, and Father Simmons, priests had been disappearing since the 1960s and Bark, who looked around my age was born in 1917. That was impossible.

Only in the last year had bodies turned up, torn and clawed, dismissed by the police as animal attacks. If the police knew how many priests had gone missing and been killed, then they wouldn’t have been so dismissive.  But, in true secretive style, the bodies had been moved and destroyed before the police even knew they existed.  Did I say secretive? Hell yes, turns out there was a reason Father Simmons looked like no priest I’d ever seen. He was an honorary priest indoctrinated into a secret Vatican hit squad that hunted down supernatural elements that threatened the priesthood. I started looking for a secret camera and Ashton Kutcher to dive out and punk me.

But it wasn’t happening. Simmons, nutcase or not, was for real.

I poured the Father and I another shot of bourbon and sat there quiet for about five minutes.

“So, Father,” I said at last, “why you here?”

Simmons cleared his throat, reached into the other pocket of his leather jacket and I tensed, expecting another weapon or something. What he took out was a sealed envelope that he passed to me. I opened it up, checked the contents and whistled.

“Ten grand,” Simmons said in confirmation.

“Ok,” I said, putting the envelope on the desk in front of me, “what do I have to do?”

“Bring me Papa Bark,” Simmons said, “his place is warded against the priesthood. I can’t get in but you can. I know your skills son, I know what you’re capable of.”

“Right. Let’s say I do this. What happens to Bark?”

“I take care of him. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Why?” I finally asked, “you don’t really believe this cra – stuff.”

“Seeing is believing. I’ve seen enough in my lifetime to know when I see evil. This man of evil is raising the dead and using those poor – creatures, to track down priests in the area and eat them. For whatever reason, maybe ‘cause we kicked him out, he has a grudge against the Church. He’s only been in Bel Air a year, but already the body count is up to eight. I’ve managed to hide, cleanse and destroy them all. But it won’t be long before I miss one and one comes back. Then, we’re all in danger.”

I took a deep breath.

Whether I believed this shit or not, it was ten grand. It’d sure clear me some bills and get me out of this shithole of an office.

“Father, you got a deal,” I said, and leaned forward to shake the priest’s hand.

***

Which is how I found myself surrounded by the dead. And damn, the broad in the white dress I could see wasn’t the only familiar face.

Bark stood in front on me, looking just like in the photo Simmons had shown me, all wild curly hair and eyes that looked just a touch insane. He was wearing these bright coloured robes that looked African or something, and there were two women kneeling in front of him, fawning at his feet.

“Have you met my latest child?” Bark asked with a surprisingly light and pleasant voice.

I looked away from the women and Bark to see – No way man, it couldn’t be! He was way skinnier in person than he looked in his music videos. Uncontrollably, I started to whistle the tune to Thriller and winced. Apart from the outfit he was wearing, the body looked just like he did in the video. And he started to come for me.

“I see him,” I said, my throat tight, “wanna call him off?”

“And why should I do that?” Bark asked with a smile, “He’s very hungry.”

I had no answer, so I stumbled back again, farther away from the blonde who’d just tried to kiss me or eat me, I wasn’t sure which.

“Norma Jean,” Bark’s deep, bass, voice rumbled in front of me, “kill him.”

Oh shit, I thought as I stumbled back another couple of steps, how the hell do I keep getting into these situations?

Oh yeah, I thought, ten grand. That’s how.

“Children!” Papa Bark screamed, “fetch me the human!”

And the dead obeyed.

Michael was the first to die again. I ducked out of Norma’s rancid grip and spun round to face the Thriller-zom, skin hanging off a face that somehow managed to be skinnier in death than it had in life. Now that was an achievement. I pulled out the .38 I’d confiscated from Simmons earlier that night. I didn’t have much in the way of weapons, didn’t think I’d need it somehow. The .38 only carried five shots and there were at least eight of the zombies coming for me.

WTF! What did I know about zombies? ‘Cause damn it, that’s what they were. I knew that now. Films, I thought, what’s in the films? The head – make it a head shot.

Quickly but carefully I aimed the Smith & Wesson .38 at Michael, aiming for a head shot, and the zombie dropped back on the lawn as the shot took out his temple. Norma was next. For some reason, she looked fresh, not like the Thriller-zom. It felt like a crime to shoot something so beautiful in life, but I had no choice. It was me or them.

As the beauty crumpled to the ground another familiar figure approached me, somehow managing to swing his hips and walk with a swagger instead of a shamble. He’d lost a bit of weight since he’d died but there was no mistaking him. That, at least, explained all of the various sightings across the country in supermarkets. Simmons had said Bark moved around a lot for fresh pickings.

I decided to preserve my bullets, only three left, so grabbed the knife from underneath my coat, lunged forward and stabbed the zombie through soft flesh, piercing the brain. There wasn’t much blood to speak of.

It grunted and mumbled something that sounded like, “Thank you very much,” before collapsing in a heap.

Three down, too many of the fuckers left to go.

There was one that smelled sweaty and putrid the second it reached me, with wisps of straggly long hair, a pale bluish tinged bare male chest and tight leather trousers. This one I shot. Those trousers were an insult to fashion; he deserved a quick ending.

Two bullets left, shit.

“Bark,” I screamed, “call them off unless you want them all to die! Now.”

Bark just laughed at me and watched me back away further into the wrought iron gate, with nowhere else to go. If the neighbours had heard the shots I might stand a chance, but there would be no neighbours to speak of for miles, this palace was so big.

Two bullets. Should I save one for myself? I was tempted, but na, fuck it. No way I was going down.

There were four of the dead left, these ones shambling towards me like they did in the movies. Bark must be doing something wrong I figured, these were fresh dead but were in worse shape than the older ones I’d killed.

I didn’t recognise these ones, except the hippie looking dude with long blonde hair who looked like a druggie and was a bit familiar.

He was the next one to die. I dragged him in front of me as a shield against the other three dead as I used my knife to skewer his head, blood glugging out slowly and thickly. I pushed the blonde guys’ body towards the other three and like a good game of bowling, two of them fell over. I took my chance with the last one standing, piercing the flaky skin of its head with my knife, again pushing the body to the ground so I was surrounded by a pile of re-dead dead.

That left two with one bullet. So far so good. I didn’t want to waste my last bullet just in case so twice more I used the knife on the dead who were trying to stand up awkwardly. As the last one fell in a heap, Bark roared at me in denial and started to run towards me full tilt.

Shit.

“Stop, Bark!” I ordered.

Bark ignored me, his wild hair framing his face like a halo of fire as he lunged at me.

I raised my gun.

“Last ch – ”

Bark jumped over the pile of his children, barrelling into me, tackling me against the wrought iron gates I’d fallen into. We struggled for a bit but Bark didn’t stand a chance. He was thin and athletic but I was built for fighting and pretty damn strong.

The gun fell as we fought but I held onto the knife, stabbing Bark in the throat, pushing the knife in to its hilt. Bark staggered back then fell flat on his ass, blood gushing from his throat as he tugged the knife out. No voice, no spells I’d reasoned. He couldn’t try any of his hoodoo shit on me, that’s for sure.

I stood there calmly watching as Bark floundered, then fell back at last, lost for words, lost for life, his life blood easing out from the wound in his throat.

I stepped forward, leaned down and pocketed Simmons’ handgun, then picked the knife up off the ground and wiped the blood off on Barks’ tribal robes, pocketing that too.

One thing I didn’t understand. I had to ask Simmons when I reported in. If those dead were who I thought they were, why them? Why not some homeless guy who wouldn’t be missed, or a runaway?

Simmons smiled at me when I asked him back at the office.

“The dead can retain their thoughts for a while after the ceremonies,” he said, “just enough for a signature. Just enough to sign over some property, some money, their assets.”

“What?” I asked the priest, “this was about money?”

He smiled again as I pocketed the envelope with the ten grand in it.

“Isn’t it always, Son?” he said, “isn’t it always?”

God damn it, but if he wasn’t right.

Tummy Bug

Clare grabbed the bottle of Gaviscon and chugged it down, followed by a dose of cocodamol. It couldn’t be her period; she knew she had problems in that area but she’d only just finished last week. So what the hell was it? This wasn’t normal. She was used to pain, but this was new.

She let loose an inarticulate scream then started sobbing, grasping the bottle of pink viscous medication between clammy fingers in desperation.

She took one more glug then put the bottle down on her night stand.

Oh God, the pain had to stop. She couldn’t take it anymore. It was ripping her insides, tearing through her, claws of agony twisting her stomach until she could hardly breathe.

And that feeling of something crawling inside; she couldn’t be pregnant could she? No, it had been too long since she’d been with anyone.

But – that sensation that something was alive inside her wouldn’t go away.

Oh God, what if it was a tumour?

This was it, no more! She had to get over her fear of the doctors and do something.

Resolved to action at last, she decided to see her GP the next day.

***

Dr Nazif tried to be gentle as usual, but the feel of the cold metal instrument burrowing inside her made her want to scream. No matter how many times she endured the examination it always hurt. As well as the physical discomfort it made her feel exposed and vulnerable. And then there was the increase of something inside her reacting to the examination. It almost seemed to be moving.

Clare could just about see the Asian woman’s face over the large white sheet of paper designed to preserve her dignity. She saw the doctor’s pupils dilate in surprise and tried briefly to sit up then collapsed back down again.  She’d already seen the metal tool, now dripping with blood, before Dr Nazif had a chance to hide it. She felt the fear and anger brewing again as the doctor placed the utensil in a small kidney shaped tray, pulled off her latex gloves throwing them in the yellow bin then pulled Clare’s skirt back down to cover her.

If that stupid bitch Dr Lewis hadn’t ignored her as a teenager and fobbed her off with paracetamol, she might not be in this state now at twenty-six years old.

“Come on down and take a seat please Clare,” Dr Nazif said, sympathy in her every word.

Clare had a terrible instinct about what it was before she hopped down from the couch and straightened up. It wasn’t a tumour. The blood told her everything she needed to know.

She sat opposite Dr Nazif, her features grim, waiting for the diagnosis.

“I’m sorry Clare,” Nazif said, “I cannot be one hundred percent sure, but my feeling is that the endometriosis has grown back.”

“Shit,” Clare growled, a tear springing to her eye, “Soz, I just hoped - .”

“I know. It’s okay do not worry. We can sort this out again. I suggest a referral to Dr Woolaston straight away. I’ll dictate the letter now and get it sent off first class then we can go from there. If we have caught it early, it may only take laser treatment. In the meantime, I can increase the dose of your cocodamol to help with the pain.”

“I know”, Clare said, “thank you.”

Nazif dictated the letter into her Dictaphone whilst Clare sat there, glum, thinking of everything she might have to go through again. Once the letter was done, Clare left the surgery and took a slow walk home.

She’d phoned in sick this morning, complaining of a tummy bug. But she’d known. Somehow she’d known.

The pain, the sickness, the depression she’d been feeling lately. It all made sense.

More treatments to face; perhaps another laparoscopy – more invasion. She’d already taken every drug they could recommend but as the song said, “the drugs don’t work.” Or at least they didn’t anymore by looks of it. She’d had one minor surgery a year ago and it seemed she would only get about ten months grace from it.

The disease was back. Damn it.

***

Once she was back Clare collapsed on the sofa. There was no way she was going to work now, not after that news. Not with the disease working its way back into her system. And it was a disease, even if not all doctors recognised it as such. She was lucky she had Dr Nazif who understood the impact of the condition. As for Dr Woolaston, she wasn’t as sure. He was a bit weird. As well as looking like someone from Lord of the Rings (he had bright red hair and a salt and pepper beard with ruddy cheeks) he seemed to relish the opportunity to open someone up. Last time he’d done the laparoscopy on her she’d found herself feeling rather uncomfortable around him.  She couldn’t put her finger on it but he made her spine tingle, and not in a good way.

Just thinking of Woolaston and the procedure was enough to drive her to drink. So what if it was early in the afternoon? She deserved a drink.

She headed for her fridge, taking out a chilled bottle of White Zinfandel and pouring herself a large glass. Now this was medication she could really get on with.

***

The skin on her abdomen crawled; a thousand tiny insects scurrying inside her.

In her sleep, she tossed and turned, gasping at one point as the pain flared up and she felt something stabbing her in the stomach.

She could taste the metallic tang of blood in her mouth.

Clare’s eyes snapped open, instantly swerving down towards her bloody, bloated belly.

The pain tore through her again, as the scalpel ripped into her prone flesh.

She couldn’t move. Something was holding her down but she couldn’t see what.

But she could see her tummy, and what the doctor, clad in green scrubs, was doing to her.

With a grim smile, he started to tear the opening in her belly wider, wider, until he moved the scalpel away, instead digging latexed fingers into her swollen flesh and pulling at something.

She let out a ragged scream as a string of scarlet and pink engorged intestines was pulled from her stomach and placed on a camp stove next to the operating table, on which she now realised she lay.

The doctor took off his mask and it was Woolaston, his salt and pepper beard speckled with blood.

Grinning, he used a carving knife to cut through her removed intestines, raising the heat on the stove until the last sense to overcome her before she fainted was the sizzling scent of meat grilling on the stove.

Clare awoke with a scream as something twitched inside her.

***

The letter came within the week.

Her MRI scan was scheduled for a Friday afternoon on what turned out to be an ironically lovely spring day.

She arrived at the hospital X Ray department a good fifteen minutes early and was instructed to put on the ugly little arse-revealing robe that hospitals used.

Feeling vulnerable and distinctly naked, she stored all of her belongings in the locker provided before entering the darkened room.

A nurse waited for her, smiling patiently and explaining what was about to happen as she climbed onto the bed which was due to be sucked up by the tunnel shaped MRI scanner.

She was engulfed by noise and darkness as the narrow tube swallowed her whole.

Closing her eyes, she tried to block out the buzzing sound of the scanner as it moved up and down over her abdomen.

Then, as she attempted some distraction techniques, a deep male voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Miss Conway, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she mumbled, afraid that she recognised the voices’ owner.

“Dr Woolaston here,” he replied, “I noted from the referral that you were here having the MRI and thought I’d pop in and have a look.”

“Shit” she mumbled, then realised with the speakers in the scanner that he might be able to hear her, “Sorry.”

“That’s okay Miss Conway. I understand nerves – I just wanted to take a look whilst the MRI was taking place before the results come out to see what I could see. And - I would like a word with you once you’re dressed before you go home if that’s possible.”

That was bad news, it had to be, she thought, if he’d come here personally

Dr Woolaston bid her farewell and told her would see her once she was ready.

She tried to still her breathing and calm herself down as the scan continued.

***

Dressed and feeling more like herself, she sat in a private, curtained, room waiting for the doctor.

Woolaston walked in, a tight smile on his face as he shook her hand then sat down opposite her.

“Can I call you Clare?” he asked.

Oh oh, that had to be trouble.

“That’s fine,” she said, “call me Clare.”

“Well Clare,” Woolaston said, reaching out a hand to touch hers in false sympathy, “I need to get you in as soon as possible. You were right to see your GP. There is a growth in there . . . It’s probably not malignant, I assure you, but I need to take care of it. And quickly. Can you come in next Thursday?”

“Er, I - ”, breathe, breathe!

“Take a moment, Clare,” he said, “It’s okay.”

“Um, yes,” she finally answered, “yes, I can take a day off if I need to.”

“A day?” he asked with a frown, “the recovery will be one to two weeks at least. You need to tell your work place I’m afraid. The anaesthetic alone will leave you in recovery for that time.”

“Oh crap,” she said.

Crap.

***

Clare’s manager was surprisingly understanding and compassionate, at least on the surface of it.

The night before the procedure Clare was a mess, a jumble of nerves and nausea. She felt sick at the best of times, but leading up to the next day she was chaotic with fear. She hardly slept, but that was no surprise.

She got to the hospital at around seven in the morning and was checked into Ward 12, the gynaecology/maternity ward, swiftly.

As she sat in the horrible hospital gown awaiting her eleven o’clock surgery, she wondered about the double usage of the ward. She supposed it made sense combining them, but what about the screams from the incubators and maternity ward that could surely be heard by the woman in the next aisle who had had a miscarriage or ectopic pregnancy. It was cruel, she thought, needlessly cruel. The crying of the new babes disturbed her even now as she popped the sedative they’d given her to help with relaxation, prior to knocking her out.

Finally it came to thirty minutes off eleven and the anaesthetist approached with a polite smile.

“Hello Miss Conway,” she said, reaching out her hand to shake Clare’s, “We’ll be taking you down in a short while and I just wanted to talk to you briefly about allergies and any concerns you may have.”

The courteous voice droned on and Clare filled in the gaps, nodding as appropriate.

The woman disappeared.

At last it was time.

The porters pulled the gurney with her on it towards oblivion.

***

Dr Woollaston instructed Nurse McGrillen to put his favourite surgery CD into the player; a little bit of Glee to dance along to as he sliced into Miss Conway’s pale abdomen. It was his daughter’s fault, fifteen and addicted to the delightfully cheesy music, he’d become obsessed himself and now it was his working anthem.

“Scalpel,” he ordered, and McGrillen passed him the instrument.

With a smile of anticipation, he began the first incision.

Twenty minutes later, his muscular hands were buried in her bloody flesh, intent on finding the obstruction.

“Aha,” he declared, “gotcha – more light please.”

Nurse McGrillen leaned closer moving the lamp so it shed more light on the thing that Woolaston had discovered.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, “absolutely beautiful. Nurse, come take a look. Last year’s procedure has borne fruit.”

“Er, okay,” she said, peering over his shoulder to try and see through the mass of flesh and blood.

“Wow,” she said at last, “gotta say it’s good work Doctor.”

“Thank you,” Woolaston replied, “time for the extraction.”

Carefully, he peeled layers of pink blubbery flesh aside, digging his fingers in further.

“Pliers!”

Nurse McGrillen complied.

With a final, gentle tug, the creature was released from Clare’s womb.

“It’s alive!” Woollaston cackled, “Mwahahahahaha.”

McGrillen frowned at him, a crease on her eyebrows.

“Sorry,” he apologised, only slightly embarrassed, “I was channelling my inner James Whale.”

“Er right,” McGrillen mumbled, even more confused.

Kids today, thought Woolaston, just don’t get the classic references.

“Incubator please,” he said.

She pulled over the clear incubator as requested, close enough for Woolaston to gently pick the creature up and place it inside.

Like proud parents, they both bent over the incubator.

Woolaston was convinced the creature was smiling at them as it scuttled in its temporary home.

Bright blue eyes gazed out from a round, bald, grey, head, its eyes rimmed with red, its slit mouth decorated in rivulets of blood and a loose blood clot. Woolaston felt a well of pride; the little devil had had a snack whilst growing in Conway’s tummy.

He put one finger into the incubator cautiously to avoid the creature’s malformed teeth, reaching towards its mottled brown crab like claws. He stroked its claws feeling the carapace. It was truly a unique design and one he could be proud of. Imagine the benefits to humanity and genetic engineering. Anything was possible!

Click, click, clack clack, the creature drew its claws together excitedly as Nurse McGrillen snipped a piece of endometrial flesh from Clare’s womb and held it over to feed the newborn.

A slithery tongue lashed out snatching the piece of meat.

A second set of spidery legs started to move forward eagerly towards the doctor’s fingers, its furry limbs reaching out to Woolaston.

His progeny was breathtaking.

“Well, what shall we call you?” Woolaston asked in a babyish voice.

“He looks like a George,” Nurse McGrillen said.

“George. Yes. I like it,” Woolaston replied, then after a moments thought, “I suppose we’d better finish off then.”

“Yes Doctor.”

Both nurse and doctor moved away from the incubator holding the creature, and returned their attention to Clare, who lay still unconscious with an oxygen mask on, her abdomen split open for all the world to see.

“Pass me the next embryo,” Woolaston said, then he looked down a Clare, “and we’ll see you again in about ten months. Nice work Miss Conway.”

Nurse McGrillen passed him the larva, which he placed in the ready made gap in her womb, then began to stitch her back up.

“Nice work.”

Something Fishy This Way Comes …

The dead girls started turning up in my reservoir last spring, just as the ice was thawing and I was able to swim through the murky depths of my home again.

The first one was barely sixteen years old, a slim slip of a girl with dirty blonde hair, now soaked and muddy. I found her when I was taking a swim deep below in the darkness, her corpse snagged on an underwater bush. She’d been weighed down with bricks and from the look of her she’d been the water for at least four months; maybe from the start of winter when I hibernated.

I used my claws to free her ankles, hauling the body through the black water until I reached my cave in the reservoir.

I pulled the naked body from the water onto the rocks and turned her onto her back to examine her.

Her corpse was bloated from long exposure to the elements and her face had been nipped at and nibbled by the fishes, pieces of skin flapping away from her cheekbones. Her lips were purply-blue and her skin was a mottled bluish-white. No point trying mouth-to-mouth I figured. Too late for that.

I was about to dismiss the dead girl and drag her back down into the water, when I noticed her throat, now a ragged gash slit straight across like a perverse smile. She’d been cut from ear to ear.

I looked at that body and felt a shudder; there were slashes all across the belly and inner thighs. Mutilation. Just what I needed.

It wasn’t like I could go to the police with this or anything; I sort of stand out in a crowd. Let me explain.

My name is Harry and I’m, well, the Beast from the Blue Lagoon, complete with scales, fins and gills. Or at least that was what they called me before I left Hollywood, came over to England and found a home in Edgbaston reservoir. I’m comfy here, I can tell you. All the attention from the film execs and the fans had started to get to me. I was after the quiet life, me. So, I was mighty annoyed by finding a slaughtered girl in my pool.

So here I am with this body, wondering what to do, when I decided it was easier to ask no questions, bury the body in the surrounding parkland and have done with. This would’ve all gone hunky dory, except I found another one a week later about fifty yards from where I’d found the first girl.

Now, call me old fashioned if you want, but by this time I was suspicious.

The second girl was about eighteen and looked like she had blonde hair too before it had been mostly tore out. Like the other dead girl, this one was bloated and water logged.

One body is a nuisance, two – well, let’s just say I didn’t believe in coincidence.

I buried the second girl next to the first. Then I went exploring again in the bottom of the reservoir looking for more death. I found no more bodies but that didn’t mean it was all over. Someone was dumping dead girls in my neck of the woods and I was sure as hell gonna find out who and why.

***

Close to the city centre, Edgbaston Reservoir was built sometime back in the early Nineteenth Century. My home has about 70 acres on site and has a belt of woodland and grassland encircling the reservoir. It’s beautiful, a wonderful natural oasis right in the city. I normally have to hide out in the underneath caves during the day ‘cause all of the walkers and joggers. There’s about a mile and a half of land for them to use. But at night, it belongs to me.

The dead girl thing happened a few months ago, so it was around April that I started keeping a lookout at night, hoping to see something. Things were pretty quiet for about two weeks and I figured it was all okay, until this one night in April I hear this shrill scream. I scrambled out of my cave and legged it towards the sound. The girl, whoever she was, was still screaming by the time I got to her.

She was sitting under a tree, her legs pulled up to her chest, screaming away with snot running down her nose and tears streaming down her face. This guy, about six feet high, stood over her and I could see what looked like a knife in his gloved hand, glinting in the dark. She was trying to fight him off and he was swiping at her from above. He towered over her.

I dived into it all, grabbing this guy by his shoulders and throwing him back. He dropped the knife in the grass and fell away from me onto his knees. I leaned over him and roared.

Now, I might not be a lion but I have a damn impressive roar.

I stood over him and let loose, roaring for all I was worth, my scaled jaws opening up wide showing what looked like jagged human-size shark teeth, dripping saliva. My arms are long, muscly and scaled and all over I’m this kind of dark greenish-brown colour. I’m one scary dude.

Knife guy starts bawling like a baby, begging me not to hurt him and I didn’t. Not much anyway. I just slashed him across the chest and face a few times then let him run off with his tail tucked between his two legs. Then I turned to the girl.

She’d passed out. She was wearing joggers in this pale pink, and a white vest that was dirty and bloody by now. What the hell was I supposed to do with her?

I’m not the heroic kind of guy but I did give a shit, you know? So, I scooped her up, (she was light as a feather), and carried her to one of the hidden entrances to my cave that I could take without getting too wet.

I sat her in a corner, water dripping lightly above her, and watched her while she slept. At last she woke up and for a minute I forgot myself.

I crawled over to her on my knees, put my arms out and was about to ask her how she was doing when she let out this God Almighty holler.

She screamed and screamed, giving me the worst headache until I had no choice but to grab her arms, pin them down and put one big claw around her mouth to shut her the fuck up.

I held her like that for a minute before her breath started to run out and she was calming down. When she looked calm enough, I took my claw away and sat back on my haunches.

“Hi,” I said, “I’m Harry. How you doing doll?”

“Er, wha – wha – what are you?” she finally mumbled.

“Now, ain’t that a question,” I answered, smiling at her and baring my teeth.

She got scared again so I toned it down.

“I’m the guy who just saved your life, doll,” I said, “that guy I stopped, whoever he is, was about to take a chunk out of you for good with that knife of his.”

“Er. Th – thanks”, she said, “but you – you’re green.”

“Why thank you for noticing miss!” I said.

She went white and her mouth snapped shut.

I supposed I’d better tell her.

“I, sweetheart,” I told her, “am one of a kind. I’m the Beast from the Blue Lagoon, but you can call me Harry. I live down here in the caves of the reservoir and I like to look after my home, which is how I found you being attacked by that guy. You passed out (very helpful may I say) so I had no choice but to take you to my lair.”

“Your – lair?”

“Yep. As in my humble abode. It’s okay doll, I don’t bite - often.”

I grinned which seemed to frighten her, but then she was relieved when my words sank in. I don’t mean to cast aspersions, but you know, she was blonde, so it kinda took her awhile.

“How, how long have you been here?”, she asked.

“About fifty years now,” I said, “hey. You look cold, let me get you somethin’.”

She nodded her head, rubbing her hands up her arms to try and keep warm, so I went to the back of the cave and rooted through the things I’d salvaged to find an old grey, worn, blanket.

“It ain’t much,” I said, “but better than freezing. When you’re warmed up a bit I’ll see you home. I just wanna make sure you’re dry and that guy has disappeared. Should’ve killed him really but you know, I don’t like violence.”

I didn’t like violence, I swear. But sometimes, shit happened and things got out of hand. But I didn’t tell her that. I didn’t want to scare her even more.

“What’s your name?” I asked, “I can’t keep calling you doll.”

“Julia,” she said, “Julia Edwards.”

“Pleased ta meetcha, Julia” I said.

She smiled nervously, then started to cough, so I got her a can of coke I had handy. I can’t exactly go to the corner shop and buy coke, but there is this one shop that’s pretty dark and what, with my rain mack and fedora, I get by.

“Better?” I asked.

“Yes – thank you, er Harry”, she said.

“Now doll, I mean Julia. What in hell were you doing jogging on your own at night ya fool?”

“Well, the thing is”, she said, “my sister went missing a few months ago around here. And, I suppose, I was playing detective. She’s nineteen, looks a lot like me. And I think, I think that man - ”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Take it easy.”

Julia had started to cry a bit so I grabbed a tissue and passed it to her.

She calmed down eventually, but she’d had a helluva shock. And me, I had a feeling I knew where her sister was.

“I thought I could make him pay, catch him or something but - ”

“I can help,” I said before I realised what I was even saying, “that guy? He’ll be back for sure.”

“You – you would?” she asked, then lunged forward and gave me this big hug.

Hey, I’m a sucker for blondes. What can I say?

***

I saw Julia home safe, then headed back home myself.

The next night she hung around the reservoir about seven in the evening until I stumbled across her, wearing my usual disguise. You’d be surprised how few people think there’s anything weird about me. I’m just a big guy in a coat and hat with a skin condition, that’s all.

Julia looked nervous and jumped when I tapped her on the shoulder, then looked relieved when she saw it was me. Strange reaction, I can tell ya.

“Hey there, how you doin’?”, I asked.

“Fine, fine”, she whispered, then leant forward for a tentative peck on the cheek, that sent little stirrings deep in my loin.

I returned the favour, then cleared my throat awkwardly.

“So”, she said, “what now?”

“My caves”, I told her, “are great for discreet surveillance. I have some binoculars and a few good view points into the parkland. We go there, wait and see what happens.”

“Okay”, she said, “we have a plan, thank you Harry.”

She smiled and that was it. I was a goner.

I took her hand and led her to my caves, hidden under some underbrush and threw a couple of crates together at the vantage point so we could sit at least a bit comfy and start our nightly watch.

Our guy didn’t turn up for a couple of weeks, but when I saw the petite blonde taking a stroll round the reservoir with her little yappy furball of a dog, I knew this was the night. I wasn’t the only one who liked blondes.

“This is the girl,” I said, “you stay here, I’m gonna follow him.”

“No way Scaly!” she told me, grabbing my arm as I stood up, “you think I spent two weeks in this dank place just to sit here like a damsel in distress while you play hero? No way Harry. No way.”

That’s my gal, I thought as my heart welled with pride.

“Okay, okay doll,” I relented, “but here’s the rules. You stay quiet, you stay with me, and when I take him down, you stay out of the way. Ya hear me?”

“I hear you,” she said and grinned at me, knowing she’d won.

We set out from my caves, Julia trailing behind me and we followed the girl around the reservoir, about twenty yards behind her.

It didn’t take long for the guy to turn up.

He started from the other direction, whistling as he walked towards her nonchalantly.

I saw the knife before the blonde did.

“We’re on”, I whispered, then ran the brief distance between us, grabbing the blonde who screamed, flinging her to the ground behind me.

“Come on if ya think you’re hard enough!” I screamed, and the guy stumbled back with a shaky, unmanly squeal.

“What are you?” he screamed.

I grinned, baring my multitude of glistening, dripping teeth and proclaimed, “Your worst nightmare boy. You ain’t ever gonna touch another girl.”

“I’m sorry!” he yelled, falling back on his hands and knees as I advanced, scrambling quickly backwards. But not quick enough.

I was on him.

I took the knife from his puny human hands and threw it to the ground, then grabbed him around by the throat, pulling him up into the air and roared in his face.

I could smell shit and piss as he lost control of his bowels in fear.

Too late mate, I thought, as I threw him back on the ground a few yards, advanced on him again and stretched my claws.

His face turned greyer than his last victim, as I bent over and started to slice and dice, my talons ripping into his soiled flesh, tearing, welts of red springing up on his skin. Slash after slash after slash; I tore his muscles and meat, digging deep, deep down inside until I could almost taste his heart.

Then, with one final slice, I cut his throat from ear to ear mimicking the cut he’d done on his victims, only I didn’t need no knife.

Then, compelled, I knelt in front of him and inhaled the sweet, salty tang of the blood that ran from his throat and let the scent wash over me for just a moment. It would be so easy to just eat him, but no. I’d worked so hard to abstain. I could control this, I could.

Then behind me wafted a light floral perfume, washing away the blood.

I turned around and there stood Julia, a grimace on her face.

If I was capable of blushing, I would’ve done, the self disgust and embarrassment creeping up on me.

“Julia,” I growled.

It was the only thing I could think of to say, standing there in front if the ragged body of the murderer, my rain Mack coated in his viscera.

“Harry,” she breathed, “we need to go, now. Before the police come.”

I noticed her glance down at the blood but she recovered her self, then surprising me, reached out her hand to my scaled claw.

Gratefully I took her hand and it was she who led me back to my home.

***

I have a portable battery operated black and white TV, an old model a friend of mine gave me. So, surprising me again now that our business was finished, Julia turned up at my place the next night and we watched the news.

The blonde we’d saved was being interviewed, looking frail and haggard despite her beauty. She looked straight at the camera, wide eyed and shook her head, “yes, I swear,” she told the interviewer, “My hero, whoever he was, just – just. Well you know what he did. But you know what? That bloke deserved it, he was gonna kill me.”

The news switched onto views of the reservoir, then a new story about another outbreak of flu and I switched off.

“She’s right you know,” said Julia, “you are a hero Harry.”

Again, if blushing were possible, I would’ve. Instead, my neck gills flushed in and out releasing air. I was too embarrassed for words.

“Thanks,” I finally mumbled.

Then she leaned forward, and kissed me.

I kissed her right back.

“Hey Harry,” she breathed, pulling away from me, “those gills of yours – how long can you hold your breath for?” she finished with a greedy smile.

It took a minute for me to figure out what she meant, but when I did, I grinned, showing my teeth, then demonstrated exactly how long I can hold my breath for.

The Call of Home

“You’re lying, she’s not dead,” I said calmly.

For just a moment the world stopped revolving and the emptiness engulfed me as the words spoken on the other end of the phone sunk in.

I could still hear the tinny voice of the Ward Sister droning in the background with pointless platitudes. It wasn’t real. I tried to pretend to myself I hadn’t heard correctly. It wasn’t Mom. They picked the wrong person at the hospital, mistaken identity. I vehemently denied what my own ears had heard; “I’m sorry Mrs Monk, your Mother passed away during the night, peacefully in her sleep.”

It was all lies. It had to be. Mom didn’t sleep, not ever. The nightmares we shared kept us both awake every damn night and kept her trapped in her own mind and in that damn looney bin.

My voice caught in my throat, my chest tight and painful as tears welled up already, even as I tried to deny what I knew was true.

“What happened? How?” I mumbled.

The Sister continued to drone on at me. Natural causes, sure she felt no pain, yadda yadda yadda.

I hung up the call and collapsed onto my chair.

***

I must’ve sped through a million red lights as I raced to Breaside Mental Health Hospital. The Sister met me at the door and greeted me soberly. She was a petite Asian lady in her mid thirties, with a cute chocolate bob streaked with mahogany and a pretty smile. She was too young to have the job of telling someone that their Mom was dead, I thought. Her pretty face didn’t match her cold voice as she greeted me.

“Thanks for letting me come so quick Sister Khadim,” I said. I’d rushed straight to the institution. I had to know why she was dead.

“Please, call me Shab,” she replied, “And that’s quite alright. I understand. Would you like to see her?”

“Yes please,” I said. As I followed, my footsteps echoed hers down the beige tiled corridors.

The building felt ugly. It’s foetid pea-green walls, the paint stripping off in corners, closed in on me as I walked that long corridor, trying not to hear the disturbing sounds through the secured doors. Screams, cackles of insane laughter, the jangling of keys as though it were a prison, shouting and whispering, all of the sounds competing against each other for a chance to worm their way into my brain.

Breaside had never felt like this before. I’d visited Mom loads of times while she was still compus mentus and knew the building well.  Hell, I’d noticed the sounds but tried to ignore them. I’d noticed the sickening walls and ignored them too. I always noticed the musty smell of the patients that mingled with the chemicals of an institution and the faint tang of urine, but I ignored it. I was very good at ignoring things sometimes, especially where Mom was concerned. No one at work knew she was here. I was ashamed, I could finally admit to myself.

We reached Mom’s room and Shab, the Sister, brought us to a halt. She took out the key and opened the heavy, white, door wide to let me in.

Silently I entered Mom’s room, that cacophony of noise still beating in the background deafening me. Mom lay on the bed, the covers drawn back but a white sheet placed over her body for politeness sake.

Slowly, I stumbled forward in a daze, my fingers grasping hold of the sheet and pulled it half way down so I could see her torso and head. Her skeletal, grey, figure was shrivelled, seeming to taunt me with the knowledge that I’d not been a very good daughter. Her eyes had been closed presumably by the nurse or doctor who had found her. Her hair was wiry and grey, her skin wrinkled and decorated with the shadows of her experiences. She looked in her mid eighties but was only in her seventies. Her pain, her fears, the nightmares had wizened her so she looked like an old witch. Her fear had finally killed her. I would go that way too. It was selfish, but all I could think was ‘please don’t kill me too.’

I covered her again with the sheet and turned back to Shab who was waiting patiently for me to finish.

“I have spoken to Dr Storer and he sees no need for an inquest,” she informed me, “unless you feel - ”

“No, no. That’s okay,” I said, “I. It’s okay. Can I use a Ladies room please? I need to, er, freshen up. I mean - ”

“I understand,” Shab replied, then we left the room together and she escorted me through another corridor to the visitor’s facilities.

I looked in the mirror in the toilets and splashed my face with water. My eyes looked red and sore and I looked white as a ghost. The only colour on me was my mahogany hair that rested on my shoulders. I was so tired. I took a steadying breath.

I didn’t need an inquest to know what Mom had died of. I could still smell the urine that told me she had pissed herself in the throes of death. I could still smell the fear.

The nightmares had won.

***

It rained the day of Mom’s funeral. Of course it did. It’s Britain for God’s sake. We finished the Church service at Corpus Christi’s then the burial at a joint plot in Witton, where Dad was buried, our feet sodden by the mushy grass.

Then everyone came back to our place in Acocks Green. Steve helped serve drinks whilst Chris and I thanked everyone for coming, the flowers and everything else. I couldn’t wait for them all to go.

Finally we could take a second to breathe in the kitchen away from everyone whilst Steve entertained them with his tall tales.

I stood at the marble counter, trying to just breathe, to exhale and to close my eyes.

“C’mere Missy.”

Chris, a blanket of calm serenity and warmth washed over and through me, standing behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. He kissed the back of my head and it was enough. He was my anchor, my port in a storm. I turned round to let him envelope me and his lips met mine, his kiss tasting of salty tears. He’d loved Mom too.  His lips stilled the grief for just a second or two.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said the voice, though interrupt us it did.

I broke away from the embrace as a man I thought I vaguely recognised walked into the kitchen and took off his hat, a Granddad cap. Chris had started to fix us both a drink, Isle of Jura on the rocks.

The man was a bit young to be wearing one. He looked around my age, early thirties. Under the cap he had red-blonde hair cut close and his eyes were twinkly and blue. His accent had a vague Irish lilt to it, as though Birmingham got somehow crossed with Dublin. I’d worked a few bars in my time and his accent felt real.

“That’s okay,” I answered, “do you need a drink?”

“No, no thank you,” he said, “but have ya got a minute? It’s something important I need ta talk ta ya about otherwise I wouldn’t bother today of all days.”

“I’m sorry it is a bad time,” I said, shaking my head.

“Mrs Monk, I’m sorry ta disturb ya, I really am. But it’s about your Mam. Me name’s Albert Devaney. I work at Breaside. She asked me to come ta ya if ever, ya know, if ever anything happened ta her.”

My heart stopped, a chill prickling up my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck rising.

“You’d better sit down,” I said, nodding towards one of the kitchen chairs.

Albert took a seat and I made him an Isle of Jura figuring it didn’t matter where the whiskey came from. If he was part Irish, he’d like it. Besides, I desperately needed my own that Chris had fixed me earlier.

I breathed a big stressed sigh and asked Chris to entertain the black garbed crowd in the lounge while I talked to Albert. Chris left us to it.

Albert breathed a sigh of relief himself then took a plain white carrier bag out from under his coat and put it on the table. It had something apparently heavy in it.

“Ya Mam trusted me,” he said, “and I liked her. When she wasn’t on one of her funnies she was a blast. A right old laff.”

“Go on.”

“She gave me something. Something for ya ta keep. She was paranoid what with the Schizophrenia and the dreams. She told me ta take something ta not let Dr Storer keep them.”

“What dreams? And what did she give you?” I demanded, impatient.

“Diaries,” he answered, pulling out what I could see were two of a number of books. They were a paisley diary and a worn out brown-paper covered book.

He handed them to me. The older of the books smelt rank with age, musty and decayed. The second book, the paisley one was obviously newer but still had the odour of age to it.

I indicated Albert’s drink to him then took a healthy swig of the amber liquid swirling in my glass, which was warm and wonderfully peaty and rich as it slid down my throat. I really had needed it.

Albert stayed silent as I opened the front cover of the older book and peered at the first page. The brown paper diary had a barely legible scribble on the first page:

‘Journal of Events: Mary Margaret Jukes

2nd March to 2nd April 1925’

What the hell? It was Nan. Jukes was her maiden name before she’d married Henry Wilcox, my Granddad.

What was this guy from Breaside doing with Nan’s diary and why for that matter had Mom given it to him and not me?

He seemed to read my thoughts and nodded briefly.

“Take a look at the other one,” he said.

I closed the brown diary and opened the paisley one.

‘Patricia Yeoman’s Diary

Feb to April 1965’

I slammed the diary shut and glared up at him.

“Is this some kind of a joke?!”

“No, I swear,” he said, leaning over and grasping my free hand, “listen. She asked me ta tell ya. The diaries I kept hidden for her the last year or so. I saw no harm in it. It’s the nightmares. The diaries are all about the nightmares. I tell ya, it spooked da shit outta me when I read them. She wanted you to have them when she was gone. So you could fight those dreams, she said, so you could fight what’s in the dreams.”

I took a shuddering breath and sat silent for about thirty seconds, breathing in and out slowly, my fingers lightly dancing across the cover of Nan’s diary. Nan died before I was born. She’d spent the majority of her adult life in Breaside, where Mom had died. Nan had died in 1965, the year Mom’s diary seemed to have started. Mom had been committed there at sometime in her 30s I think. Like Mother, like daughter!

I was only sixteen when I first went there to visit Mom, back in the 80s’.

I knew about the nightmares of course, from Mom and from having them myself, but I had no clue about Nan.

I raised my gaze to meet Albert’s piercing stare. “So,” I said, a bit shakily, “I take it you’ve read these. Otherwise why would you know about the nightmares?”

“I did,” he answered honestly, “but only after ya Mam said I could. And she told me enough about them. I’ll leave ya now,” he said, getting up out of his chair and grabbing his cap, “She said you’re ta read them. That they might help before ya end up where she is now, God rest her soul.”

“Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand briefly and seeing him out through the crowd of family and friends still mingling quietly in our lounge. When would they ever go?

I glanced across the room of chatting family and Chris caught my gaze following me into the kitchen.

He sat at the table and took a sip of his own Isle of Jura, hardly noticing that the ice had melted.

And then I told him everything.

Weeping, I lay my head on his comforting shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him.

As I told him about the diaries, I could almost feel their slimy, dark tentacles touching my cheek in the quiet room that was starting to darken as the evening drew on.

***

The last of the mourners finally left and I got myself comfortable in Chris’s study upstairs to read the diaries in private. Chris called it his study but in actual fact it was more like a Geektastic paradise of memorabilia; a dark room with each wall decorated floor to ceiling in books, comics and collection figures from a whole host of films such as Hellraiser and Star Wars and the like. The only spare wall boasted his desk and his PC where he did an online blog of his photography. It was where he went to relax and be creative. It was perfect for me now.

Chris brought me another Jura, kissed me on the forehead and left me to it.

I opened the oldest of Nan’s diaries first the one dated 2nd March to 2nd April 1925 and started to read:

‘2nd March 1925

I do not know where to start. I shall start with the dreams I suppose. They started two nights ago, 28th February. I know the precise date because it was the end of the month and Father generally requires assistance with his accounts. It is a task I enjoy, for I get to spend time with Father, who is always so busy.

The task kept us occupied most of the day, so I went to my bed quite early that night. It must have been no later than 9:00pm. I read a little Austen before drifting off to sleep. After a day of mathematics I required literature to ease my sore head and relax into my slumber.

The next thing I knew I was suddenly awake, my heart beating faster than lightening, jumping almost from my breast which was drenched with perspiration from an unnameable, hazy fear of which I could not remember.

The nightmare, for a nightmare it was, had evaporated like quick sand. All I had left was a palpable fear and the suspicion that the nightmare had been horrific.

I attempted to sleep again but the fear still gripped me so I read until dawn and then rose for breakfast.

The next day passed swiftly with an enjoyable visit from Cousin Emily.

I was really quite tired by the time Emily left so I again departed for bed at an unreasonably early hour in the hope of recovering from the previous night’s lack of sleep.

Again I read a little Austen to ease me into sleep.

It seemed like mere moments later I was awoken, covered in a sheen of perspiration, my heart galloping away like a bolted horse. I am even sure that I let out a stifled scream as I awoke.

I took a sip of the water I always kept close by and lit a lamp by my bedside.

This time I remembered something of my nightmare.

I found myself lost in the strangest of places, a city of some sort. However, it was not of this earth of that I am sure.

A myriad of outlandish buildings rose miles and miles into the sky, the oddest shapes and angles made of some stone I did not recognise from the semi precious stones I know of. These buildings of which there were enough to compose a city, stretched up and up, twisting and turning, coated in a putrid black-green slime, such as of rancid moss. These gigantic monoliths, all reaching to a murky red sky, dripped with nauseating, greenish ooze. And the smell, I could remember a smell so foul I was nauseated again. It was as though a thousand hunts had taken place in this city leaving behind the slaughtered, bloodied remains of animal carcases, pungent and stale. It was the stench of death.

3rd March 1925

Try as I might, today I attempted to leave the dreams of last night behind me, of that foul gargantuan and foreign city. Yet my mood remained sour today. I have been quite out of sorts, arguing with Mother and unable to focus on any one task.

If possible, last nights dream was worse than the night before, even though my dreams depicted this very same Cyclopean city.

12th March 1925

I have been far too exhausted these last few days to write in my journal. But today I have decided to write down a retrospective account of the nightmares that continue to plague me.

I continue to dream about that city, but it is far, far worse. I now dream of the creatures that reside there.

There was a trap door, built into the foremost building. Its’ walls were inscribed with vague hieroglyphics. The door began to open of its’ own accord. The heavy, massive door as long as ten men lying end to end so vast it was.

Then I saw the creature. Oh Holy Father please, please, remove such sights from my mind and memories.

The thing, the heinous thing was a monstrous hybrid of real and mythical animals; a colossal winged beast, though its wings were puny compared to the scale of its bulk. Its’ hide was the same foul black-green of the buildings in the city of my nightmares. Writhing tentacles sprouted from its head, dancing out to touch my skin. I could feel their ghastly texture as the mountainous febrile appendages caressed my cheek, squirming, oozing a blackish slime. As one tentacle inserted itself into my mouth I screamed and woke up, free at last from the feverish nightmare.

But only free for one night it seems.

Every night since I have seen, smelt and been touched by that foulest of creatures haunting my sleep.

17th March 1925

It touches me, playing with my hair, stroking my cheek. Every night. Spawn of Hell. Should I call a Priest I wonder? Or a Doctor? It knows where I live. It knows how to find me. And I’m sure it wants to destroy me. Perhaps, like some cannibal it wants to eat me. I fear before long I may find out.

20th March 1925

Everything I look at oozes green. Even awake I only seem to see the green now, the blackish-green of the creature who invades my nights. I fear – I fear I am losing my grip on reality. I should not like to be locked away like Jane Eyre’s madwoman in the attic. If I pretend that all is well, Mother and Father may not suspect. Though they do look at me quite strangely now.

24th March 1925

It visited me again last night. It –

25th March 1925

I see its’ scaly body, its’ membranous wings. I can hear those wings flutter loudly like a symphony of birds. Tweet tweet. Ha ha. It’s not like a bird at all you know. It’s a monster, a vile creature from the darkest of stars of a denizen of hell. I can hear the wild chanting in the background, a chorus of worshippers. I know its’ name now. It is Cthulhu.

The words. The words they chant sound like joy, “Cthulhu fhtagn, Cthulhu fhtagn.”

I sang those words with the worshippers in my head.

31st March 1925

Father called the Doctor out to see me today.

And I told him about my god Cthulhu. I told him how I dreamt of its return.

And I laughed at him.’

*

I snapped the diary shut at the last entry.

I looked at my watch. I’d been reading for hours. The diaries had gone on and on like that, getting progressively worse until the last entry way into her incarceration. I might as well write that one down. It’s freaking weird, but, I don’t know.

‘31st January 1965

The doctors and nurses here all want to kill me. I can hear them whispering through the walls. They want to destroy me. And I know it for sure now, after last night. They think they’ve found all of my journals but they haven’t. I hid them. I gave them to Albert. I don’t trust Henry anymore. He’ll give them to Patricia to look after. She’ll keep them safe.

Last night the pain was horrific.

The nurse came in, the little Indian one. She came in with two of the orderlies.

Before I could stop them they pinned me down, they put me in the jacket.

I screamed and screamed but no one would help me.

Then he came in, with his wild brown hair, his spectacles, his ruddy face and his sparkling eyes. Henry and Patricia don’t believe me when I tell them that he’s evil. I can see it in their eyes. But they’ll believe me now, that is, if they ever let me see them again.

Albert believes me though. Nice boy.

I can’t tell my family what he did to me. They made sure of it.

Doctor, doctor – I can’t remember his name anymore, he came up to me and smiled.

“You have to stop telling your stories,” he said, “You’ve been very naughty.”

I snorted, I couldn’t help it. Stupid of me. I know that now.

The Doctor nodded at the two big men in their white jackets.

One of them held me from behind.

Doctor came forward.

He smiled again, then took something shiny and silver from his pocket and moved toward me.

I started to fight and tried to squirm backwards but it was no good.

The nurse grabbed my chin.

I finally saw what the shiny thing was; a pair of hedge clippers, its’ claws looked just like the talons of a velociraptor, metallic, sharp and ready to attack.

Nurse started to squeeze my cheeks inward until my tongue popped out of my mouth and my eyes flew open in a wide stare as I realised what was happening.

Leaning in, Doctor clasped my tongue in the clippers and cut half my tongue off in one fell swoop, the end of my tongue dropping to the floor, like a dead slug.

I gagged, vomiting and choking on my own blood as it bubbled up from my mouth and spewed out on the floor.

I think I must have fainted from the unbearable pain.

When I woke up I could smell the acrid stench of burning flesh.

That was when I realised he’d cauterised the wound. I wasn’t wearing the jacket anymore and the room was empty. But they didn’t find this journal.

This will be my last entry in my last journal.

I know it won’t be long now.

Albert will help me.

He’ll give them to Patricia when the time is right.’

***

Jesus Christ Nan was nuts! No wonder she’d ended up in an asylum. That’s what they called them back then, asylums. The nightmares had made her insane. And God, could I relate? They’d done the same to Mom and Christ, what if they did the same to me? And why had we shared the same dream, or at least, why did we appear to share the same dream? And while I was at it, how old did that make Albert exactly? He had to be older than he looked by at least ten years.

Nan’s description of the city and the monsters that lived in it could’ve been my own. Though mine was a little bit more like something out of Hellboy meets War of the Worlds.

Albert had told me I needed to read the diaries, to understand, to save myself. Looked like it was my sanity I needed to save. I couldn’t tell Chris about what was in Nan’s diary, not yet. Not until I had a clue what the hell I was going to do. It wasn’t as though I could call Buffy the Vampire/’Freaky Green Monster’ Slayer to come and help me.

Oh Hell.

Taking a deep shuddering breath I stood up from the desk, cricking my neck. It bloody hurt like hell. I so needed another whiskey.

I headed downstairs to the kitchen for a breather and a good slug of the amber nectar. We weren’t massive drinkers me and Chris, but we did like a drink after work. My job was at the mobile library and was pretty cool, reading and buying and promoting books for a living, but Chris’s job was really stressful, working in a local government office for crap pay. That’s why I let him keep his study space.

A couple of shots later and I felt brave enough to go back upstairs and tackle Mom’s diary next.

***

‘Patricia Yeoman’s Diary

Feb to April 1965’

‘28th February 1965

The loss is an ache so deep inside I can’t breathe. My Mom is dead. The Doctor said it was, well, he said she – Somehow she got hold of a knife. She’d been getting worse. They’ve diagnosed her with Dementia Praecox.

Apparently she’d refused to see me and Dad anymore. At least that’s what Doctor Storer told us. He’s a strange chap with wildish brown hair with a hint of salt and pepper grey. They won’t let me or Dad see her – the body. Doctor Storer said, well, he said she looks too awful and it will be disturbing for us to see her that way.

I think that’s why I’ve started to have the nightmares.

3rd March 1965

My dreams started with visions of a strange city, its’ walls, its’ strange, abstract buildings, like twisted skyscrapers reaching up into a dark red sky. The buildings are a phenomenal height in my dreams, towering above me. But the colour of them, I can’t describe it. It’s a green so dark it’s almost black. I think they call it British Racing Green. Yes, I’m right. Michael would know at least. But the material the buildings are made from is incredibly unusual, a mineral of some sort not quite granite. But on the exterior, is an oily, greasy substance like putrid lime jelly turned almost black with mould.

9th March 1965

My strange city has occupants now, and they scare me so very much.

They are grotesque creatures at least a mile in height, like something from a drug induced fever. Their skins are leathery, the same putrescent colour of the skyscrapers, octopus tentacles attached to their heads, and an octopuses beak with a snakes’ forked tongue that flicks out. The tongue is a dark, deep, blood red.

When the creatures move they stalk with a horrible slurping sound and it sends shudders down my spine.

And the stench of them – an ungodly stench of rot and ruin, like a charnel house, an abattoir.

I don’t think I can take the dreams for much longer.

I need to tell Michael.

I watched Mom die piece by piece in that insane asylum.

It won’t happen to me.’

***

With every entry I read my heart was beating ten to the dozen. It was scaring the crap out of me. Nan and Moms dreams were almost identical. From the description of the city, to the vile creatures, all the same. And all the same as my dreams too.

And the worst thing of all was the name – Cthulhu. The same name I dreamt of every night.

Before I could stop myself I felt dizzy, then sick, throwing up in the wastepaper basket in Chris’s study.

I needed sleep and proper rest if that was at all possible.

Tomorrow I would deal with it all.

Just as I snapped Mom’s last diary shut, a slip of paper fell out of it onto the floor.

I leaned over and retrieved it taking a look thinking it might be a missed page.

It wasn’t. It was Albert’s phone number and a briefly scrawled message of ‘Call me.’

*

Chris had gone to work by the time I woke up. For once I hadn’t dreamed, or maybe I just hadn’t remembered them. I glanced at the bedside clock and winced. It was after 11:00am. My mouth felt like dry rot and my head was pounding, one of those blinding headaches that seem to pierce just the side of the temple and the left eye. It could’ve been the whiskey, but I doubted it. It was more likely the stress of yesterdays’ funeral, my grief and my night of reading War and Peace.

Chris, bless him, had left a pint of squash on my bedside cabinet and I took a long swig before attempting to get out of bed. A hot soothing shower and a piece of toast with two cups of coffee later and I felt almost human. I dressed in jeans and a black top still feeling immensely funereal, and sat down at the kitchen table with the diaries, my mobile phone and the scrap of paper. The whole thing was insane, of course it was, but I didn’t see any other option. I had to phone Albert Devaney.

“Aah, ya called,” he said on answering, before I’d said hello.

“How did you know it was me?” I asked, vaguely wondering if he was a psychic or something.

“You’re the only one I gave me number ta who I don’t already know.”

“Oh, okay, fair enough. Look, I think we need to talk. Is there anyway you can get over here?”

“I have a better idea,” he answered, “meet me in the café on the main Bristol Road by Breaside. It does a nice cuppa and we can talk in private there. Besides, I’m guessing ya may want ta be talking ta some of da staff there.”

“You’re guessing right,” I said.

“Great. Say two o’clock. Is that time enough for ya?”

“Yep, see you there.”

I hung up the phone, grabbed my black leather jacket, car keys and set off.

Traffic wasn’t too bad as the kids were still at school so it took me about thirty minutes to get there all told. I parked at the hospital. The café wasn’t hard to find from there. It was one of those roadside builders cafés with plastic chequered table cloths in red and white over basic formica tables with a blackboard declaring specials, that boasted a great ‘Full English’ and cheap frothy coffee in large white mugs. It reminded me of where we used to go to as hard up students at college.

Albert was seated in the one red booth at the back for privacy.

I grabbed the seat opposite him and ordered one of those frothy coffees to keep my hands busy.

“So,” I started with, “Exactly how old are you?”

Albert laughed and it was so infectious I had to laugh with him.

“Seriously, I’ve read the diaries. Nan’s diary says you were a boy back in ’65 but you couldn’t have been that young to be working in a looney bin”.

“Psychiatric Unit if ya don’t mind,” he answered.

“Soz. Breaside then.”

“Well”, he said, taking his own sweet time, “Put it this way. I’m older than I look.”

“Fair enough. Now for the important question. What happened to Mom? Do you know? Is any of this real?”

“Whoa, whoa.” Albert held his hand up to slow me down. I had a million and one questions after reading the diaries. But most of all, I needed to know what had happened to Mom and if it was happening to me too.

We talked for an hour or so, then Albert came up with the winning suggestion.

He would escort me back into Breaside.

I wanted to look around, take a look in Mom’s room.

I wanted to talk to Doctor Storer.

If I hadn’t already buried her I’d have been opening her mouth to see if she still had a tongue.

***

Discreetly, we walked through those same miserable pea-green corridors I had walked through just over a week ago when I’d first got the call that Mom had passed away. Just like before, the building felt wrong to me, smelt wrong to me.

I was scared to death that we would be caught snooping around, but Albert didn’t seem to worry, after all, he worked there so wouldn’t look out of place.

We started mooching in what used to be Mom’s room, but it had been cleaned top to bottom, maybe too clean.

Next, we went to Storer’s office. Albert assured me Storer was in a meeting but it didn’t stop me from glancing at the door every time I heard someone walk past the outside door in the corridor.

I started by jimmying open his desk drawer whilst Albert kept his eye on the door. All that turned up was a prescription pad, a couple of pens, a desk diary and some sweets.

Next I went for the old gunmetal filing cabinet against the side wall by the window. I’ve had some interesting pass times so picking the lock wasn’t too difficult. At last after looking through each draw I came to the fourth one down and found the manilla file for ‘Patricia Yeomans’. Logical really. You would think alphabetical order would’ve occurred to me, but I was so bloody nervous.

Pulling out the file I closed the filing cabinet and it relocked automatically.

I sat at Storer’s large, teak, desk and opened the file.

It contained the usual medical stuff; illegible doctors’ scrawl, medication notes and dosage instructions, a photo of Mom, next of kin details, that being me. Nothing to write home about – at first.

Then something I saw caught my eye making me gasp.

Albert dashed over to see what was up and joined me in looking through the file.

Half way through the notes was a sketch and one sentence underneath it.

“In his house at R’yleh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.”

It was the sketch that caught my breath in my throat and sent my heart to hammering.

A winged creature sketched in pencil, writhing tentacles attached to a squid-like head, talons on its’ feet, a scaly hide.

Though the sketch was done in crude black pencil, I knew what it was.

Cthulhu.

I squealed and dropped the folder on the desk as the door opened and in walked Doctor Storer with Sister Shabnam Khadim.

I expected a reaction but Storer didn’t seem in the least surprised. He raised his eyebrow with a wry expression and shut the door behind him, locking us all in.

“I’m disappointed in you Albert,” he said.

Albert kept silent.

Storer and Shab walked forward until they were standing directly opposite us on the other side of the desk, which I was now using as a barrier.

“And you, Mrs Monk, glad you could finally make it,” he said, and his smile was cold, sending tingles of fear down my spine.

“I visit here all the time”, I blurted confused.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said “I’ve been waiting a long time for one of you to wake up and see what’s happening here. I hoped it would be Mary. Then I hoped it would be Patricia, but I think it might be you after all.”

Again he smiled and it was the most horrific thing I’d ever seen, a passionate, rictus grin, his eyes ablaze with adoration.

No, it was with insanity, with the fervour of the religious fanatic.

I could hear my heart thudding in my chest and my skin felt clammy.

And Albert just stood there staring at Storer.

“What the fuck are you on about?!” I finally screeched, backing up against the window.

“Cthulhu,” he whispered with that awful grin plastered on his face, “Cthulhu.”

He moved forward a step and started to walk around the desk.

Albert didn’t stop him.

I glanced at Albert and that’s when I saw him smile, that same fevered smile.

And suddenly I knew.

“Welcome home,” Storer said, and I started to scream, “You’re the first one to remember who you really are.”

I started to shake my head, moaning. I could hear my own keening wail and I was scared, because I knew.

I knew who I was.

I’d heard the call of home.

I knew who I was.

I was Cthulhu.

Priorities, Priorities

Before I tell you about what happened I want to tell you a little about me.  When I am dead, which will be soon, I don’t want to be forgotten like the rest of them.

My name is Cally and I’m 23 years old, but I might as well be in my 50s.  My Dad calls me ‘Granny’ because I’m a little ahead of my time and I’m always reminding him to eat properly, get plenty of sleep, don’t drink too much and be careful crossing the road; ironic really. But I can’t help it because I’m a worrier.  That’s why I knew something was up that typically glum morning as I stepped through the office doors.

I’m sorry. I’m stressed and I’m not explaining things right.  I’m going to tell it like it is as best I can from the start, scribbled on this scrap of murky, yellow recycled paper.

If you find this letter then it’s too late.

I’m already dead or I’ve been made redundant.

***

I walked on to my section ten minutes late (lift to the third floor was broke again), to find another cheap post-it note waiting for me on my desk.  I’d already had three people phone in sick two days before with a virus that seemed to be spreading like wildfire.  And I wasn’t the only one.  Joan & Pete’s team had been hit just as bad and I was starting to believe we were in for another swine flu epidemic.  I took a moment to close my eyes and breathe, dumping my bag on the desk and slumping into my perfectly ergonomic chair.  A few more deep breaths and I was ready to roll. Ten minutes later and I had logged on, cursing through every clink and chink as the PC started.  Bloody systems; no matter what they did to them or how often we were ‘upgraded’ we were still subjected to regular crashes.

I accessed Ken’s records and dialled his home number, waiting quite a while for him to answer.  In due course, his deep gravely voice came on the line with a grumbled “Nuhh.”

To be fair, he sounded awful.  Whatever this virus was it was truly nasty, leaving Ken barely able to speak, his voice a series of guttural grunts as he tried to tell me what was up with him.  I decided to give it up as a bad job, asked him to phone in tomorrow if he felt no better and signed off the paperwork, locking his file away in a bulging draw.  Next I opened up my emails.

Shit. Only two days off and I’d walked back to 158 of them in my already cluttered inbox; 67 of them on the same subject (constantly forwarded and forwarded into infinity and beyond), 50 from Sports & Social including a debate on whether they could afford a free drink voucher for us given the economic climate and the rest of the emails were about the car park. I finished the trail of babble about two hours later, intent on taking a break, and looked up to see Sam hunched over her desk, hair hanging over her head obscuring her features, vaguely reminiscent of that Japanese or Korean bird out of ‘The Ring’. If it wasn’t the virus, it was definitely a hangover. I could deal with that. I’d had to cover once for a guy who turned up at 09:00am still drunk from the night before.

All I could see was the headset hanging askew on her neck, the curtain of straggly black hair surrounding her seriously in need of a decent wash.  I stood up, stretching my limbs and walked over, gently resting a comforting managerial hand on her shoulder.  Sam growled and I flinched, taking my hand away and stepping back.  She’s on a bad call, I thought, must be a regular. Best leave her to it.

I went back to my desk, grabbed my handbag and headed for the stairs and three flights down to the car park for a well deserved ciggie. I’d worked hard today.

“Please hold,” I heard her snarl into her mouthpiece as I headed for the staircase, “I just need . . . (brains) Um, a pen.”

I shook my head, snickering at myself, wondering briefly if I’d picked up the virus that was making the rounds.  Phew, I needed that ciggie.

***

Thinking of the myriad of paperwork and policy that awaited me, I groaned as I walked back in and tried the lift again for a laugh. You never know, I figured.  But let’s face it, that was wishful thinking.  One more sigh, and I started up the three flights of stairs, debating what I could delegate under the cover of ‘personal development’.  It was amazing what you could fob off these days as a ‘development opportunity’.  I decided that emails would be delegated today if I could find someone with enough initiative to cope with it.

Huffing and puffing I just about managed the three flights back to Telephony to find the Mary Celeste before me. WTF?

Frowning, I went to see Sam first.

“Sam,” I whispered, “Where is everyone?”

“Wha?”

“Sam. Where is – never mind.  You don’t look good. Should you really be here?” I added, mentally calculating how much work was involved if she went off versus pushing through it like a good soldier. Please don’t go sick; please don’t go sick I silently begged as I dragged out my ‘concerned’ face “And, er Sam, sorry to harp on but have you seen where everyone went?”

“Nu.”

“Sam?”

Sam slowly raised her drooping head at the sound of my voice, her neck creaking as her head tilted slightly to the side, shifting her long hair away from her face.  Milky, white, eyes penetrated mine and I gasped, stumbling backwards in my sensible work shoes.

Sam threw off her headset violently, jerkily rising to a standing position, the sound of her bones squeaking into the silence of the room.  Her head tilted once more to the left like a curious and deadly bird, her nostrils flaring and mouth opening wide to show rancid teeth as she started to growl. Two seconds later she was on me, her painful shambling transformed into a manic sprint, arms out in front of her, grasping for my neck as I stumbled backwards. In a flash of inspiration I put two and two together and legged it for the staircase, not quite making it.  I thought I was a goner, then Ash, God Bless him, saved my life.  He’d started to wave at me desperately, still taking his call as Sam tried to claw her way through the boxes of paper to the filing cabinets I had dived behind.

Ash, his desk in front of my hidey hole, didn’t stand a chance.  His waving (I assumed for help from a Team Leader) offered a much more accessible meal for Sam.

From where I crouched behind the battered four-draw cabinet I could see him glancing anxiously from left to right, only his eyes moving from headset to door, headset, door, urgently trying to gauge how long he had until the creature took him (she was no longer my A-Star Telephonist).

In between these frantic looks, his startled gaze flitted up to the electronic dashboard counting down the call volumes, whilst his finger shook involuntary above the ‘call work’ button, a panicked sweat rising to his forehead as he depressed the button to finally end the call with a satisfied bleep.  With a gasp of horror Ash grabbed the headset off and flung it aside mumbling “thank you for calling” as Sam shambled ever closer, still clasping a clipboard between bloody stumps.  How on earth was she still holding that?  Beneath the earlobes of Ash’s headset I could still hear the tinny droning of the customer’s voice, interspersed with a staccato of what sounded like “are you even listening to me?” as Ash fell to the ground and started crying “No miss, no miss. Erm, I’m actually having my throat torn out right nooooooooooooow.”

Ugh. That didn’t last long. Sam had been my best team member but life as a zombie appeared to suit her more. The grunge look complemented the image as she leaped on Ash’s prone body, teeth tearing into his muscled tissue, ripping, slurping, and savouring each juicy morsel. Images of KFC popped into my head as she tore into his twitching torso.  Finally she dropped the clipboard, too intent on the string of intestines she’d started to suck on like a tasty stick of Edinburgh soft rock.

How on earth had no-one noticed what was happening?  Then again, Sam was an Emo and the head hanging wasn’t exactly new.  And Ash: God Bless him.  To the bitter end Ash had still tried to finish that call.  He had sacrificed himself to save me.  If he had survived, this would easily have qualified for a recognition award and maybe even a laminated certificate.

Right – no more procrastination or quaking in fear.  It was time to do my job.

I reacted quickly like any decent Manager would.  You see that Capital ‘M’?  It means something.  Like the ‘S’ in Superman, my ‘M’ gave me status and power.

Don’t panic, I thought.  That was what my old boss Marvin used to tell me and they were words I’d come to live by.  After a fleeting moment of hesitation, I crawled out quietly from behind my filing cabinet, and got to the stair case. I had to get to the top floor: the 4th floor. It was where I would find Senior Management and the answers I needed.  Today was not a good day to die.

If I could just get to the Health & Safety Manager’s room we had a fighting chance.  I already knew that the lift was out of action. On top of that I’d not long had a ciggie and crawled out from behind a cabinet so I was struggling for air by the time I got to Edgar’s (Edgar, please call me Edgar) room.  But I did it for My Team.

Edgar sat quietly behind his desk, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, peering keenly at the contents of a red folder. He looked tired.

He looked up from the Business Continuity Plan, removed his glasses and rubbed intently at his eyebrows attempting to the relieve some of the tension before nodding at me to take a seat.

I plopped down into the spare chair, relieved but exhausted at the same time, wheezing from the effort.

“How many?” he asked.

“How many what?” I mumbled.  I was still in shock.

“How many have we lost?” he clarified impatiently.

I leaned on my elbows, sagging on his desk.

“I don’t know . . .  I don’t know,” I said, “A hundred and fifty?”

It had to be.  I’d only seen the carnage on the 3rd floor so multiply that by four floors and the losses would be horrendous. We had no chance hitting our targets this month, and I didn’t want to start thinking about the paperwork from this disaster. It would be in triplicate. And we would have to update the Continuity Plan, which was a pain at the best of times, never mind during an apocalypse when we would no doubt get extra stats to do.

“Yes,” I said, more assertively this time” A hundred and fifty.”

“God,” Edgar breathed, echoing my earlier thoughts, “The paperwork will be a nightmare.”

He took a second to close his eyes and concentrate. “What next?” he asked, slamming the folder shut, “The Continuity Plan is useless. It just doesn’t cover this sort of thing.”

“Oh my God,” I squealed in response, “What are we going to do?! Mr Wright, what are we going to do?!”

Suddenly I could feel myself hyperventilating, my breath becoming quicker, more ragged.  I didn’t have a clue what to do and neither did the Boss.  We were in deep and we were all going to die!!!! OMG.

My head rocked back at the slap the boss delivered, nearly knocking me out of my seat.

“Cally. Cally! Stay calm,” Edgar implored, “I have enough to deal with, without you falling apart as well.”

I forced my breathing to gradually slow down a bit, my fingers clinging to the edge of the desk like an anchor.  The desk was real, solid.  I’d nearly drowned in the panic.  Without the safety blanket of the Continuity Plan, we were lost.

I shook my head like a wet dog and let out a last frayed breath, massaging my tender cheek. Damn. Date tonight, potential bruise.  Date tonight? What was I on?

“Ok,” I gasped, sucking in air, “Ok. I’m calm now.  And I think I have an idea!” I added, unexpectedly inspired.

Edgar looked at me eagerly, like the last sane vestige of hope that I was; “Spill it,” he demanded, his tone all masculine authority.

“Ok. We have to . . . think outside the box.”

“Yes?” slightly eager.

“Do some . . . blue sky thinking.”

“Blue sky – got you! What else?” (Even more eager.)

“Erm . . . that’s all I’ve got boss.”

“Right,” he said slowly.

His accusatory stare and those intense blue eyes sent shudders down my spine. He was ten tonnes of scary; scarier than the cerebrally challenged Telephony section. Under the pressure I flourished.

It was a desperate idea, but I had nothing else to give.  I grabbed the red marker and started to scribble on the white board. A moment of genius and finally it came. An idea to save us all;

“FOOD DAY” etched in giant red scrawl across the white board.

“Cally. Sit down and take a minute,” Edgar ordered, once again fixing me with his virile gaze, “I think you’ve lost it.”

“No, Edgar! I mean Mr Wright. I haven’t. Don’t you see?” I begged of him. “We need soldiers. We need the living to fight the dead, and I know of only one thing to get Civil Servants up to the 4th Floor: FOOD!”

“Edgar Cally, please call me Edgar.”

With a dramatic pause, Edgar sat back at his keyboard and started to type the email that he would send out to all staff.

Dear All

Today, at precisely 15:00 in the Canteen on the 4th Floor, I would like to invite all able bodied members of staff to an impromptu food day in recognition of our recent achievements.  15:00 on the dot.

Your Manager (who really does care)

Edgar Wright

***

It was 14:58 when George stumbled through the canteen doors, one arm seeping blood, his rebellious anti-dress code t-shirt ripped at the shoulder.

“Thank God,” he whined, staggering through the door and past the tea point, “I’m starving.”

“That’s one then,” I hissed” One left alive.”

“We still have two minutes,” Edgar replied “have hope Cally.”

“My hope died a long time ago, Sir,” I told him, watching George rifle through the fridge, slinging aside out of date yogurts and crumpled sandwiches well past their sell by date.  As he flung the food aside I could still hear him mumble “starving” in his delightfully husky tones, never quite happy with what he found.

“George, for God’s sa . . .”

His face splattered with raspberry yogurt, he turned to me, head titled to one side, a pained grimace on his face. “Food! I’m starving.” he moaned again.

“Oh sh . . . it.”

“Starving”

“Er, Edgar. Sir? We need to move,” I hissed, nodding at George who was vomiting white foam by this stage.

“George!!” I tried, taking a hesitant step towards him “Naughty zombie! Stay,” I yelled, grabbing the mop from the corner of the canteen and brandishing it as a weapon.

“Muuhn,” George mumbled.

“No, please don’t,” I screamed as he pounced on me.

The pain was astonishing and brutal as George’s rotten teeth sunk into my forearm, tearing at the meat as I tottered backwards. Edgar caught me as I fell, George tumbling on top of me, his mouth still suckling on the bare flesh of my arm.

“Thanks Mr . . . Oh stuff it. Thanks Edgar,” I wheezed, my breath becoming harder to catch, “I think you’d better make a break for it.”

I hit the ground in a crumpled heap as Edgar threw me off him and bolted for the door, my mop clutched tightly in his fingers.

I could see my blood bubbling to the surface of my neck, spilling onto the dirty floor, pooling out beside me.

I hoped to God he was going for help. I really did . . .

***

It’s been about an hour since Edgar bolted.

I’ve stopped bleeding. There is nothing left in me to help it pump out.

But I haven’t died yet. At least I don’t think I have. I slept for a while, to relieve the agony in my muscles and bones.

Something feels distinctly – wrong.  I know what it’s like to have the darkness inside me.

I can feel the virus gnawing away at my flesh, eating me up inside and I’m hungry; so hungry.  And I can only find stale bread and yucky yogurt. It isn’t enough. The hunger is tearing me apart, like a bad James Dean impression. A ravenous beast is uncurling inside me, eagerly pacing behind the bars of my ribcage.  It wants out.

I can’t fight this anymore. I’m so sorry.

If you find this letter then you know what happened here.

That is, if you find this letter.

The filing’s gotten pretty bad lately.

Tabasco Source

It was supposed to solve all of our problems, to reunite us as a couple again. I suppose it worked in a way, but I wonder whether it was worth the pain and the anguish.

It was Ivan’s idea. Ever the adventurer, he suggested we go somewhere new, exciting, and full of life to re-inject a little life in our relationship. We settled on Mexico. Not that Mexico was enough for Ivan. Oh no, we had to travel to the outskirts too.

I admit I was nervous. A new place, somewhere to be alone with Ivan and the chance of getting bitten by some strange insect or getting food poisoning, but Ivan was so bloody enthusiastic, so pulling back my trepidation, I said ‘yes’.

We did a week in Cancun first; really touristy but I loved swimming with the dolphins and tolerated the unusual and spicy food. Ivan was in his element, and we were getting along again. That was a surprise to be honest. After three failed IVF attempts the tension between us, and the overwhelming sense of loss was all encompassing. It had become our world; injections, tablets, appointments, tests, then – nothing. No baby for us.

But here in an exotic landscape, I was able to forget. At least for a while.

We rented a car and drove as far as we could.

We ended up at last in a little town, a bit of a ramshackle town called Villa Hermosa in the State of Tabasco. I asked the girl on reception at the old stucco hotel what it meant and she said with an ironic smile, “Beautiful Town, Senora.”

I smiled in return and thought, bloody hell, that’s irony for you.

I told Ivan as we checked into our cramped room and he laughed. We hadn’t seen much of the village so far but we had seen enough to know that whoever named this place had delusions of grandeur. It was pretty much a shanty town in the middle of a jungle, surrounded on all sides by dirt tracks and giant verdant green leaves dripping moisture and housing insects. There was one bar next door to a little restaurant, a doctor’s surgery, a couple of houses and some residential shacks all painted yellow and terracotta stone.

The first night we just collapsed in our rooms, but by the second day, Ivan decided he wanted to explore the local area, and I was keen to see the local wildlife. I was desperate to see one of the magnificent jaguars that the district was famed for.

I stopped at the foot of a hill that led out from the village where outside the church there stood a life size sculpture, carved from black stone. I grabbed my camera and took some photos.

The statue was of a human male carrying a small baby, but certain aspects of the human stood out for me; the snarling mouth, the elongated canines, the eyebrows that seemed to be drawn as flames and a cleft in the top of the forehead. All characteristics of the jaguar the area was famed for. I thought it weird that the sculpture was close to a church. Perhaps it represented an older religion where animals were worshipped, I wondered. I bent closer to the statue and noticed a word carved under the figure; ‘Olmec’.

The heat was sweltering and Ivan had stripped off his shirt showing his lean, tanned chest. He was able to wear shorts and sandals but I was left with little option but knee length shorts, a vest and my bra which clung to my clammy skin under the vest. I tied my hair up in a pony to keep it away from my neck, but it still stuck to my hot skin. We’d only been wandering the outskirts of the village for a couple of hours following a filling breakfast, but I was parched and ready to collapse.

“Please, just one drink,” I begged.

I knew why Ivan was worried about us going into the bar. Since I’d had trouble conceiving I’d been more than a little free with the amount of wine I was consuming.

“I’ll be good, I promise,” I said.

Ivan relented and we walked through the vented saloon swing doors straight out of a western, that led into the darkened interior of the bar.

The doors swung back on us as we entered, then briefly scanned the room and walked towards a large wooden L shaped bar that took up most of the room.

There wasn’t really enough room to swing a cat, but the place felt comfy in a grungy sort of way.

“Senor, Senora, what can I get you?” the man behind the counter asked us.

I hopped on a waiting stool and glanced at Ivan who replied, “Something local? A spirit? And two beers please.”

“Muy bien, very good. Please – sit”, he replied.

The barman, (dark skinned, sweaty and grizzled), popped two smudged glasses of a murky yellow liquid in front of us on the wooden counter, followed by two frothing half jugs of beer. Ivan grabbed the beer first and swigged it gratefully, gasping in relief. Once I’d established it was safe, I did the same.

I glanced around the bar looking for a nice table.

There were three or four locals scattered about at rickety tables. A couple of men way into their sixties, guzzling beer, and shots of the murky drink me and Ivan had been given, an old woman who looked like she was knitting as she drank a red wine and then, the strangest looking man I’d ever seen.

My heart swelled with pity as I watched him. It was clear from where he sat at a table completely away from the other customers, that he was not welcome for whatever reason, though I suspected I knew the reason. He was unbearably ugly though I couldn’t say exactly what made him so. He was obviously mixed race, part white, part Mexican, but his skin was of an off white sickly pallor, and these opposites of white and dark in him, looked like a kind of dirty white and had produced something a little unsavoury looking. His skin was blotchy and marred, his eyes a penetrating dark shade, almost black as night. His clothes looked to be in good condition but were a little muddy. It must be these strange looks, not quite white, not quite Mexican, that ostracised him.

I tapped Ivan on the shoulder and walked forward towards the strangers’ table.

“Hello,” I said, gesturing at the empty chairs at his table, “can we join you?”

“Si Senora, buenas tardes, good afternoon, sit.”

We sat down and the stranger ignored us for a little while, but I ventured into a broken conversation with him, “Do you speak English?” I asked.

“Si, a little.”

We chatted for a while, then I decided to ask him what I was eager to know.

“The word Olmec,” I said, “what does it mean?”

“It is the history of our people in Mexico,” he said, “from centuries ago they leave art, sculptures, buildings, signs of their religion.”

I had guessed right then.

“Is there a zoo in Villa Hermosa?” I asked.

“Ah no, Senora,” he said, voice gravely, “but - ”

“But?”

“But, if Senora, Senor, you are really interested in the – wildlife of our beautiful region, I have a very small collection of animals. It is, how you say? A way of life for me, to be with animals. It is near here, but we must take a car.”

“We’ve rented a car,” Ivan piped up, interested in the idea of a jungle jaunt.

“Muy bien,” he replied, “we go now?”

We assented and Ivan swigged the last of his drink and we stood up to go, just as the grizzly old bar man called out to our new friend, who was called Juan Sanchez.

“Another drink, my peligroso friend?” he asked, staring at Juan, with what appeared to be suspicion and fear in his gaze.

Juan turned to him, stared meaningfully then walked out of the little bar, calling for us to follow.

***

The drive through narrow dirt tracks surrounded by foliage was about an hour or so. Ivan drove whilst Juan gave directions.

I was surprised at how quick the terrain changed. In England, the cities or towns normally give way to rural areas quite slowly, creeping up upon you, but here in this strange place, the change was abrupt. One minute we were driving through those dirt tracks with nothing but vultures in sight; the next we were engulfed by the jungle, drawn into a green miasma. The tropical forest almost seemed to be kissing the road they were so close. Deeper and deeper we drove into this basin, until we were surrounded on all sides. It grew darker and I began to get nervous.

“Is it much further?” I asked our outlandish guide.

“Very soon, very soon,” he said.

Finally we reached a clearing, where he instructed Ivan to park and Juan invited us to climb out and stretch our legs. The smell of the damp earth mixed with rotting vegetation and over ripe fruit invaded my nostrils as I stepped out of the car into the clearing. I could hear the varied sounds of animals and birds calling from the adjacent shrubbery.

We saw a well made wooden shack and Juan told us, “my casa, my home. You are welcome to my home.”

“Lovely,” I said, and I suppose it was, but I didn’t get time to explore.

“But,” said Juan, “you are here for the animals, yes?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly.

“This way,” Juan said and we followed him down a darkened gap in the jungle, until we reached another clearing, and in the clearing there was a sort of bowl-like dip in the undergrowth. It was a concave, or pit, and from inside I could hear a creature of some kind mewling loudly.

“My God! It’s a jaguar,” I breathed, excitedly.

Ivan too seemed energised and in his enthusiasm he leant down, to his knees, placing a hand into the pit to stroke the creature, which was only a baby.

It could only have weighed around fifty pound, the weight and size of a human toddler, with a beautiful spotted coat, the spots like broken rosettes. He, or she, I wasn’t sure, was beautiful, and Ivan reached down and grasped the jaguar up between his arms, cradling it like a child. It was breathtaking.

“He is my favourite pet, Olly,” Juan said with a smile as he watched Ivan cuddle the creature. I longed to touch the soft fur.

I looked at Juan to ask permission, noticing the badge on his shirt, just like the image of the Olmec statue I had seen earlier that day, of a human male, this one holding a baby jaguar in its arms. It must be something to do with his job, I thought.

Juan nodded ‘yes’ so I leant forward and stroked the jaguar’s fur, closing my eyes and revelling in the texture. It was bliss, and I felt tears spring to my eyes as I stroked the fur.

My reverie was interrupted by a yelp from Ivan who dropped the jaguar onto the ground, grasping his hand, which showed a small scar welling with blood.

The creature ran into the forest and Ivan stood up, showing me his hand.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yep, just a scratch,” he said, rubbing it fiercely.

“Baby!” I said and laughed.

In the meantime Juan was apologising profusely but Ivan and I waved it off.

“My fault,” Ivan said, “playing with wild animals.”

I don’t think either of us cared to be honest. We were just so awed by having met the small creature.

“So,” said Juan, “is getting late, yes? Maybe you get car?”

“Good plan,” said Ivan, though I felt he was reluctant to leave.

He shook hands with Juan, as did I, then Juan pointed out the track back to the car.

It looked pretty straight forward so we thanked him and started the short stroll through the undergrowth back to the car. At least it had looked straight forward but after ten minutes of wondering it was pretty clear we were lost, and I was worried.

Ivan wouldn’t have it though, at least until we hit another clearing where he expected to find Juan’s house, which was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, there was a slight incline in the clearing, a little hill, and on top of the hill a large monolithic boulder, and flattened on one side another statue in bass relief. The sun was just setting and I was momentarily distracted from my fear by the stunning sight of the sun coming over the hill, settling on the sculpture, lighting it up like molten gold.

I stared at the statue uncomprehending for a minute until the image sunk in and I nearly threw up. Oh my God, it was disgusting! It, it was a jaguar, a full grown male, and it was having sex with a female human, its talons digging into the bare flesh of her breasts. I could almost hear her screaming.

I looked at Ivan to see if he could see what I saw, to see how he felt, and I was sickened further as I saw a glint of desire in his eyes and sweat rolling down off his forehead, which he was oblivious to. This was turning him on!

“I want to go back to the hotel,” I stammered, “get me back!”

Ivan’s eyes gleamed as he turned back to me, dark and hungry.

***

We found the car eventually, hot, sweaty and tired.

It took us an hour to get back to Villa Hermosa, the road quite easy to find once Ivan had followed Juan’s directions, though I was still angry he hadn’t guided us back to the car, the memory of the monolith dancing before my eyes.

It was night and I was hungry.

“What do you want to do?” Ivan asked.

“I want to clean up and shower,” I said, feeling dirty in more ways than one, “then dinner.”

We headed back to the room then took turns in the shower and headed out.

There wasn’t much choice to be had from the village, but we decided on a cute restaurant next door to the bar. It was also opposite some sort of cabaret place; a dance hall with large neon signs in pink and blue outside. A stream of local men made their way inside.

As we sat at our small table outside for the humid, but fresher air, we sipped red wine and ate some spicy local dish, while Ivan was particularly on form making jokes and stretching his hand across the table to touch mine. As we ate and drank and got merry, the music from the dance hall, which sounded like a mixture of rumba and tango, throbbed louder and louder through the night air. I was tapping my feet to the exotic, sensuous music and before I realised it and I was almost tempted to go to the club, but the night was soon finished and Ivan paid the bill, grabbed my hand and hauled me laughing towards our hotel.

We hadn’t made love in months. Oh, we’d had sex, but it was always to a schedule, always about the IVF, never love making. Ivan grabbed me and swirled me round as we entered our room, tracing his fingers over my bare back in time to the pounding beat outside our room. He leaned forward, his breath tasting of red wine and spice, leaning in for a deep kiss. I couldn’t help it, I responded.

It had been so long since he’d touched me that way.

The blue and pink neon lights flashed through our window in time to our bodies, as we moved, touched, explored, kissed and held each other. His mouth was all over me, eager, starving. It had never been like this. My orgasm rushed into me like a bolt of lightening as Ivan came inside me.

***

I woke up with a fuzzy mouth, thankfully not hung-over, but clammy and achy. I smiled to myself as I watched Ivan snoring beside me and remembered the night before. I got out of the bed, untangling myself from the sheet and Ivan’s legs, then dived in for a cold shower.

In the middle of the shower, as I washed away the dirt from the previous night, I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of breakfast cooking down in the hotel kitchen. I was famished. All that exercise I thought with a grin. But as my tummy rumbled I also felt a bit nauseous. And it wasn’t the alcohol.

I don’t know how I knew, and I did know, because I was right, but just at that moment as I washed myself in the shower, stripping away my excesses, the weirdest sensation overcame me. I knew, I just knew, that despite all odds I was pregnant.

I’d heard stories about women who supposedly knew the moment of conception as insane as it sounded. I’d also heard stories about women like me who were told they couldn’t conceive, who’d tried a few times to no avail, but get them somewhere new and bang! It happened.

Please God let me be right, I prayed, please God.

Ivan just laughed when I told him.

A few weeks later, back at home, twenty grand already down the drain, Ivan stopped laughing after I tested positive for the third time.

***

It was about a week after that, that things got really strange.

Our relationship had improved a little since Mexico, and when my early pregnancy was confirmed, Ivan was over the moon, but he was still acting a bit strange. Stranger than usual that is. For starters, the appetite he’d demonstrated in Mexico picked up ten-fold. He was ravenous, all of the time. He was also hot, I mean really hot, his skin was aflame. He was burning up. Then there was his sleeping pattern. He barely managed to do a shift at work. And when we got home from our cab firm, he would pass out for a few hours, wake up around midnight, then stay up until six in the morning. I was actually really worried, trying to get him to see his doctor, especially when he started shedding hair; body hair and the hair on his head. All sorts of thoughts, particularly cancer, were running through my head.

I was on the phone to my friend Annette a few nights after he’d started showing these symptoms, and I thought he was downstairs, I could’ve sworn it, but still he stormed into the bedroom, grabbed the phone off me and slammed it down on her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, his blood rushing up to his cheeks, a growl in his voice.

“I’m, I was talking to Netty,” I said, “why?”

“About me?”

“Yes, what’s wrong? I had to talk to someone. You’ve been acting so weird lately hun.”

Ivan dropped onto the bed next to me, seizing me in a fierce embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry Bab, I don’t know what’s up with me. I feel so freakin’ strange.”

“It’s okay.” I started to cry, holding him back, praying he would be all right, as he rubbed circles on my back to soothe me.

Maybe it was the stress of finding out about the pregnancy after all of this time. I didn’t know, but he wasn’t himself.

“Please Ivan, go to the doctor okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed, pulling away from me, “I’ll call him tomorrow. I swear.”

Then he went back downstairs to watch TV and I went to the bathroom to freshen up.

***

It was a Thursday night all hell broke loose.

Working nights together in a cab company had its downside.

Constant phone calls made it impossible for us to sneak away for a few moments of intimacy, especially when one of us had to be chained to a headset.

It was Ivan’s turn to make the tea, and he was gone for more than the time it usually takes to boil a kettle. When he came back, a mug of ‘world’s greatest boss’ in one hand and ‘I’m a bitch and I love it’ in the other, something was off.

His skin was pale and strands of hair were plastered to his forehead. He was sweating.

I reached forward to touch his temple, and instead of the cold, clammy skin I was expecting, I could feel that he was burning up just like the other night.

“You’re feverish,” I said, gently running my fingers through his sticky hair.

“Yeah, I felt a little light headed. Must be malaria,” he joked. He still hadn’t been to the doctors after we’d talked that evening and I was beginning to think maybe he had picked up some tropical disease in Mexico. He hadn’t been right since.

As I brushed through his hair, strands of it came away in my fingers, and a sense of foreboding crept over me. Something wasn’t right.

Ivan looked a little shocked as well, but before I could say anything, the boss mug toppled to the floor, boiling tea splashing everywhere as he winced, reacting to some kind of pain in his hand.

“My finger...” he began as I took a hold of his upturned hand.

It wasn’t just his finger. The joints were somehow deforming, some lengthening, some shortening as his fingernails extended unnaturally, pushing themselves out of the flesh of his fingertip.

He screamed with pain as I watched his fingernails fall away and what I took to be bone, protruded from the bloody mess.

No, not bone. Too sharp. Claws...

Oh holy God, what was wrong with him?

I stumbled back, away from him, suddenly scared to death.

Then I remembered that scratch he’d got at Villa Hermosa. The scratch on his hand; the one that was transforming as I watched him, aghast.

I shrieked, yanked off my headset and ran as fast as I could.

I was running across the darkened car park, and the pants of the creature running behind me put the fear of God into me.

Before I reached the end of the car park, it was too late, the jaguar was on me.

I spun round, raising my arms to defend myself as the animal pounced, one massive paw swiping to knocking me to the ground and ripping through my shoulder at the same time.

I was on my bum, scooting backward, begging Ivan to realise it was me, calling him name desperately.

“Please Ivan, please! It’s me. Stop!”

For just a second, I thought I was safe as his pupils dilated turning a dazzling yellow in the night sky, fixing me to the spot.

He was beautiful, powerful and sleek. Even as he leant down and tried to tear our baby from my womb, I couldn’t help but be awed at the sight of him, stalking his prey, stalking me. Tan fur with black spots, two upper and two lower fangs protruding from his snarling mouth as he ate my flesh.

I thought I was lost, the dizziness overwhelming me, but then there was a yowling screech of another animal, and two strong dark arms pulled the jaguar away from me, holding the snapping creature firmly.

I looked up at my saviour, and there stood Juan Sanchez, smiling at me, still managing to hold what was left of Ivan in his muscled arms.

“Welcome to the pack Senora, Senor,” he said, “I have many things to teach you.”

What about Bob?

Grace figured Ann Summers was too well lit and too well known to risk going there.  It was tricky enough to brave shopping of the sort she had embarked on for the first time without adding notoriety into the equation.  Grace was way past shy, in fact she bordered on catatonic when it came to anything of an erotic nature. In all her years in and out of many failed relationships Grace had never resorted to a bedroom aid but times had changed. She was desperate; which is why she found herself on a murky Friday evening lurking on a dingy back street behind the Central Library.

To get there, she had navigated the darkened concrete underpass that smelled of urine and alcohol, conscious of the clicking of her work shoes on the grubby floor.   Steering through the walkway she had cringed inwardly at the sight of empty glass bottles, crumpled crisp packets, cigarette stubs and a stained patchwork blanket reeking of excrement.  Finally she had turned a corner past an old record shop selling vinyl and a Mediterranean restaurant that she doubted ever saw diners.  At last she had reached the building that she had been seeking; a ramshackle store with delusions of grandeur and artistic intent, painted in a misconceived and rather gaudy shade of salmon pink.  Lending the street an aura of a bad noir film, the small back street on which the store was located was lit only by puny street lamps that barely gave off any luminosity to fend off the increasing gloom.

Grace winced in embarrassment as the old-fashioned door-bell jingled as she pushed the heavy black door open and entered a world of twisted perversion.

The cramped store smelt of stale sweat, smoke, booze and other acrid unmentionables that she didn’t dare think about, a myriad of scents that the vomit inducing patchouli incense could hardly cover.  Grace discreetly covered her mouth with her cerise scarf as the stink hit her.

If it weren’t for Graham she wouldn’t be here, in this foul sex shop in the back of beyond that belied the city on its fringe. It was his fault, this shame she felt creeping up her cheeks as she surveyed the various artefacts and gizmos that defied logic. In the few years that she had been with him, he had learnt how to control her, belittle her for her rounded size 16 figure and make her feel guilty for any sexual reaction she experienced. She was not allowed to enjoy, only serve.

Not anymore. As she finally gained the courage to chuck the useless misogynist out, she had begun to feel proud again; of her curves, of her mop of brown hair, of her need.

“Welcome to ‘Kinks R Us’ sweetheart.”

The lively Glaswegian accent that spoke snapped her out of her reverie. The voice seemed to be laughing in amused delight, or perhaps it was Grace’s paranoia.

“Come in hon, come in,” the voice finished.

“Um -”. Grace blushed as a pair of lively blue eyes surrounded by a ruddy heart shaped face and pillar box red hair nodded at her encouragingly. A woman, blimey, she thought with surprise.

Oh hell, Grace thought, as she walked to the counter, in for a penny in for a pound. Stuff it.

“Is this - ”

“Aye babes,” the assistant replied, stepping out from behind the counter to introduce herself to Grace, shaking her hand warmly yet firmly.  “I’m Zaza. This is the shop you’re looking for sweet.  It used to be one of those wee karate places but no one could ever find it. Take a pew,” she added with a warm smile in her voice, nodding at a gauche red and black stool at the counter.

Grace did as she was told, hopping onto the high stool, pulling her scarf down to reveal soft pink lips, gasping as she slowly twigged the outfit draping the enigmatic store assistant like a second skin.  Woo, rubber alert!

Grace uncomfortably scanned the small shop to avoid looking directly at Zaza, but it didn’t exactly help.  Every nook, cranny and crevice of the display shelves was filled with an array of unrecognisable items in a variety of colours, shapes and sizes.  Grace decided it was far safer for her sanity and embarrassment if she stared at Zaza instead.

Beautiful Zaza. If Grace were completely honest with herself she felt a twinge of jealousy as she perused the latex clad figure, who looked like some kinky fetishist.  By no means a super-model or skinny woman for that matter, the assistant had something more powerful; sexual charisma.  With confidence and style, Zaza carried off the black latex basque and accompanying red latex bed boots over a purely feminine and curvaceous physique. The heeled boots matched her vibrant hair to perfection. On her hip dangled a black leather whip and a pair of red fur lined handcuffs. Grace smiled briefly as she remembered a dodgy old joke her Dad used to tell her; “What’s white, black and red all over?” The answer, a sunburnt penguin, always used to make her giggle.  She doubted her Dad had this image in mind, though it seemed to suit the assistant to perfection.

Zaza sauntered back behind the counter, hiding her shapely and sculpted limbs, and Grace breathed a sigh of relief. She had enough to cope with, without the sight of a sadistic Sindy doll perched before her.

Still smiling wildly through luscious blood red lips, Zaza dragged a large black folder from under the counter.

“Okay hon, what’s your name and how can I service you?” Zaza chuckled at her own wit as she flipped open the folder to the contents page.

“Right, erm, I’m Grace,” Grace answered politely with a shy smile.

Despite the weird surroundings and the eccentricity of the assistant, Grace felt herself warming to Zaza’s exuberance and was already feeling a little comfier. “Well, I’m single – that is now,” she explained a little hesitantly, “And, well, it’s been a while. I could do with. I need.”

“Gotcha hon,” Zaza responded with a smile.

Again, Grace felt relieved that she didn’t need to explain any further. She was almost sure Zaza knew what she was after.

“Any idea what size or type?” Zaza asked.

Grace shrugged. She was flummoxed.  It was new territory to her, but choosing a make and model like she was choosing a new car was definitely an interesting experience. After about five minutes of scanning the shelves and flipping through the folder, it was pretty clear she really didn’t have a clue.  Her head tilting left to right, eyes squinting as she tried to figure out what she was looking at, she finally gave up.  The suspiciously clairvoyant assistant returned to her and gave her a knowing smile as she took her hand gently, helped her hop down from the stool and walked her over to a particular shelf.

“If you’re choosing your first vibrator, or Bob as some like to call him,” Zaza clarified, “it has to be right for you and easy to use. Oh, and not too expensive, Most girls go through four or five models before they find the right one for them, so no need to worry. I have some ideas, Sweets.”

“Bob?”

“Battery Operated Boyfriend,” Zaza replied with a husky laugh, “Some lasses don’t like the word Vibrator. If ya ask me hon, if ya can’t say it you shouldn’t use it.”

Grace found herself laughing along, her embarrassment of earlier long since erased.  It took them a while, but they had narrowed it down to two vibrators - Penis Colada; tall, yellow and glittery and John Wayne; shaped like the genuine article, painted a realistic fleshy tone.  Guiding Grace’s hand, Zaza took her fingers and wrapped them around the ribbed shaft of John Wayne, moving her fingers up and down in a steady rhythm. Even holding the vibrator, Grace felt herself responding, a moist and welcome warmth spreading between her legs at the lifelike sensation.

“John Wayne?” she asked, mostly to distract herself.

“After John Wayne Bobbit,” Zaza laughed sensuously, “the girl who designed it thought it looked so real, it could almost have been sliced off.”

You’re not kidding, thought Grace, amazed at the authentic texture as she continued to slide her fingers up and down, grasping the silicone rod and positively beaming at the precursory feelings riding through her body.

This was it. This was the one.

It was paid for and packed up in less than no time.

“Before you go Babes,” Zaza said, “let me warn ya. Overuse John Wayne at your peril.”

“Of course,” Grace said as she left carrying the discreet pink paper bag, “I’ll be careful.”

***

Tentatively at first, Grace began to play with her new friend Bob.  She set her bedroom up in just the right way in order to create the necessary ambience.  She was nervous about her coming adventure, and insanely thought that setting up a mood for her and Bob would make it easier, less embarrassing somehow.

She put on her best satin nightdress, knee length black with a ruff of feathers on her décolletage teamed with black, heeled slippers. She lit some candles, popped on her favourite R&B Love Songs CD and grabbed a bottle of Pinot for Dutch courage.  Sipping slowly at first, it wasn’t long before the whole bottle of crisp dry wine was gone and she was way more than merry, the impending expectation of using her new toy, the danger, the thrill, building up an entirely new kind of excitement within her.

Grace closed her eyes, lying prone on her bed, pulling aside the pretty lilac duvet; snuggling underneath. The protection of the covers in some way made it simpler for her, destroying the guilt that nearly overwhelmed her as the first trickle of fluid escaped from between her legs with an anticipatory pop.  Carefully, slowly, she placed the molten tip of her toy against her nub and hit the ‘on’ switch, gasping in delighted shock as a sudden wave of pleasure hit her; so unexpected.

Oh God, it was better than she thought. Why had she never -? Oh God! In the background, drowned out by the smooth tones of Bruno Mars, she could hear the tiny buzzing of a million insects dancing in maddened delight between her legs.  Each buzz, each change in pressure and delicate move of her fingers in time to her new best friend sent more and more waves of insane pleasure through her pelvis until at last she found herself groaning and rocking in time to each vibrating pulse, thrusting up to meet an imaginary lover, encompassed by this new discovery.

And finally, the desperate throbbing inside became frantic; a grasping, pulling, turbulent need that sucked on the flesh-like shaft. Faster, faster, faster she moved her hips in time to the wild pulsing inside her, her womb opening up like a drowning, needy child. Wider and wider her pelvis opened, swallowing the vibrator whole until at last she grabbed the duvet cover between her mouth, letting loose an almighty rattling scream that ended in laughter.  With a final tremble, Grace shuddered, spitting the duvet out and gasping for fresh air, splaying her delirious limbs out across the mattress, relishing the scent of her own release.  It had been so long.

Ten minutes later, rested and temporarily sated, Grace felt a familiar urge within her and seized her new best friend between wet fingers, coaxing him inside.

It was time for Round Two.

***

Bob caressed Grace’s clitoris, his touch gently flicking against her sensitive flesh, bringing her orgasm one more time, lapping at the juice inside like a cat with cream, smiling inside as she finally opened up wide enough. She was ready.

At last, the thing that was Bob thought. At last she is ready. It’s time.

Bob’s moistened tip squeezed out miniscule tendrils of red-veined muscles that wriggled, wormlike, as they stretched up into her darkened cave.  Reaching inwards, they twisted and writhed, latching onto barren flesh. Even smaller, infinitesimal pincers clasped the necessary organs and soft tissue, pumping their milk deep inside.

In her sleep, Grace momentarily squirmed, her face flashing an instant of discomfort. Then she returned to a restful slumber.

The creature now burrowing itself inside her settled itself comfortably, ready for the next stage of its invasion.

***

Grace awoke with her legs twisted under the duvet, her mouth tasting like a dead rat with rabies and the sound of a million tiny bugs chanting in the background. Fighting down nausea, which she suspected was the full bottle of wine she had drunk, Grace threw aside the duvet and clambered out of bed, instinctively grabbing her abdomen as a sharp knife of pain slithered inside her.

Heading straight for the bathroom to pee, her bladder swollen with fluid, she sat down on the toilet seat shaking her head at her own stupidity.  One glass of wine was more than enough, never mind a bottle. What on earth had she been thinking of?

Concentrating on urinating, she was still sitting there five minutes later, the incessant buzzing sound having followed her into the bathroom. That buzzing sound; that annoying bloody noise -

Realisation dawned, then an intense embarrassment loomed as she finally twigged what the sound was, followed by the pleasant surprise of the fact that the batteries had lasted all night.  If she wasn’t just a little bit ashamed she’d have been recommending Bob or John Wayne as he was called, to all of her friends. Great value for money, she snickered, as she reached her fingers into the toilet bowl and grasped her new found friend tightly, her fingertips searching for the ‘off’ switch. She let out a frightened squeal as she hit the pulse increaser by accident and swiftly lowered the settings back down. What the hell? Where was the damn button?

Investigating further she found the switch and hit it off sighing in relief; until another pulse rocked her, nearly throwing her off the toilet. By now she was starting to panic and realised there was only one thing to do – pull the damn thing out. Taking a firm hold, she anchored her feet, crouching frog like above the toilet and started to pull the vibrator out, heaving with all her might.

Nothing.

Stuck.

Oh God. She’d heard stories about this of course, urban legends.

Oh God. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t fair if what she thought was happening was really happening.

Why her? After the hell she’d gone through to reach the point to be brave enough and even consider one. Why her? Oh holy God.

There was no way she was calling an ambulance or her GP. She could just imagine it now. A young fit paramedic turning up, examining the problem closely as he strapped her onto a gurney wheeling her out in front of the prying eyes of her neighbours, whilst even the blaring of the siren wouldn’t cover the buzzing sound between her legs.

Right – a taxi then.

***

“Can you turn the radio up please?” Grace squealed at the driver.

“Yes Ma’am, no problems.”

Right, no problem at all, she thought, glancing furtively out of the car window to spot anyone she knew.

The journey to the hospital was long and arduous, the rattling of the old car over speed bumps churning her deep inside and sending spasms of satisfaction through her with each jolt. It was unbearable but at the same time insanely joyful. She certainly was getting her money’s worth.

After a mumbled and rather hasty explanation Grace was tagged as priority and sent through A&E to the Gynaecology/Maternity ward. She figured it was practical to run them both side by side. Unquestioning, she followed a pretty Asian nurse through to a private room to wait for the consultant, stripping off her sopping wet clothes and placing them in a nondescript carrier bag.  Wincing, she worked her way into the drab backless hospital gown and sat herself on the plastic mattress, having to hop to reach the height of the metal bed frame.

It didn’t take long for the consultant, who looked no more than ten years old, to turn up. And typically, it had to be a man. Just what she needed.

Steadfastly ignoring his gaze she held her legs apart, knees trembling and her pelvis flinching as he inserted a cold latexed finger to examine her.

“Don’t worry Miss Mills,” he assured her with a smile, “you’re safe now. It’s fine.”

“Fine?!” she snorted, “how can it be fine with a – a”

“It will be fine Grace I promise” he answered, with another warm smile, “I just need to give you a sedative.”

Nodding at what she assumed was the nurse from earlier, Grace closed her eyes as the canula for fluids and the sedative was inserted in her hand.  She could’ve sworn she heard a husky voice chuckle “You may feel a small prick” as she drifted into unconsciousness.

***

Voices. Grace could hear voices. One of them she recognised but it was all so fuzzy. And she was so tired, and God she felt sick.

“It’s okay hon, it’s okay,” the voice she knew whispered, “The doctor is on his way.”

No it wasn’t. This was many things, but ok wasn’t one of them.

It’s not – not okay.

“Shh Babes. Aye, that’s it, just sleep. It won’t be long before the wee one is born. Relax. That’s it, Sweets. Then you’ll be a busy girl.”

“But, I don’t understand. What’s happening - ”

“It’s okay, hon, You rest. There’s a good girl.”

Grace couldn’t disobey anymore.

Whether it was a dream, or it was real, she wasn’t entirely sure, but the pleasant Scottish lilt lulled her into a gentle sleep, the frown slowly disappearing from her lips as she listened to the sound of heels clacking on tiles walking slowly away from her.

The wee one?

The wee one?

Drifting further into sleep Grace decided she must’ve misheard. She certainly wasn’t pregnant.

The next sound she heard in her sleep-addled brain was the much louder buzzing of a surgeon’s saw, then the wailing of a newborn infant.

Red Meat

Riddle, by now a good friend and business companion, showed me through the doors of his Club, introduced me to the concierge, then brought me through to the lounge.

I sat, and waited, until a server offered us drinks.

I was rather nervous, so accepted Riddle’s suggestion of a drop of gin, for it could do no harm. There was little that could harm me now.

I settled myself comfortably into the Queen Anne chair and lit a cigar whilst I awaited my gin.

“May I introduce you,” Riddle began, “to my good friend Mr Naughton-Shires. He has a tale to share with you.”

The gentlemen raised noises of appreciation and agreement. Thus, sipping gin and smoking my cigar, I began my story.

***

Mr Naughton-Shires

Gentlemen, I thank you most humbly for taking the time to listen to me. I understand that I must share my experiences with you in order to be accepted as a member of the Whitechapel Club. Believe me or do not believe me; it is of no consequence, for it behoves me to tell you my tale in all of its gruesome detail. If I do not, you will not understand why I join you on, if I may say, this typically dismal cold and bitter British evening. And truthfully, Gentlemen, I welcome the chance to share. For you see, the horror of it weighs on my soul like a succubus, eating away at me until there is nothing.

It has destroyed my marriage to Evelyn (though I confess to no loss there). It has destroyed my only son Henry, my sweet boy. It has destroyed my career. If I do not share the burden, then it shall destroy me. Of this I am certain.

With your permission, Gentlemen, I shall tell you.

So, how to begin?

With the most delightful of dinners it would seem. I was invited by Mr Lightfoot of Lightfoot & Riddle Esquire to share a business dinner just a fortnight past in their Cheapside lodgings.

I arrived at their lodgings just as the food markets were closing up, and the gas lamps were being lit on the streets weaving a sinister yellow glow, diffusing the fog. There was a bitter chill to the air, to be expected for an autumn such as this.

It is a fact that London has never recovered from its chill since the events of 1888 and that Ripper fellow caused such havoc. And that, thought I at the time, was horror. Yet I myself have experienced worse.

Forgive me, I delay. Please partake of the sweetbread I have brought with me and I shall continue.

As I have mentioned, the night was cold and I was grateful to be shown to Lightfoot’s drawing room where the flames danced merrily in the marble hearth, warming my fingers and toes. I took off my top hat and frock coat and was offered a large drop of sherry to heat me further, which of course I accepted. Who was I to refuse?

A balmy flush suffused my cheeks as I enjoyed the beverage whilst awaiting my hosts. Finally my hosts arrived; Lightfoot and Riddle.

Lightfoot was a skinny yet tall moustachioed sort of fellow who was garbed quite informally in a white shirt and white & pink striped waistcoat of silk, with a pocket watch of gold. Riddle, as you can clearly see, is a rather formidable and much stouter fellow with unfashionably long thick hair and a trimmed beard. It would seem he enjoyed to be perceived as being a little outrageous, for he wore a waistcoat of brightest pink, long trousers as is the fashion in a lighter shade of sage green, with a forest green bow tie and a white shirt with a winged collar. He was much more formally dressed, though I was rather shocked by his choice of colour and wondered where his tailor was based. I must not judge their business acumen on their strange apparel, thought I.

I apologise my friend, for these were my initial thoughts.

I raised myself from the chair in which I had become quite relaxed (the sherry must be directly from Spain thought I, as it was rather strong), and I felt a little squiffy. It would not do to become intoxicated. It was our first meeting in a convivial setting rather than Lightfoot’s business chambers. We were to discuss the import of spices from India for my restaurant near Charing Cross. As such, Lightfoot’s business partner thought it a jolly idea to invite me to dinner at their lodgings to partake of some of their spices first hand. It was a most agreeable invitation.

I was shown into the dining room where three places were set in blue and white Wedgwood crockery with silver cutlery.

I took my seat most gratefully and it was not long before the first course was served; a fine Muligatawny soup, which was delightfully spicy and warmed my breast. Conversation flowed easily enough as the entrée arrived, Veal cutlets (I was not certain but it seemed to be veal) served with French beans. It too hit just the spot and I was becoming more certain with every mouthful that their cook must be using Mrs Beeton’s tome on Household Management to create such a splendid menu.

The second course was the piece de resistance; a rather mouth watering meat pie, its brown and red juices flowing beneath the crumbling pastry, my teeth tearing through chunks of succulent meat. Dare I say it? It was indeed the best pie I had ever tasted. It was imperative that I obtain the recipe for my own restaurant, and for my own cook for that matter. Our third course consisted of snipes followed by dessert of a box of French plums.

“I say!” I exclaimed, following the second course, “That was positively the most succulent pie I have ever tasted.”

“Why thank you Mr Naughton-Shires,” proclaimed Lightfoot, one of my amiable hosts, “the meat, would you agree, is particularly tender?”

“I do indeed agree,” said I, “and I should like to obtain the recipe for my restaurant.”

“I am afraid,” interjected Mr Riddle, somewhat sourly, “that it will not be possible. We are flattered by your compliment, however, our cook will not reveal her secrets even to me.”

“’Tis a sorry shame” I answered quite honestly.

“Pray do not despair, for we shall dine again,” added Lightfoot pleasantly.

“In fact we insist that you return,” Riddle proclaimed, “for in less than two weeks hence we shall be hosting a rather splendid affair. On the night of October 31st at seven o’clock if you will attend. As Lord Byron had it;

‘Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts

To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts

I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts,

Albeit in human history attests

That happiness for man - the hungry sinner! –

Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner’.”

We did laugh raucously at his recital of the poem, imbuing dining with almost supernatural power. I was glad to accept the offer of a return, even once our business was done.

“So, it is an agreement?” asked I, once we had settled on a suitable amount of turmeric, cumin, powdered chilli and garlic.

“Consider it so,” replied Riddle, the senior partner of the two, “it is deal made. I shall forward the papers to your offices post haste. And when next we meet, we eat the long pig.”

We shook hands on it.

*

On my return to my town house in Knightsbridge, tired yet content, I regaled dear Henry, who had returned from University, with an account of my evening and the stupendous feast of which I had partaken. Evelyn had retired to her own bedchamber. In fact, for days leading up to our planned dinner on October 31st I contemplated my return to the lodgings of Lightfoot and Riddle with increasing eagerness.

In my offices the next morning, the partnership agreement papers arrived delivered by courier and I signed them without delay, paying the man to take the papers straight back to the offices of my new partners. Lunch, I decided, would be a fair celebration for our new partnership.

I arrived at Charters, my Charing Cross eatery, at just after 12:00pm, surprising my staff who were busy bustling about the place preparing tables. It was early yet so we were not too busy. As always, I smiled with a sense of pride as I entered my establishment.

I had assisted with the design of my humble eatery, adopting a seafaring theme, with dark oak tables and chairs, copper telescopes, compasses and other nautical equipment hanging on walls and from the ceiling and ships in bottles on shelves. Each tablecloth and napkin was done in white and blue check, and the walls themselves were adorned with various paintings of ships and sea views including lighthouses and stormy seas. Jules Verne’s creation Captain Nemo would not have been out of place. As such, we offered a fine range of fish each day fresh from the Cheapside markets.

Cook was in the kitchen making pies and such like. I could smell onions and other vegetables sizzling in pans and the delectable salty tang of fresh fish being filleted and prepared for lunch.

I took a seat close to the window, which I had paid a fair penny to have done up with portholes from a recent wreckage at the Docklands. I enjoyed watching the ladies perambulate of an afternoon through the busy streets.

I must interrupt my narrative. Those sweetbreads you eat, are from my restaurant. Eat on, eat on.

“Good day Fowler” said I, “How goes it?”

“Fine, just fine sir,” said my humble waiter, “we’re expectin’ a few in t’day sir” he continued.

“Excellent, excellent”

“The usual, sir?” Fowler asked.

“Ahh, no my good man,” I replied, “I find myself with a craving for meat. Does the steak look good today?”

“Aye sir, it does indeed. ‘Tis big and juicy. Cook can whip you up a nice sirloin with seasonal vegetables quite quickly Mr Naughton-Shires.”

“Very good. That sounds delightful. And make it quite rare today Fowler.”

“Rare sir?”

“Yes Fowler. And serve it with a good ale of your choosing.”

“Aye sir.”

Fowler departed and I opened The Times to catch up on the latest news.

The meal when it arrived was good, indeed it was. I had engaged the best cook I could find. Yet I found it most unpalatable. I realised with dismay that rare was too well done and I should in fact have ordered steak tartare. All I could think of as I ate with dismay was the delicious flavours bursting through the meat at the dinner served by Lightfoot and Riddle. I determined that on the 31st I would acquire the recipes previously cooked at their lodgings. After all, surmised I, I am their business partner now.

Somewhat discontent, I finished my meal and returned to my offices.

*

It was only one night to go until 31st and that night I dreamt the most disturbing dream.

I was dining with Mr Lightfoot and Mr Riddle and a number of guests wearing masks, laughing guests I did not recognise. My silver steak knife carved into a large slab of meat. The meat, the meat may God forgive me, was a human torso, a female torso. The head of it wore a mask of black decorated with peacock feathers.

I could see the red of her organs and innards staring at me beneath the folds of her torn skin, the serrated edges of my knife having opened her up to read like the cover of a good book. The red of her insides made me giddy with excitement but it wasn’t enough. I wanted more – I had to know what she tasted like inside.

The bulging pieces of flesh, the dancing intestines, teased me; like a succulent steak done just how I now found I liked it – steak tartare, cooked in the same spices as the pie I had been dreaming of for nigh on a fortnight.

I grabbed the knife gleefully and started to slice pieces of her kidney first, its ruddy brown meat calling to me.

The first bite was like a tiny morsel of heaven, the rubbery texture sliding down my throat. I took a slug of red wine to wash it down with. Delightful.

I heard a soft murmur of “please.”

Typical, thought I, she would try to interrupt me.

“Be quiet now,” I said firmly, “Or I won’t let you have any.”

At that, she whimpered and mewled like a drowning kitten. So, I could not help it, I relented. The noise of her pitiful begging was starting to aggravate me.

“Here,” I said, cutting off a piece of the meat and feeding the woman a portion of her own insides.

She convulsed and started to retch.

Obviously not enough salt, thought I. And I let out the strangest giggle.

*

I awoke with a start, then as the memory of the dream flooded back to me I jumped from my bed and retched into my chamber pot, bringing up water and bile. What a horrific nightmare. I rang for water. When the water was brought to me I drank two full glasses to rid myself of the taste of my vomiting and the recollections of my nightmare. Once I felt better I called for my man to dress me. I was attending the dinner at 7pm, hence it was doubtful I would have time to go home before the dinner. As such, I chose my wardrobe carefully. I was expecting no visitors to the business today, so evening dress would be acceptable to ensure I would be suitably attired for the evening repast. If I were honest with myself, despite my earlier nightmare I was quite excited at the prospect of dining with Lightfoot and Riddle again.

Thus I chose a frock coat of dark brown velvet, with light brown breeches and tan boots, a white shirt with winged collar, a gold raw silk waistcoat and brown bow tie. I did look quite the thing if I do say so. It was a shame, thought I, that Evelyn was not about to admire her beloved husband. I assumed that she was off on some woman’s errand of some sort or other. Never mind, thought I with irony, I shall wake Henry as I return tonight from my revelry. No doubt he would be more appreciative of my wardrobe than my wife. If Evelyn saw me she would not appreciate my intoxication thought I, for indeed I planned to be more than a little bit tipsy this fine evening.

*

All that day at my business I was impatient and irritable, for I could not get out of my mind a sense of eager anticipation for the evening planned ahead. I closed my office at six-thirty and headed out into the gloom, taking a hansom cab towards Lightfoot’s lodgings.

When I arrived this time, I was not the only guest invited. In fact, the brightly lit dining room was bustling with a number of male guests talking amiably with each other. Each gentleman sipped what must have been a most robust claret due to its rich colour and thick consistency. Lightfoot approached me smiling, shook my hand and bid me to be seated.

I took the proffered seat gratefully yet more gratefully I took a crystal glass which twinkled in the candlelight, the ruby fluid sloshing against its sides. Slowly I raised the glass to my lips and swallowed. It was flavoursome, familiar, yet strange at the same time. It had a sickly sweet flavour that I could not identify. I nodded at my host and forced a smile from my lips as Riddle, who had just entered the room, introduced the other gentlemen in the room.

Discussion flowed as easily as the wine, and before I knew it I had partaken of at least three full glasses and I was becoming accustomed to the taste by the arrival of the first course of oyster soup.

The entrée I assumed was rabbit, for it was a tender curried meat and I knew of no other meat that tasted this way. As I dug in with relish, I felt the stares of the other gentlemen fixed upon me. I became uncomfortable under their joined gaze, convinced that they were watching me take each mouthful.

Then came the second course, and my heart stopped, the mouthful of the red wine I had just imbibed turning sour. The girl walked into the room. She wore a mask of black decorated with peacock feathers, like the girl in my dream, and she carried a platter laden with a large joint of meat.

Riddle stood up as the girl placed the unrecognisable platter of meat on the dining table. She glanced briefly my way then left the room. Riddle took a large carving knife and looked right at me.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “thank you all for attending this most important of feasts on this most important night. Tonight we welcome a new member to our fold. May I acquaint you with Mr Naughton-Shires, in whose honour this feast is being held?”

Somewhat embarrassed I stood up and nodded at the assembled guests then took my seat again. What could Riddle possibly mean? Granted, we were forming a new partnership, yet his words, if not his tone, spoke of something much more serious.

Deliberately he raised the gleaming knife and began to slice the ruddy meat, and as I sit here now I swear to God I heard a squeal of pain emit forth from the meat laid out on the platter. Was I hearing voices? Was I insane? Had Evelyn’s betrayal of me finally worn me down? I closed my eyes briefly, yet still the unnerving sound persisted, though I could still hear Riddle speak.

“This meat we carve this night is for our new guest,” he continued, “may it remind him of home and the pressure he bears. May it relieve him of hate, fear and hunger as he tastes of it.”

“Aye,” the gentlemen all cheered, as they raised their glasses.

“May it live within him forever,” Riddle cheered, as Lightfoot took my plate and Riddle began to lay slices of bloody meat on it, “we do this for you.”

“Aye,” they cheered again, as more of the wine sloshed against crystal.

Lightfoot passed the plate back to me, laying it down on the table and my mouth began to water, my eyes dancing across the pink, wet, juicy meat.

No other meat had satisfied me since that meal two weeks ago.

No other meat had tasted so divine.

No other meat would ever taste good again.

Hungrily I devoured the raw meat, knowing even as I ate the succulent, tender flesh that this was no animal.

The Long Pig. Where had I heard that phrase before?

Suddenly I knew what I was eating.

Suddenly I knew who I was eating.

And I chuckled as I shovelled pieces of my wife into my mouth.

Until Evelyn walked into the room and I gasped, spitting the meat out.

What on earth had I thought? I was insane with greed.

“Husband,” Evelyn said as she walked towards Lightfoot, wrapping an arm around his waist, her scarlet lips stretched in a grimace, “Are you enjoying the meat?”

“Wife,” I responded in shock, dropping my cutlery, my tone ice-cold, “What brings you here?”

She laughed, that horrible laugh I had heard that night when I had returned home early to find . . . It is no matter.

“Husband,” she said again, “I am a member of this little group and I was most insistent you join me.”

“But – why?” I asked perplexed, staring at her hungry features, “What is going on, wife?” I demanded.

“What?” she mocked, then that laugh again, “What precisely goes on, husband, is that you are eating your precious son Henry. I do hope he was tender enough. For you will never eat another meat again, except the long pig.”

The Long Pig

And suddenly I understood my curse.

And now gentlemen, I do hope you understand, and I hope you enjoyed the sweetbreads.

For it is your curse too.

Tuck in gentlemen. Tuck in.

Are You My Mummy?

I worried about Eshe, once the love of my life, for she chose to stay at our home at first.

She was beautiful, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my long life that stretched thousands of years. I remember first meeting Eshe on the west bank of the Nile, near Thebes, as the god Ra shed his sunlight on the Gate of the Kings.

The bright golden orb drenched the sand in its beam of glory, bathing the high mountain peaks and gigantic icons and tombs that lay within its arms in russet gold and terracotta. There she sat, weaved basket in her hands as she worked the river, clothed only in the faded cloth of her village. Yet her beauty called to me regardless.

“Child,” I called as I approached her, “may I sit with you?”

She looked up at me furtively, bare arms and shoulders, a burnt caramel against the white of her chemise, dark chocolate eyes painted in kohl stared at me and her ruddy lips pursed in irritation for I interrupted her work. Her raven hair touched the nape of her neck, the front part of her hair beaded in local gems of turquoise. She was beauty incarnate.

“You may, Stranger.”

“Stranger?” I asked, “must I be a stranger?”

I smiled to take the sting from my words.

“A stranger you must be until I know who it is I speak to,” she replied abruptly.

“Then I shall introduce myself. I am Amen, a traveller to the Gates of the Kings to offer my prayers and worship.”

“Then Amen, friend. I am Eshe.”

Eshe, I thought, her name means life.

And life she was, for that moment I fell in love with her and travelled no more.

***

We met as young adults, barely sixteen years of age. Twelve years we spent together near Thebes, living as man and wife, loving, building a home together. Then came the soldiers who took her from me to be a concubine to our king. As I followed them and fought for my love, I was struck a deadly blow, saved only by a wizard who hated our king. To begin with, I died. As I died, and felt my life ebbing away, the wizard prepared my body in the ritual of the wealthy, burying me in a tomb.

Three nights later I rose, swathed in bandages, unable to rest in my death.

As the wizard woke me, it was then he told me of Eshe’s death at the hands of the king.

“Join me in your revenge,” he said.

So I did.

Together we hunted the royal party until we found their caravan. My body was lost and my soul was forfeit also, so I ripped my king’s throat out, tasting his blood, revelling in his exquisite agony as he screamed his last scream. And the wizard laughed, for he had lied to me. Eshe was not dead.

In she walked and saw me enfolded in dirty bandages, my mouth suckling at the ripe neck of our monarch, drinking his blood.

She turned to me in horror, eyes wide with shock.

It was a thousand years before I saw her again, and by then she had forgotten our love, though I never did.

***

We met again in 1912 in the newly named Valley of the Kings as Howard Carter raided our tombs. Whatever spell kept me alive, kept Eshe alive too, dressed as a fortunate woman of Egyptian heritage and class. She visited the tombs, cursing Carter and his entourage.

Every few decades or so our paths crossed; her tone always polite but never affectionate.

I, so shamed at my bloodlust of centuries ago, remained in my burial garments, travelling only at night.

It was over a year ago, as the year 2011 dawned, that I heard of Eshe again.

You may find it ironic, but she had secured a position as Egyptologist at the British Museum in London once she had safely escaped Egypt. After all, who could be better than a two-thousand-year-old Egyptian woman at being an expert on hieroglyphs and such like?

I received, of all things, a postcard. Despite her disgust at me, the love we once had still lingered, and we kept in contact occasionally.

It was on this postcard she informed me of her position at the British Museum and invited me to visit her.

As a woman and a revolutionary, she was in very real danger in Egypt before her escape.

She fled the troubles raging our homeland and found her way here, to England. Before students and revolutionaries celebrated in Tahrir Square, a carnival of celebration and freedom, before the dictator fell, Eshe found herself in a difficult situation. The government attempted to quiet her and other journalists and activists by cutting off the Internet and phones and arresting her colleagues. Eshe had been vocal, very vocal, in her outrage against President Hosni Mubarak, who the people later forced from office. Before he was usurped, he still had his followers. So Eshe had no choice and fled. She may have lived for thousands of years, but she was unwilling for them to end at the hands of extremists.

To visit her, I removed my scarlet letter (my bandages), wearing a simple suit and travelled to London.

We met in a small Italian café near the museum. She arrived, wearing jeans and a blouse of African design, sporting gems around her neck. Her raven hair was trussed up behind her neck and piled atop her head.

“Eshe,” I whispered, as she sat at a table I had saved for us, “you look as beautiful as ever, as glorious as the sun setting above the Nile.”

“Always the flatterer, hey Amen?” she jested.

“I describe what I see my life.”

“No Amen, stop that right now! You lost the right to call me your life many centuries ago.”

“As you wish, Eshe,” I apologised.

We sipped tea, and ate cake as we talked and still I wondered why she had called for me, until impatience got the better of me and I leaned closer to her across the table to broach the subject.

“Eshe my – my beauty,” I began, “can we stop with this game playing and talk about what brings me to you?”

For just a moment she looked inexplicably sad, and welcomed my hand on hers.

“Amen, my dearest friend. I’m sorry I haven’t always approved of your actions. I’m sorry we don’t speak more often. You know why I am here, in England?”

“Of course,” I replied, stroking her hand, reassuring her, “I have heard of the atrocities; people killed in the streets. Journalists like yourself attacked and arrested. It is no wonder you came here. Are you in trouble, Eshe?”

“I am,” she said, at once looking frightened, “I am. I need your help. Will you help me, for old times’ sake?”

I grasped her hand firmly and smiled.

“Yes, you need only ask. I am yours.”

It was then she told me about the harassment, and her fear. She had escaped Egypt only to face persecution from the extremists and followers of Hosni in England. At first she thought it was her imagination, but then she noticed someone following her. And then at the museum, a letter had been left for her. She opened the envelope and it contained a letter written in red ink to look like blood, the only words written were, ‘Rebel Bitch. Devil of Satan.’

Too afraid to call me, she had resorted to Royal Mail in the form of a postcard to summon me to London.

“You should’ve called anyway,” I told her.

She picked up her cup and sipped before answering.

“Apart from being worried I would be caught out, you know I still have problems with that contraption. I’m over two thousand years old, Amen. How do you manage?”

“I adapt.”

I sipped my own tea then withdrew my hand from hers and stared at her with intent.

“Now my love, what do we do about this? You have a legal identity. We could call the police.”

“No,” she insisted, “I would rather we – handle it.”

I grinned at her. It had been a while since I had, eaten.

“Very well, I agree. I’d best start at the museum. I’ll hide in my dressings in the Egyptology wing and when your attacker comes next, he shall have a bit of a fright I daresay.”

Eshe laughed at the image, and I delighted in the sound.

***

It took a lot of effort during the day holding still, but I managed it.

I had told Eshe that every evening she should pack her bag away and leave as normal, and I would stay behind in rooms 62 – 63, the Egyptian death and afterlife exhibition rooms.

It wasn’t too long before the perpetrator behind Eshe’s stalking turned up at the museum.

It was after six in the evening the building had closed down and the Egyptian had obviously hidden somewhere, most likely the toilets. All of the curatorial, administrative staff and museum assistants had gone home.

He was a tall and thin Egyptian in traditional garb, around forty years old, who posed as a museum goer, waiting for the museum to empty as the evening wore on.

He crept into room 63, which Eshe administrated, stopping at one of the sarcophagi. I heard him murmuring words in the old tongue, cursing Eshe. He pulled another envelope from his robe and placed it on top of the glass cabinet holding the sarcophagus.

As he placed the letter, which no doubt held more insults, on the glass display cabinet, I climbed down from my perch and stood behind him.

“Friend,” I said, and the man turned around, screaming as he saw me, praying to his gods as I reached one dirty bandaged arm toward him, grabbing his neck tightly.

Slowly I pulled his weak body to me and my mouth transformed, revealing the yellowed fangs that remained hidden as I pretended from day to day, to be a human being.

I grinned at the fellow, leaning my mouth down to his neck, then bit deeply, sucking his lifeblood down at the same time I swallowed his essence.

As I sucked his soul dry, I could hear it cry like the wails of a newborn baby.

It was easy enough to dispose of the dry husk that was once his body in one of the empty sarcophagi.

***

We celebrated with cold Qasab, Sugarcane juice, its flavor fresh and exquisite.

She thanked me for helping her, but it was no matter, I told her. It was my pleasure to help my dearest friend. Though I hoped the threat was truly over.

I decided to return home the next day.

We occasionally write to each other.

She occasionally forgives me for the life I have condemned us to, she living forever with me until I choose to die.

But I’m weak you see.

Even thousands of years later, neither of us, I think, is ready to die, though I taste the souls of man and suck them dry.

Though I suppose everyone must have a hobby, regardless of the cost.

Pound Of Flesh

Date: 2nd January 2011

For want of cake the battle was lost; the battle against the bulge.

I’ve been fighting this battle for far too long. Now it’s a new year and a new war. Now it’s time to try again.

I’ve started by throwing away all of the chocolates I got for Christmas. I gained five pounds over the silly season and I can feel the ripples of flesh, the unwanted bumps; my wobbly bits hanging out and pushing, straining against tops two sizes too small.

I’m tired of being ugly and revolting.

It’s time to make a change.

Date: 8th January 2011

I’ve done it! I’ve lost four pounds. It’s not great, but it’s a start.

I can do this. I have to do this. I can’t take their stares anymore. I see them all looking at me, the fat girl, faces riddled with pity, disgust, hate.

Mom isn’t so happy though. Mom says I’m not eating enough but what does she know? Mom is skinny.

The only one I can trust, the only one who understands.

Is the girl in the mirror.

Date: 20th January 2011

I stood in front of the mirror this morning to check out how I was doing. I lost seven pounds since I last weighed in. That’s eleven pounds so far. OMG, I can’t believe it!

I still look ugly though, but now I’m less ugly.

I looked at my body, stood there naked viewing the white lumpy flesh hanging from my frame. I fit into a size 22 now. I’ve gone down a dress size. But somehow it’s not enough.

She is standing right behind me, looking at me through the mirror, a smirk on her anorexic, dead white face. I know what that smirk is for. She’s taunting me because she’s skinnier than me. I think ‘bitch’ and suddenly I feel guilty. She’s only trying to help me after all.

Date: 2nd February 2011

My first stone! Yes!

But Mom keeps nagging me. It’s true, I hardly sleep anymore, but I can’t. I’m too jazzed up. I’m becoming a woman again, just like the girl in the mirror. She spoke to me today, her voice cold as ice or steel.

“Good girl”, she whispered in my ear as I looked at her through the glass, “Good girl. But you need more. Look at yourself Helen. You want to be beautiful don’t you? Then give me more.”

She’s right of course. A stone is nothing.

I’m still disgusting, I still repulse myself.

Date: 15th March 2011

I haven’t written for a while, too tired. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Who am I kidding? I know what it is.

I’ve had no effing chocolate for weeks.

And she talks to me all the time. There, in the mirror, her black eyes staring at me accusingly, like I’m not working hard enough. But I am, I swear. I’ve lost two and a half stone now and I’m a size 18. I’m almost the British average.

But it’s the flesh I hate, the hanging flesh.

Folds and folds of slug-like white, meat dangling from my arms, my stomach, my hips, my bum, my chin.

She has started laughing at me. “You look like the Michelin Man”, she said, “but I can help you”. Silence, then, “There are ways, Helen. There are ways”.

Date: 24th April 2011

Four and a half stone now.

I’m ready.

She has told me what to do.

But I’m so hungry.

Date: 1st May 2011

I bought the dress in the January sales. A size 14, little, black chiffon number. Beautiful.

It’s been hanging in my wardrobe for months. Until now.

I just needed to cut then all would be okay. That’s what she told me. No more hanging flesh.

“You’ll look so pretty in that dress Helen”

It was easiest to lie on my bed.

I threw a couple of towels on top of my duvet first, then made sure Mom was out.

Next I knocked back a couple of shots of vodka and a couple of tramadol I stole from Mom’s cabinet. I knew it was going to hurt.

I started with my bat wings on my arms. I took the meat knife from the kitchen and started to saw, watching the red, red drip, then gush of the blood flowing out as I removed the ugliness from me. It hurt so much, but it was worth it. I knew I would look like her soon.

I threw the wriggling pieces of flesh into the bucket I had close by the bed.

Another couple of pills and a shot of vodka and I was flying. Beautiful soon, I thought between tears.

Next I brought the knife to my stomach. It was tough like beef, harder to slice away, but chunk by chunk the bits of meat fell away and I dropped them in the bucket.

Next came my hips, then my thighs then my bum, pounds of unwanted flesh sliced away bit by bloody bit as I laughed.

Granted the towels were a dark red now and sopping wet, and I was dizzy, but I just had one more job to do.

I grabbed the needle and thread, industrial strength, and began to sew, starting with the folds of skin across my stomach, bringing together the pieces of bloody skin, tightening the gap and performing stitch after glorious stitch.

She looked at me through the mirror and nodded her approval.

She was pleased with me.

Like a busy worker bee I sewed all night, pulling the flesh tighter and tighter together, shards of glass ripping into me as I sewed.

More vodka, a few more stitches and I was done.

I would shower later.

In the meantime, I walked unsteadily towards the mirror, stumbling a couple of times.

A patchwork of crimson beauty, I thought. The girl in the mirror agreed.

My dress was going to fit wonderfully.

End of Knights

Are you a Believer?

The voice was compelling. It held a strength she admired and immediately recognised. Despite her annoyance at having her sleep disturbed, she answered automatically.

“Don’t be silly Gramps.”

Say it, he insisted, his voice gravely with age and something else; something stronger. Gramps seemed angry this time, stressed at the very least.

“Of course I’m a Believer. What’s up Gramps?”

No answer.

“Gramps?”

Gemma-Pooh. Gemma, It’s time to wake up. You have to leave. Take the Cup and leave. Protect it with your life. You know where to go.

“Gramps! . . . Gramps!”

***

The Cup, it was the bane of her life but her reason to live, to fight on. It had stolen her mother from her when she was barely seven.

She remembered watching her Mom spar with Gramps on a sunny afternoon in the back garden. Young Gemma sucked on a rocket ice lolly, lips turning bright red from the juice, watching as her Mom lunged forward towards Gramps with the sword she inherited as she came of age, just 21 years old. She loved watching Mom fight and knew that one day she too would enter the Sisterhood of the Templar, the female lineage of the Knights of the Templar. She didn’t know she would be alone. She didn’t know she would be the last.

Gemma was seven years old when her Mom died, cut down viciously in her prime by a mugger who’d caught her unawares. She had taken just one night off and headed to town with the girls, without her weapons. She hadn’t been careless. She’d been brave, stepping in front of her best friend, taking the kitchen knife in her stomach that had been meant for someone else.

Day 1 – 08:00am

Gemma woke up in a cold sweat, long wet hair sticking to the back of her neck, her joggers and t-shirt drenched and clinging to her lithe form.

As the paranoid fear subsided, she realised she was in bed and it was Saturday. Gramps had given her the day off from training so she stretched and yawned luxuriously.  She would have to change today. When the nightmares came she had little choice but to strip out of her combat ready clothes and take a shower.

A small smile played across soft lips as she thought about the day ahead and the fact that she could dress normally today.  No fighting, no battles, and maybe she could even wear a skirt.  A fashionable luxury rarely indulged of late. The last time she wore one was when her Mom died, when her seven year old self wore a skirt at Mom’s funeral.

Pushing those thoughts away she concentrated on the moment.  She was wholly content with still being in bed at 08:00. She hardly ever got a lie in these days.

Today was a new day, different. She was young, free, and single. Today she was going shopping, taking a much needed respite.

She unglued her eyes, forced them open, and breathed in – choking on the acrid stench of burning flesh that assaulted her nostrils. A brief coughing fit followed and she sat bolt upright in bed, grabbing the glass of water she always left on her bedside table and taking a hefty swig. She slammed the empty glass back down on the table and threw aside the purple duvet. Flinging her long legs over the side of the bed, she slipped her feet into the trainers she kept just in reach under the bed, easily accessible for emergencies. It was always just in case.

Within seconds her training kicked in. She was battle ready, heading over to the wardrobe and grabbing the compact black rucksack she kept packed for the inevitable day it would be needed. First she threw her knotted, long honey blonde hair into a tight ponytail (it wouldn’t do to have hair blowing in her face if the End really was Nigh) then pulled on her custom made black hoodie with sword sheath built in. Next she slid the lightweight steel edged iron sword into the sheath on her back, feeling stronger through its presence. Between the sword which weighed a mere two pounds and the rucksack carrying five pounds which she flung on next, she was loaded and ready for bear.

The stench of the burning flesh still clung to her nose as she ran from her room heading to her Granddad’s bedroom, fighting back tears. Somehow she knew what had happened. The earlier nightmare had been the voice of Gramps coming to warn her, to get her ready and send her on her way. As she entered his bedroom she knew what she would find.

Gemma let loose an almighty scream wrought with grief and anger as she entered the room and spotted a crumpled, blackened and wizened old body lying on the floor. Strong in life, pathetic in death, Gramps (oh God, it really was him) lay in front of the wardrobe. His twisted blistered arm stretched up to open its door to grasp the sword she knew he kept there. The smell of burning was still pungent. She could taste death on her tongue amidst the choking flavour of overcooked meat and rotten eggs. She would never eat meat again. She dry retched, a little water and bile escaping her dry lips as she walked towards the wardrobe where Gramps lay.

She briefly considered closing Gramps’ eyes. She glanced unwittingly at his face and realised he had no eyes left to close.  The bright hazel orbs, just like her own, had been plucked from their reddened sockets.

Gemma screamed again, a ragged scream that tore through her soul, turning into a desperate sob as the tears began to flow freely from her own hazel eyes.

She swiftly unsheathed the three foot sword, left Gramps’ room and headed for the kitchen. The demon had already left the bedroom, maybe even the house.

She had to get the Cup. She’d been training for this most of her life, ever since her Mom died, so now was not the time to balk. Gramps would want her to fight and win.  Save the Cup, and get it to St Martin’s Church. Grieve later. There would be time to grieve after she’d destroyed the bastard who’d veiled her with dreams whilst it slaughtered her Granddad.

She side stepped carefully into the bright lemon kitchen, wincing at the sun that dazzled through the far window.  She roared in anger and raised the sword in parry to defend herself against the demon that was hiding behind the door.

Far too late to react, she clocked her error as the demon managed to get a lunge in with its long red claws. It reached out and sliced her from the top of her left shoulder down across her chest to her right breast.  Five long poisonous marks shredding her t-shirt and her flesh. Blood welled to the surface.

Gemma screamed, falling backwards against the kitchen cupboard, her sword nearly falling from her sweaty grasp as the demon hovered over her. Snarling this time in pure animal rage, she pounced forward. She ignored the stinging pain of the claw marks and sliced into the blood red leathery flesh of the demon’s neck, cutting at least an inch deep, forcing it to back up. Pumped full of adrenalin and fury, tears stinging her face, she advanced on the creature slashing against its viciously sharp claws.  Lunging forward once more she attacked the beast unrelentingly until it reached the kitchen door and had nowhere else to go.

She had it cornered. Ignoring the pain surging through her chest, she stepped back a foot or so to give her ample leverage and swung the slightly curved edge sword from right to left, its glimmering blade tearing through flesh and bone.  A grim smile of victory decorated her features as the head disconnected from the demon’s body and flew through the air bouncing off the table and landing on the tiled floor beside it. The body of the demon toppled to the floor next to its own torn head, ichor trickling from its jagged neck.

Wiping the black blood on her joggers, Gemma sheathed the sword, and collapsed in a sobbing heap.  Her grief fell from her in wracking tears.

Ten minutes later she cautiously stood up, aware her body was becoming sluggish.  The poison was already working its way through her veins.  Staggering to the cupboard and  reaching in with her left hand (her right side could no longer move), she found the Cup sitting anonymously in the safe, which she opened, behind a Snickers’ Mug; the real Cup, the one she was looking for. Gramps had thought it ironic to hide the most important Cup of all behind an assorted array of cups and mugs that had come free with Easter Eggs over the years. However, hidden amongst those, scattered as decoy, was one bronze cup decorated with a myriad of sapphires rubies and amber stones. It was gauche and apparently old, yet custom made for them a few years back by a dodgy crew at the Jewelry Quarter specifically for their purpose. The fake was clutched in the claws of the demon, now dead, on her floor.

Vigilantly she grasped the average sized roughly carved wooden piece in her hands, using her undamaged left hand to put it in the black rucksack. It was as far from a demon’s concept of what the Cup should look like that she doubted it would have even glanced at it.

It was time to go.

Voice cracked with grief, she said goodbye to the house she had grown up in and the body of her Granddad, determined to save the Grail.

***

Gemma’s feet pummelled the stone ramp as she ran.  She still felt the hot breath of demons searing the back of her neck and the smell of brimstone in her nostrils.  Her injuries threatened to consume her.  The poison seared her insides and her heart thumped like crazy as she ran. The words of Gramps in her dream echoed in her head as she tried to reach St Martin’s at the Bull Ring.  A ghostly memory making the bile rise and her chest ache as she fought back the nausea.

‘Take the Cup and leave; Protect it with your life, you know where to go.’

St Martin’s Church stood almost within reach.  Just up the ramp past Jamie’s Restaurant and the deserted markets. As she continued to run, despite the growing pain, nausea, and dizziness, she knew she was close to the entrance by the sight of the considerable blue and silver whale shaped shopping centre sign above her in the background. It was surrounded by a large pale cylindrical building, its windows decorated with Hugo Boss adverts. The place she had planned to spend the day shopping with friends.

Her Granddad spoke to her, as if from a dream.  You’re the last one Gemma-Pooh. Using the nickname he always used for her. You’re the last Knight, the last of the Sisterhood; you have to keep it safe. You have to Believe.

The salty taste of her tears ran into her mouth, giving her the strength to climb that last part of the ramp to the church.  It stood in front of her in all its glory, reminding her of why she was here.  Its northwest spire reached for an azure sky, a symbol of hope and sanctuary.

The refurbished brickwork blazed in shades of beige, sun burnt orange, terracotta Cotswold yellow and traditional stone, a harbour in the depths of her despair. She ascended the steps to the large oak doors and shoved them open, grunting with effort. She swung open the second set of doors, which were automatic glass doors and dashed through them before collapsing in a distraught heap in the Narthex of the church.

She was safe for now. The Holy Grail was safe.

Day 1 - 09:00am

Michael groaned as his hand unconsciously rose to his forehead. The dim light of the room he found himself in made the pain in his head somewhat more bearable.  He forced his reddened eyes open, frowning as he tried to remember where he was and exactly how he’d gotten here.

He’d started up Digbeth about seven last night having drinks with the lads from the University. They had downed copious amounts of Guinness followed by shots of whiskey. Seven pints and three hours later and the lads descended on HMV Institute, the only decent and affordable club in the Digbeth area of Birmingham City Centre. Michael loved ‘Air’ and the big ‘Gate Crasher’ events, but his student loan in the absence of a part time job couldn’t stretch that far. So they’d settled on The Institute, the oft renamed nightclub close to the Bull Ring, and access to the night buses. They switched to bottles of WKD.

Night buses; now that was a joke. They were always crowded, dirty, and smelly.  By the time Michael was ready for the last bus home he was too far gone to make it. He was completely hammered and snogged some random bird with too much make up who could barely walk in her ridiculously high heels. She was a bit of a Monet. She looked fit from behind and afar in the dimmed nightclub, but a damn old ugly mess up close under the lurid lighting of the local chip shop.

Michael only just stopped himself from retching at the memory of how much he’d had to drink.  He found himself lying uncomfortably on a hard wooden bench.

A minute or so of rubbing his sore head and a bit of recon later, a gripping horror settled in his stomach as he realised where he was. Vague memories floated back through his alcohol befuddled brain.

Oh Holy God! He dimly remembered breaking into St Martin’s Church at about 4:00 am and passing out drunk on one of the pews. Wincing, he glanced at his watch; it was 09:00 am. Five hours sleep, no wonder he felt rough.  With a bit of luck he could get the hell out of Dodge before he was caught in here.

He swung long muscular legs over the pew and flinched as the pain of movement reverberated in his head. Cautiously, Michael semi-staggered toward the centre aisle, ignoring the stunning beauty of the church’s interior. Instead, he made a beeline for the front door and the three tiered iron font near the glass front doors. He knew it was sacrilegious but still couldn’t stop himself splashing water on his face from the top bowl of the tiered holy water font. Sighing with the relief it brought, he wiped his pale hands on his jeans and headed towards the doors.

He stopped stock still and his jaw dropped as what he could only call Warrior Babe darted through the glass doors and collapsed on her knees in front of him, gasping for breath. Only in his wildest fantasies did he come across girls like these, and they weren’t covered in blood and a gooey black substance like mucus.

Michael took a second or two to wonder what the hell was going on then moved forward a step. He stooped to one knee in front of the girl who was rocking lightly back and forth on her knees in apparent agony. He’d seen homeless girls before; rat tailed hair, ripped jeans or dirty combats; wrapped in bulging parkas, pale skin stretched across gaunt faces. She wasn’t one of those. There was a generous but just right amount of flesh on her bones, an ample chest and other than the blood, her clothes and face were clean.

Instinct took over. His primeval need to protect surged within him as he wrapped an arm around her, used one hand to move away a loose strand of blonde hair from her ponytail and spoke to her as gently as he could.

“Hi” – No answer. He cleared his raw throat and tried again.  “Hi. I’m Michael. Are you okay?”

She continued to rock, silently crying, with tears falling down her pretty face.

Tenderly he wiped her tears away with his fingers then tried again.

“Er, hi. Are you okay? You look, er, ill.”

Finally she recognised a voice speaking to her and raised her face towards Michael.

“I’m – I’m Gemma.”

“Hi Gemma, I’m Michael.”

“Michael?” Gemma laughed; her was voice hoarse, the laugh of someone grief stricken who has found a brief moment of respite from their torment. “Michael”, she repeated, considering for a moment, “Warrior Saint.”

Michael began to wonder if he’d been right with his instincts. She’s obviously distraught, and the blood…

“I’m sorry”, Gemma said, her voice suddenly a bit stronger, “Can you help me? Can you get me to a seat?”

Nodding, Michael stood up and leaned down. He put her arm around his shoulder and led her to the pew he’d recently vacated. Once she was seated he sat next to her.

“Thanks,” she wheezed, her voice becoming strained again.

“Do you need anything? The Police - or an ambulance?” he asked. “You’re bleeding,” he pointed out, head tilting toward her chest where strands of raw flesh and blood welled up under the black cotton of her t-shirt.

“My rucksack please,” she whispered, her voice becoming weaker by the moment. She tilted her head briefly to the left to indicate where the rucksack hung on her back. Gemma let out a haggard scream as Michael eased her forward and carefully slackened the straps on the rucksack. He eased it over a bloody whopping great sword and dumped the black bag on the pew next to him.

“Thanks,” she panted, flopping backwards, “open it.”

“What next?” he posed, “What about a doctor?”

“No!”

“Okay,” he soothed, “What do you need?”

“Inside,” Gemma said, nodding at the bag. She hissed and let out a ragged squeal of pain, her hands rose to her chest where the wounds were. He was tempted to grab his mobile and call 999 regardless, but knew somehow they couldn’t help his mystery companion. There was something about her that he wanted, no, needed to protect.

Michael put aside all doubts (her face was a bit of an incentive in that respect), unzipped the black rucksack and peered into its darkened interior.

Inside he found a bottle of Lucozade, some gum, a lighter, string, eight cereal bars, and a cup. He assumed the cup was for the Lucozade or it might have been some dodgy souvenir from a craft market. It was an average sized wooden cup with coarse edges.

He opened up the Lucozade and held it to her lips. Gratefully she took a sip then cleared her throat. Why the hell hadn’t he used the cup, he thought, and brushed it aside for later.

“Thanks, but that’s not what I needed” she rasped.

Michael raised a quizzical eyebrow and took a swig of the fizzy energy drink himself before putting it back in the bag.

“The Cup,” she whispered, “Take the Cup and keep it safe. Protect it with your life.”

“Er – you what?” he asked with an incredulous look.

“The Cup -”

“The crappy cup? The ‘cost five euro in Spain’ cup?”

“The Holy Grail actually,” she replied with a slight smile.

“Sorry” he mumbled instead to appease her. Then twigged what she’d said. “Protect the cup? The Holy Grail? Are you delirious or something? You’re leaking blood. Do you even know you’re leaking blood?”

Gemma cackled then coughed, her hand rose to catch the blood that spilled out of her mouth. His confusion forgotten amid his concern for her, Michael leaned sideways to hold her against his chest and pulled her head onto his shoulder.

“Are you okay? Shit, what can I do?” he whispered, wanting to scream.

“I’m not okay,” she said simply, turning to look up at him, “I’ve been attacked. I’m poisoned. I’m dying.

“Don’t be stupid. You’re rambling, you’re not dying. What -”

“Shut up Michael.” The tears had started to flow freely now, the sound of her sorrow caught in her voice, “Shut up. Let me speak while I have time. We’re all dead sweetheart, all of us, all of humanity will be done for unless you listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” his hand gently stroked her soft hair, “I’m listening.” Let her talk, then call an ambulance. Her breathing had become ragged – a gasp between each word or so.

“I need you to kiss me . . . Close your eyes and kiss me”

Well if you insist he thought, all rationale disappearing as he craned his neck down and let his lips touch hers for just an instant.

A thousand images exploded in his head as she drew her last few breaths into his with the kiss.  A plethora of sights, sounds, memories, and pain flowed through his mind. But these were not his thoughts…

He watched her Mom, 30 years old, and a warrior, spar with Gramps on that sunny afternoon in the back garden. Young Gemma sucked on a rocket ice lolly. His lips turned bright red from the juice that he could taste dribbling into his mouth.  Watching as her Mom lunged forward towards Gramps with the sword she inherited at just 21 years old.  One day Gemma would take her place in the Sisterhood of the Templar, the female lineage of the Knights of the Templar. She didn’t know she would be alone. She didn’t know she would be the last.

Gemma, seven years old. Gramps coming into her bedroom that night to tell her Mom was dead, attacked by a mugger who’d caught her unawares.

Twenty years old, accepted into the Sisterhood of the Templar by rites only Gramps knew. He too, was the last of his kind, assigned to protect the one true Cup of Jesus Christ, The Holy Grail.

“When I’m gone,” he heard her whisper in his head “please pick . . . pick a tomb. Put me . . . there are tombs . . . in St Martin’s.  Please.” He mumbled his agreement and continued to stroke her hair as she fought for her last breath, “Never let it leave here or they,” another gasp as his lips drew away. “They’ll get it, and destroy what’s left of salvation. This Church – it’s Sanctuary. You can stay here. Sip from the Cup and – survive for me Michael. Survive.” Ironic he thought. Survival on her lips with her dying breath.

Tears ran down her cheeks.  Michael moved Gemma’s head from his shoulder, scooted left to give her room and lay her head on the pew. Next he lifted her legs and lay them down on the pew.

Day 1 - 11:00am

He could understand the police and the ambulance service not answering. They could’ve been busy. But they weren’t. The phone was ringing out. Same for Kyle, Alan, Damon, Giggs, Fatboy, and Aaron. The taste of bile rose as he tried to ring his sis, Lauren; Nothing. No answer – straight to voicemail. Then he tried Mom & Dad’s landline, again no answer. No effing answer. What the hell was going on? It couldn’t be every phone company on the blink. It just couldn’t. Even Facebook was dead in the water with no one online.

He’d tried to leave the Church around 11:00 but he didn’t get far. The memory sent a shudder down his spine. Slowly, he’d headed to the front glass doors, balking as he stepped outside and his fear got the better of him. A deep gnawing terror crawled up his spine as he walked out through the glass automatic doors and saw – no one. Not a living soul walked the Bull Ring. Even on a Sunday the shopping centre was normally bustling with last minute shoppers, girls out for lunch, tourists snapping pictures of the church he stood in; particularly the latter. St Martin’s was a famous Birmingham landmark after all. But there was absolutely no one. Then he remembered what the Girl, Gemma, had said to him.

We’re all dead sweetheart, all of us, all of us.  Tentatively, he had taken a couple of steps forward, putting his feet just past those glass doors. Then he heard the voices.  The scornful taunting voice whispered the shame of his fear into his ears. Tiny feet scuttled above him on the walls, hidden by the overcast sky.  Laughter; a woman calling his name telling him that if only he brought them the Cup, then all would be ok. He could go home to his family. He knew the voices were lying.

“Give us the Cup Michael,” the voices taunted.  “Give it to us and live. Let your family live.”

Then he stopped, his heart almost jumped from his chest as the fear nearly overwhelmed him.  He heard Gemma’s silken tones in his head Survive for me Michael, survive.

He turned to face the church.  Something made him look up at the large stained glass window above him and he felt a sensation of being watched that unnerved him. From the corner of his eye he saw something behind the stained glass. Something he was almost sure for a moment he had imagined.

It was a swirling mass of pulsing blackness, tentacles and limbs entangled together.  It writhed in a swiftly darkening sky, the blackness swelled until it finally covered up the last of the natural daylight. The figure of a saint wrought in coloured glass offering forgiveness to a penitent sinner mingled with the churning shadows, coiling away in to the deadened day.

Screaming, he’d ran those last few steps back into the church and collapsed in a heap where he’d first found Gemma, shaking as the terror consumed him.

He would never, never be able to leave St Martin’s.

His family was dead, everyone was dead.

Day 1 - 12:40pm

The noises outside invaded his mind as he tried to snooze, worn out from the effort of trying to contact someone, anyone. A thousand sibilant voices hissed low in all tongues, a distant whistle and screech in his ear drum.  The sound of someone’s tattered voice box trying to breathe very close to his ear. And every time he moved, the clamour dimmed, convincing him it was his imagination. A soft voice whispered in his ear, “Come outside.”

The smell of rotten eggs oozed its way up his nostrils before dissipating.

Exhausted through trauma, desperately thirsty, and still a bit hung-over, Michael had downed the remainder of the Lucozade, before falling asleep.

Now as he woke up on a pew opposite Gemma’s body, he realised he was desperate for a pee.  The biological need couldn’t be ignored. He got up and started exploring the church to find a toilet.  It didn’t take him long.  On the right side, by the row of pews, was a dark stone wall that hid a small staircase downwards into the tea and coffee lounge.

Of course, the place was a tourist trap. There would have to be somewhere for the tourists to sit after exploring the inner beauty of the eleventh century building. Michael shambled down the stairs, rubbing his eyes. He passed a miniature model of St Martin’s under a glass globe (blackness swirled around the model too), just before entering through a wide stone arch into a spacious hall that looked a little like a canteen. There were small wooden tables scattered about the large high ceilinged room, with school chairs seated around them. To his right he spotted a large bookcase that held a plethora of damaged paperbacks and a large counter next to a glass fridge. The fridge held all manner of bottled drinks including water, Coke and juice, and two BLT sandwiches. The counter held about three of those round Perspex cake holders with a couple of slices of cake in each one.  It would be useful for later he thought, instantly realising that in the midst of all the stress he was hungry, but right now he needed the loo.

Ignoring the food and drinks in the fridge he moved to the left, past a podium that held a white marble angel, into a darkened corridor where he at last found three sets of public toilets; men’s, ladies and disabled. It didn’t make a hell of a difference right now but conditioning urged him to use the men’s room to relieve himself.

Minutes later he exited the toilet, and headed for the cakes displayed on the counter. He didn’t know why, maybe it was the hangover disappearing or the thought of comfort food, but right now the chocolate fudge cake was more appealing than the sandwiches. He pried open the cake holder, grabbed a napkin from the side and took a piece of the chocolate cake. He grabbed the closest chair and wolfed it down in two minutes flat.  Next he pulled open the glass fridge, grabbed a bottle of Coke and broke it open on the edge of the counter, swigging it back mercilessly.  He started to feel light headed and sick from the sugar rush before he’d quite finished. Satiated for the moment, he left the empties on the table and headed back upstairs. As he climbed those stairs and entered the main body of the church, he saw Gemma’s body still lying on the pew. Her words pricked at his conscience.

“When I’m gone . . . please pick . . . pick a tomb. Put me . . . there are tombs . . . in St Martin’s.  Please.”

She knew. She had known she was dying, and this business with the tombs. She obviously knew the church inside out. She’d come here for a reason, and as insane as it was, he believed her.

He believed that something had happened, some sort of apocalypse.  An End of Days.

He could still hear those voices in the distance.

He could still see a movable feast of darkness through the glass automatic doors.

He’d made Gemma a promise, and he intended to keep it.

He walked up the aisle between the rows of silent pews towards the back of the church to the main Chapel. There was a gargantuan church organ in brass on the left and a large white marble altar standing majestically at its centre, draped in a white and gold linen cloth. A large brass candelabra stood by it, with three white tapered candles almost burnt down to a stub.  In front of the candelabra was a fragrant bouquet of mixed flowers in a myriad of bright colours. Michael stood there for a second admiring its exquisiteness with breathtaking awe. A selection of praying stools and kneeling pads stood in front of an array of wall mounted, stone tombs. This was where she’d wanted to be entombed. She smiled in his head to encourage him.

He resolved himself to his actions and walked to the front towards the pew on which her corpse lay. He placed his hands under her arms and gently pulled her lifeless body from the pew. He dragged her up the aisle, panting from the effort (dead bodies looked a whole lot easier to lift in films, and didn’t look so stiff either) and finally arrived by the lowest of the wall mounted tombs. He laid her down carefully then looked around for something with which to open the tomb. It wouldn’t be an easy task.

Michael glanced around spotted the candelabra again and went over. He took the candle stubs out and placed them on the altar, and hauled it towards the tomb. Grunting with the effort, he hoisted the fingered end of the candelabra onto a nearby knee perch and raised the heavy brass base to the front of the tomb.  It took him nigh on an hour, but bashing away at the tomb front with the base finally paid dividends and the tomb cracked open enough for him to pull out all of the front stone, coughing from the dust that was released. Thankfully, the decayed corpse in the crypt was too far gone and too old to smell of anything but stale dust. Michael reached his fingers in and grasped the cadaver by its head to pull it out. The brittle body collapsed in on itself and the whole thing crumbled beneath his fingers into more ashes and powder. It really was true, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Day 1 – Time unknown

The voices outside still whispered in his head, “Give it to us. Give it to us”.

There was no way on earth he was going out there. Even if he had to starve, he wasn’t stepping foot outside the church again to face the thing that writhed in the darkness.

His phone battery was dead. He didn’t wear a watch. Michael had no idea what time it was apart from the fact he knew he was hungry again and chocolate cake wouldn’t cut it. It was difficult to tell the time because of the lack of natural daylight. He only guessed it had gotten later the darker it had become and thanked whatever powers existed for the forethought he’d had earlier. Grabbing the candle stubs from the altar he repositioned the candelabra near the front of the church (he wanted to be close to the glass door and the tea lounge), lighting them with the lighter from Gemma’s backpack.

Curling up after his next meal in a foetal position on the pew, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep whilst consciously ignoring the darkness that seemed to grow and the sound of screaming he could hear in his head. The never ending voices.

Sleep, when it came, was fraught with nightmares.

Days Unsure – Passing Time unknown

Michael existed on chocolate cake for breakfast with Diet Coke, BLT for lunch, carrot cake for tea and chocolate effing cake for dinner. He knew he was high and jittery on the sugar rush but didn’t see any other options. Cake was all there was and he’d just had the last of the Diet Coke.  It would be water, juice and fat Coke from now on.

His sleeping pattern was all messed up. In between the few momentary snoozes he managed, he could’ve sworn he heard a woman calling him from outside, clearer than usual “Michael. Michael, come here.”

Deep down he knew he shouldn’t go to her. But he was so lonely now. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was three days gone. Three days stuck in this church, alone. The voice was Gemma’s, he was sure of it.  He was going stir crazy, he had to get out.

Gradually, he walked towards that front glass door, smiling when the faint smoggy light engulfing the glass wafted aside to reveal Gemma standing on the other side. Thank God, she was alive.

He smiled at how pretty she looked in her lovely red dress, even though her knees seemed to bend the wrong way. He walked towards the glass door and reached out to grab the handle. Michael stepped through and stood under the ten foot high pale stone arch.

A cold sweat snaked its way down his spine, swarmed along his back, and drenched his t-shirt. The sweat abruptly turned cold, making him shiver.  The pretty red dress clinging to Gemma’s lithe form just a foot or two away from him changed to a rancid leather, melting into her figure. Her laughter like molten fire seemed to touch him and make him burn. Michael screamed and ran back through the double glass doors into the church, collapsed on a pew and vomited on the tiles in front of him.

***

Michael didn’t know how long it had been, but he could smell his own stale sweat, the musty stench of his clothing, and the bittersweet scent of the rotting cake from the tea lounge. He’d tried to eat the last slice days ago but couldn’t stomach it any longer.

At least there was a bonus side. No more food, meant no more effing cake. Thank God, he’d rather starve than eat another slice of that shit. And he was starving. It was at least a day since he’d eaten and although he was hungrier than he had ever been, his stomach had stopped rumbling. It was afraid to rumble, as though it knew no sustenance was in sight.

He was exhausted and so tired of being alone.

Michael had taken to sitting underneath the tomb that held Gemma’s body, chatting to himself with the illusion that she was listening. He could hear her soft voice, reply to his questions about why he was alone. Why would the nightmares not stop? Why would the sounds still haunt him? What exactly was out there?

It wasn’t the dark he was afraid of.

It was the thing hidden in the dark that scared him.

Her voice made him feel less lonely, less afraid.

When I’m gone . . . please pick . . . pick a tomb. Put me . . . there are tombs . . . in St Martin’s.  Please.

“I did Gemma-Pooh. I did love.”

The Cup…

“Shhh,” he said quietly, “It’s ok. You can rest now. I’ll be resting with you soon”

But Michael…”

He clamped his hands on his ears, desperate not to hear his own keening whimpers or the noises outside. If he started to believe her voice was real, he may as well have drowned himself in the toilet yesterday.

“Shh, it’s ok. I’m listening.”

Michael. You’re not. You haven’t been.

“I – I’m tired Gemma.”

I know – I know. But please, listen just once.

“Ok, I’m listening.”

A moment of silence passed and then he heard her words.

The Cup . . . it has to be . . . to be kept safe. You know what the Cup is. The Holy Grail. It can do things Michael. It can help you. You need – need to keep it here. Lock it away. Never let it leave here or they’ll get it, and destroy what’s left of salvation.  This Church – it’s Sanctuary. You can stay here. Sip from the Cup and – survive for me Michael, survive.

Sip from the Cup. Survive.

Survival – a word from another dream, another life. But her voice was so insistent. It drowned out the screeches of the creatures outside the church.

He rummaged through the rucksack until he found it; the Carpenter’s Cup.

Exhausted, he walked down to the three-tiered font and dipped the Grail into it, filling it with the water.  He brought it to his dry, cracked lips. He savoured the flavour of the wine that trickled gloriously into his mouth. It was the tastiest drink he had ever had.  It quenched his thirst on the spot. It also quenched the hunger pangs deep inside his gut.

Michael closed his eyes and revelled in the sheer glory of it all. He opened them to find it a little lighter outside, a little less noisy, and a little less scary.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he walked back to Gemma’s tomb.

Could it be? Was it possible?, he thought.

He didn’t know, but perhaps he could try. Perhaps in a day or two when he knew how well the Grail worked and how far the water would stretch. How much the water could heal. Perhaps a kiss, the briefest of lips touching would be enough. Who knew?

He would try, but not today.

Perhaps he would kiss Gemma tomorrow and maybe, maybe she would . . . wake up.

Author’s Notes

The psychiatric unit in the story The Call of Home is purely one of the imagination, bearing no resemblance to any local units (to the best of my knowledge). The NHS sometimes gets a bad rap, but come on now, it isn’t that bad!

Speaking of the insane, the story ‘The Call of Home’ is dedicated to my nutty family, Daddy Paddy, The Spuds (Tish, Paul, Gemma & Kyle) and Mom may God rest her soul.

I have rearranged and redesigned parts of Birmingham to please myself and fit the stories.

Acknowledgements

I have so many people to acknowledge here, that I’m unsure where to start. So, I’ll start with my loved ones, or friends and family.

I’ve already mentioned my nutty family, Daddy Paddy, my sister Patricia Yeomans, brother-in-law Paul Yeomans, nice and nephew Gemma and Kyle, but here I mention them again. They are so important to me, and without their input, love and support, this book would not exist. In the ‘family’ list, I also need to mention my wonderful and glam cousin Mandy Derwin, who always supports me. Also, I want to thank my Uncle Patrick for his exotic ideas and experience of Mexico that helped form the story ‘Tabasco Source’.

In regards to friends, it’s a hell of a long list, and includes a number of proof readers, so I’ll start with those first. Thanks to my diligent beta readers Julia Young (nee Edwards), Elizabeth Edwards, Adrian Middleton, Amanda Norman (nee Khan), Steve Green, CJ Monk and Joanne Tudor. Thank you also to Sean T Page (Ministry of Zombies), Jasper Bark, Wayne Simmons, Shawn Riddle and Alex Davis who leant their proof reading expertise to this project and David Moody who has always encouraged me. Speaking of expertise, thanks go to Dave Jeffery who supplied the cover image.

My thanks also need to go to Andy Remic over at Anarchy Books, who agreed to let me send him a collection of short stories, which became this anthology. Thanks for taking a chance on an ‘unknown kid’.

Thanks to the many Facebook and convention friends who have helped me through this process to make my dreams come true. I particularly thank Matt Nord and Michael S Gardner of Collaboration of the Dead Christopher Teague of Pendragon Press and David Naughton-Shires of KnightWatch Press for allowing me to reprint a couple of stories.

Theresa Derwin

June 2012

Copyright Information

Monsters Anonymous - Monster’s Anonymous, 2012

Mikey - So Long and thanks for all the

Brains, 2011(Photo by Lee Hartnup)

Whitechapel Transfer - Machina Mortis, 2012

The Palace of Dead Rock Stars

- Zombies Gone Wild, Vol II, 2012

Tummy Bug - Monster’s Anonymous, 2012

Something Fishy this way comes…

- Monster’s Anonymous, 2012

The Call of Home - New Tales of the Old Ones, 2012

Priorities, Priorities

- So Long and thanks for all the

Brains, 2011

Tabasco Source - Monster’s Anonymous, 2012

What about Bob? - Monster’s Anonymous, 2012

Red Meat - Monster’s Anonymous, 2012

Are You My Mummy? - Monster’s Anonymous, 2012

Pound of Flesh - Nasty Snips Project, 2012

End of Knights - Soul Survivor’s Vol I, 2011