Sam
Author: Iain Rob Wright
Date: 2012-08-30 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Paranormal; Supernatural; Fiction; Thriller; Mystery; Suspense; Fantasy
Description: WANT TO HEAR A SECRET? When washed-up priest, Angela Murs, and skittish ghost hunter, Tim Golding, are summoned to a vast country manor to help a sick little boy, they have no idea what to expect. It’s clear that young Sammie is a very disturbed child, but there’s surely no way he could have been behind the recent spate of accidents, or the death of his father. The child is dirty, malnourished, and perhaps the victim of a negligent mother, but as Angela and Tim’s investigations take them deeper into the mystery, they realise that there is much more going on than they ever could have expected.
Publisher: SalGad Publishing Group

***AN SG HORROR RELEASE***

Part of the SALGAD PUBLISHING GROUP
www.SALGADPUBLISHING.com

Sea Sick copyright 2012 by Iain Rob Wright
www.IAINROBWRIGHT.com

Cover Art Copyright 2012 Stephen Bryant
www.SRBPRODUCTIONS.net

Editing provided by Faith Kauwe
www.FAITHKAUWE.com

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

OTHER BOOKS BY IAIN ROB WRIGHT

The Final Winter (Silk Raven Associates, 2011)

Animal Kingdom (Grand Mal Press, 2011)

ASBO (Silk Raven Associates, 2012)

The Peeling Novella Series (Iain Rob Wright, 2012)

Sea Sick (SG Horror, 2012)

This book is dedicated to my fans and horror-lovers anywhere.  You are the best bosses I have ever had and I love working for you.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Sam (main Story)

SAM

By Iain Rob Wright

---

CHAPTER ONE

“He’s a scam artist, a conman.”

Tim Golding faced his accuser and sighed.  The silver-haired gentleman was large and overbearing, but Tim wasn’t about to stand there and be insulted.  “Sir, it was your wife that contacted me.  If you’d like me to leave then I will.  To be honest, I’d rather be home watching The X Files anyway.”

“No, please,” said the man’s wife.  “Help us.”

Tim looked at the woman and could see she was emotionally battered.  After ten years in the business you could detect the bullshitters fairly easy, and this woman wasn’t spinning him a line. She was genuinely terrified (either that or she was one hell of an actor).  The charcoal bags beneath her eyes were proof enough to confirm her story of sleepless nights.

“Okay,” Tim said to her.  “Why don’t we take a seat and you can tell me what’s been happening.”

The woman’s face almost crumbled into sobs then, but somehow she forced a weary, thin-lipped smile.  She led Tim into the dining room, where a set of leather-backed chairs lay tucked up against a polished oak table in the centre of a plush, beige carpet.

Tim slid a chair out and plonked himself down on it.  The silver-haired husband did the same, but made no secret of his cynicism, huffing and puffing with every breath and rolling his eyes like marbles.

Tim rolled his own eyes.  Okay, asshole, I get it.  You think I’m a charlatan and you’re a tough guy that won’t be scammed.  If only you knew the truth, buddy…

Tim clasped his slender hands together on the table and gave his most reassuring smile to the frightened woman.  She’d taken the seat opposite Tim and was staring at him intently.

He started with an obvious question.  “When did this all start?”

She was just about to answer when the lights in the room flickered.  The woman let out a whimper, but the husband was quick to offer an explanation.  “Dodgy wiring.  Happens all the time.”

Tim nodded and then turned back to the man’s wife.  Eventually she began her story, in a voice that was sickly and timid. “It started about a month ago,” she explained, “when our dog, Buster, brought something home.”

Tim glanced around the room.  There was no evidence of a dog.  No family pictures featuring a lovely pooch or pet bed in the corner.  In fact the room was devoid of anything aside from the table and chairs.   “You have a dog?”

The woman shook her head solemnly.  “Not anymore.”

“Stupid mutt got himself trapped in our fishpond,” the husband added.

Tears welled up in his wife’s eyes, but she did her best to go on with the details.  “He was a little Jack Russell.  We were always on at him to stay out of the pond but he would never listen.  Must have dived in it a dozen times, but always got back out okay – just stinking like a swamp. Then, a few weeks ago, I went into the garden and…and…and I found him dead at the bottom.  His collar had caught on a tree root sticking through the pond’s lining. He couldn’t get his head back above the water.  He must have really suffered.”

The woman started crying.  Tim handed her a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his scuffed leather jacket.

“Oh, nice,” said the husband.  “Is that one of your props?”

Tim ignored the man.  “So tell me,” he said to the wife.  “What was it you said your dog brought home the week before that?”

“A bone.”

Tim raised one of his eyebrows.  “Was it human?”

“Of course not,” the husband answered.  “Don’t you think we would have reported something like that to the police?”

“You could have, for all I know.  Until your wife called me, I didn’t know a thing about you.”

The man scoffed.  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“It was a chicken bone, I think,” the woman said. “It was small and sharp.  I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but then everything started happening.”

Tim mulled it over.  If it had been a human bone then it could have caused a poltergeist to haunt the house, but not from a chicken bone.  Never heard of a malevolent chicken spirit before – at least not this century.

Chicken bones were often used in Voodoo rituals, but Tim had never seen any evidence of it this side of the Atlantic.  “So what was the first…occurrence?”

The woman took a breath and seemed to shudder.  “It was during the night while we were sleeping.  It was about 3AM and I suddenly opened my eyes, wide awake.”

“What woke you?”

“The light in the bedroom was on.  My husband was still fast asleep, snoring. I’ve never known him to turn the light on during the night so I assumed it must have been left on by accident.  I got up and went over to the light switch to turn it off, but then realised that the hallway light was on as well.  We always turn off all the lights before going to bed, so it was all very strange.  I walked through the house and found that every single light had been switched on – even the lamps.”

“Like I said,” the husband chimed in.  “Dodgy wiring.”

Tim nodded, but was beginning to get tired of the man’s short, clipped tone.  An educated guess suggested he was some sort of mirthless military man.  Tim didn’t have a great deal of respect for overly macho gorillas, so decided to focus on asking more questions.  “So did anything else happen that night?”

The woman shook her head.  “I was freaked out, of course, and didn’t sleep another wink, but I still didn’t think too much of it right at that moment.  It was the next day when I really knew something was wrong.”

“Go on,” said Tim.

“Well, the whole house is like the Arctic Circle as you can probably tell.  Most times I can see my breath in front of me.  You can feel how cold it is, right?”

Tim nodded.  It was indeed chilly.

“I turn on all the heating but nothing seems to do any good.  One night I was absolutely freezing, so I decided to take a bath to try and warm up.  But, when I…”  A short sob escaped the woman’s lips.  “Sorry, just give me a second.”

The husband butted in.  “Daft mare thinks she saw blood coming out the taps.”

Tim took a deep breath and made some mental notes. Then he addressed the husband, making sure to look directly into his steely blue eyes.  “Did you see this yourself, sir?”

“Did I?  Hell.  There was nothing but a bathful of water when I got there.  Told her it was probably just rust from the pipes she’d seen.  This is an old house.”

Tim nodded.  “With both dodgy wiring and plumbing, it would seem.  Okay, so how long after that did your dog die?”

“A few days,” the wife answered, now weeping without restraint.  “There were some other weird things that happened up until then but nothing like what happened afterwards.  We buried Buster in the garden, but that night I was woken up again.  All the lights were on, just like they had been before, but this time there were noises outside, too.  It was Buster barking in the garden.  I know it sounds crazy, but I swear it was him.  I know my own dog’s bark and it was definitely him.  I ran into the garden in just my underwear.  I was so excited, but when I got there he was…hanging.”

Tim leant forward against the table and paid close attention.  “Hanging?”

“From the top of the old fern tree behind the pond.  He was hanging by his collar.”

“Sick bloody kids,” the husband spat.

Tim wasn’t convinced.  “This is a pretty nice neighbourhood, isn’t it?  Do you usually have a problem with youth crime in this area?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.  “There are no nice neighbourhoods anymore.  You get troublemaking kids everywhere.  Police don’t do a thing.”

“Okay,” said Tim, avoiding a political debate.  “I think I should take a look around.  There’s a good chance that this is all a sick joke by somebody, but I won’t know more until I conduct some experiments; starting with this room.”

“Here we go,” said the husband.  “The theatrics are about to begin.”

Tim once again ignored the insult.  He took off his trainers and climbed up on to the dinner table.  Once his footing was stable, he pulled a small leather pouch from his back pocket.

“What’s that?” the husband asked.  “One of your new-age gizmos?”

“No,” Tim explained.  “It’s a set of screw drivers.  I’m going to take a look at your ‘dodgy’ wiring.”

The light fixture had been replaced with a modern studio light that coiled around a rail in a semi-circle.  It was aluminium and easy to unfasten.  Once the fixture was loose and hanging by its wiring, Tim poked a finger inside.”

“Be careful,” said the woman.  “The electricity is still on.”

Tim tapped the switch wire and the lights flickered.  He prodded it a few more times and the lights flickered once again.  He reattached the fixture and hopped down off the table.  He turned to the husband and smiled.  “You have a loose switch wire.  I would suggest an electrician.”

The silver-haired man seemed confused, as if he had expected some fanciful explanation that would result in Tim charging him money.  That wasn’t the type of game Tim was playing though.

The next thing Tim did was reach into his pocket and pull out a spool of cotton thread.  He unravelled a length of about 10cms then held it in the air, observing which direction it dangled towards.  The thread rose sharply to the north side of the room, which meant the breeze was coming from the south side of the room.  Tim walked over to the wall and knelt down beside the skirting board, holding out his palm to sense for air currents.  It didn’t take him long to spot a hairline crack running a length of about 30cm along the base of the wall where it met the floor.  He held his fingertips in front of it and felt the cold air flowing in from outside.

Tim stood up and turned around.  “You have a crack in the masonry.  This time of year it’s letting in an icy draught.  A good plasterer will sort that out for you.”  He clapped his hands together in punctuation.  “Right, shall we go take a look at that bathtub now?”

The husband and wife seemed dumbfounded. They led Tim upstairs without a word spoken, and showed him over to the second door on the right of the hallway.  The light was already on inside and crept out beneath the doorway.

“Is this the bathroom?” Tim asked.

They both nodded to him, still being silent.

Tim grasped the doorknob and turned it.  Then he slid inside the room and looked around.  The bathroom was nice: stone-tiled with an art-deco suite.  If anything, the bathroom was a little bit too sterile for Tim’s taste.  It was like a showroom at a DIY centre. It lacked the soapy odours of a well-used washroom.

There was an L-shaped bathtub at the far end of the space and Tim pointed to it.  “This is where you say the taps ran with blood?”

“Yes,” said the woman.  “It was coming right out of the hot tap.”

Tim leant over the tub and placed his hand on the tap marked with a calligraphic H.  He turned it clockwise and water immediately appeared in a steady torrent. There was nothing unordinary about it.  “All looks pretty fine to-”

Suddenly the plumbing began to clunk and rattle.  Tim looked closely at the hot tap and saw that it was vibrating.  A viscous stream of brown-red liquid appeared and began to fill the tub.

“There,” said the woman.  “Just like that.  It’s blood!”

Tim reached forward and allowed his palm to fall beneath the running stream of liquid.  It was warm, the mysterious substance mixing with the hot water from the tank.  Tim pulled back his hand before it started to burn and then raised his palm to his face. He sniffed the substance, then he licked it.

The husband grimaced.  “My God, man.  What are you doing?”

“It’s not blood.  Tell you the truth, I don’t know what it is, but it’s not blood and it’s not rust.  Tastes kind of sweet.”

“So what do you suggest?” asked the woman.

“A plumber,” said Tim, washing his hand in the nearby basin.  “Let me see where you found the dog.”

The garden was at the back of the house and was lit by a pair of floodlights attached to the brickwork of the house.  The pond was set back about fifteen feet from the house and sat amongst some flowerbeds.  Tim would have expected to see koi or goldfish beneath the surface of the water, but the pond was empty.

The fern tree, from which the Jack Russell had allegedly hanged, was standing just beyond the pond.  The woman pointed at it.  “Buster was hanging from the top of there by his neck.  It was so horrible.  Probably the worst thing I’ve-”

Tim cut the woman off.  “Where did you bury him?”

“What?”

Tim looked around the garden.  The lawn was short and well kept.  “You said you buried Buster in the garden.  Could you show me?”

“You leave that dog be,” said the husband.  “My wife is upset enough.”

“I don’t want to dig the dog up, sir.  I just want to know where you buried him.”

The husband and wife stared at each other.  They seemed confused, but more between themselves than by anything Tim had said.  It was as though they were trying to conspire without saying any words.

“I can’t remember where I buried him,” the husband answered.

Tim huffed.  “Really?  Is that what you’re going with?”

“Look here,” said the husband.

“No, you look.  What are you up to here?  Why did you hire me?  Are you looking to discredit me?  Are you writing a book or something?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” cried the wife.  “Why are you being like this?”

Tim laughed.  “And you, my dear, you almost had me fooled.  Bravo.”  Tim clapped his hands sarcastically.  “This is all very well done.  The loose wiring to make the lights flicker; the broken skirting board; the food colouring in the water tank – all good stuff.  What really gave you away though was the dog.  This lawn is perfect.  There’s been no digging or burying in this garden at all.  This whole thing is a setup.  I don’t even think this is your house.  There’s not a single photo of the two of you here, or even any toiletries or towels in the bathroom.  Your acting was good, granted, but I think you failed to truly become your characters – plus the age difference between you  two is a little hard to buy into.  Now, perhaps you’d like to tell me why the hell you brought me here.”

The husband started nodding his head and a wide smile crept across his lips.  It was almost as if he’d allowed a veil to drop from his face, revealing the menacing, silver-haired figure underneath.  Tim suddenly worried.  His Sherlock-Holmes scene of deduction had been satisfying, certainly, but now he was alone with two people who had brought him there under false pretences.  He was still yet to find out what those pretences were.

The husband pulled a phone from his pocket and dialled a number.  He placed the handset to his ear, still smiling widely like a lion about to make a kill.  After a few seconds, the man spoke into the receiver.  He said, “Guy passed the test.  What do you want me to do with him?”

CHAPTER TWO

Angela Murs stared into the bottom of her whisky glass and felt her head spin.  At forty-years of age, she was beginning to wonder if the time had come to spend her evenings some place other than the grimy, student hangouts of the city.

Wolverhampton was a University town and the bars were packed every night.  It was easy to disappear inside any one of them; easy to be alone amongst strangers.  The bars were also student-prices-cheap and crammed full of eye candy. In fact, there was a slender young thing currently propping up the bar beside her right now.  The brunette’s legs went on forever, beginning at a pair of perfectly manicured feet in open heels.  There was a tattoo of a rose on the left ankle that got Angela’s juices flowing.

It was unlikely the young girl was gay, but that didn’t mean Angela couldn’t appreciate the view.  Most of the senior students knew Angela well and would often direct any newly experimenting young girls her way.  As it turned out, Angela got more than her fair share of dalliances for a forty-year old woman.  Not bad for an ex-priest.

Angela hadn’t left the clergy because of her sexuality (although it had perhaps made it inevitable). It had more to do with the church itself.  Her years there had shown her that it was an institution run by hypocrites and politicians.  They couldn’t even decide on what to believe in themselves, let alone what everyone else should.  Some priests supported homosexuality (or were even gay themselves) while others derided it.  Some vicars were kind, decent souls, while others were judgemental pricks.  The more time that passed, the less Angela believed her colleagues were on the path God truly wanted.  She had decided to leave, three years ago, to follow the Lord in her own way.  But things hadn’t turned out as planned. Somehow, she’d devolved into the exact kind of hypocrite she’d once detested.  Even if God did condone homosexuality, Angela knew that he would not support her drunken, debauched ways.  She wore Sin around her shoulders like a comfortable cloak.

The slender brunette noticed that Angela was staring at her.  The girl smiled, but awkwardness tainted her thin red lips.  She was no doubt wondering why a woman twice her age was eyeing her up.

“You from the University?” Angela asked, trying to sound breezy and aloof.

The girl nodded.  “I’m studying Creative Writing.”

“Oh, great.  You plan on being a writer?”

“I guess.”

“Go for it.  Nice way to make a living.  So you made many friends yet?”

The girl’s awkwardness grew.  “Yes, a few.  I should probably get back to them.”

Angela watched the girl walk away and realised she’d done so without placing an order.  Had Angela really become so creepy that strangers had now started to flee from her?

She glanced around the bar at the random faces and noted that she was the oldest by far – a full two decades on most of them.  A pathetic sight, she must seem, propping up the bar all night alone.

Time to drag my carcass home I think.  Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll fall asleep before I notice how cold and empty my bed is.

Angela slunk away from her barstool and took a second to make sure her feet were steady on the floor.  She was drunk, but still capable.  Her tolerance for whisky was enough to put most men to shame.  In fact it was a rarity that she was ever truly inebriated.

On her way over to the pub’s exit, she nodded to a group of young lads who were as regular at the bar as she was.  The grins on their faces made her wonder if they’d been laughing at her – making comments about how pathetic she was.  Angela lifted her chin and strode right past them.

The cold air hit her cheeks as soon as she stepped outside.  April was a month that could go either way: sunny and dry, or wet and damp.  This particular evening was dry, but biting with a sharp chill at the same time.

Angela’s usual place to catch a taxi home was the Civic Hall car park, which was just past St Peter’s House church.  She headed there now, passing by numerous groups of giggling students conducting their own journeys to clubs or parties on campus – they were still blissfully unaware of the boring grind that would one day enslave them all.

The looming spectre of the cathedral fell over her and the passing groups of teenagers thinned out. Eventually she had the streets entirely to herself.  The city was heavily built-up and lacking in much greenery at all, but in the shadows of the evening, the tall, red-bricked buildings were quite beautiful.  They were like great sentinels destined to outlive the generations of people that would come and go through their corridors.

Angela took some short steps downwards and realised there was someone walking behind her.  If not for the concrete jungle of backstreets making the stranger’s footsteps echo, Angela would likely not have known they were even there – or that there were two of them.

She glanced back and caught a glimpse of their shadowy figures.  Their movements seemed hurried, as if they sought to catch up with her. Angela picked up speed. The echo of the strangers’ footsteps increased also.

The Civic Hall was not far now, and with it would be crowds and taxis. She would feel safe once she got there.  But she wasn’t going to make it in time.  The two strangers would be upon her any second.

The footsteps got closer, their pace quickening.

Angela bolted left into an adjacent side street and broke into a run.  Her body was intolerant of exertion and she huffed and puffed immediately.  She reached the far corner of a nearby building and jinked left around it, then quickly slid inside an entrance alcove of an office block.  Hopefully she’d been quick enough to lose her pursuers.

If they’re even following me in the first place. I’m probably just being paranoid.

Then why did they speed up when I did?

Angela remained where she was in the alcove, backed against the brick wall, and listened.  The footsteps had stopped.  Either her pursuers had gone in a different direction, or they’d halted somewhere.

Are they trying to figure out where I went?

Angela realised she was panting.  She took in a deep breath and held it, let it out slowly, tried to regain control of her lungs.  It was unlike her to get so rattled, but a bad feeling had descended over her that put all of her senses on high alert.

Or is it just the booze messing with my head?  Why on Earth would anybody be following me?  I’m nobody, just another drunk in a country full of them.  This is all really stupid.  I’d be laughing at myself right now if it wasn’t so pathetic.

It was a full five minutes later when her breathing returned to normal and she felt like herself again. She stepped out from behind the wall, ready to head for the taxi rank and put the whole thing behind her, but instead she found herself face-to-face with two large men.  They blocked her path and seemed ready to grab her at the first sign that she might run.  She could smell the acrid odour of their cologne. It stung the back of her throat.

“What the hell do you want?” she demanded.

One of the men offered a handshake.  “We’d like you to come with us, Reverend Murs.  We need your help.”

CHAPTER THREE

In defiance of every ounce of sense she possessed, Angela allowed herself to be led to a black-windowed saloon, parked-up on a nearby road.  The night was too dark, and her knowledge of cars too small, to recognise what brand of vehicle it was, but it looked extravagant and expensive.  Once she’d taken a seat inside, it was even more evident that the vehicle must have cost a small fortune.  The seats were soft, stitched leather and the furnishings were understated in chrome and aluminium.  Angela settled into the comfortable rear seat while her two chaperones climbed into the front.

Angela cleared her throat.  “So, will somebody tell me what this is all about, please?  I can’t believe I even let you talk me into getting in the car.”

“We mean you no harm, Reverend,” said the man in the front passenger seat.

“Let’s just stick to Angela, shall we?  I’m not a vicar anymore.”

“My apologies.  To answer your question: I don’t have any information to offer you, other than that my employer would like to speak with you.”

“Enough of the James Bond bullshit,” Angela spat, and enjoyed the mild shock that wrote itself across the two men’s faces.  People were always surprised to hear a priest – excommunicated or otherwise – use coarse language.

The man in the passenger seat twisted around to face her and nodded as if agreeing with an opinion she’d given.  He said, “Look, Angela.  We honestly don’t know why our boss wants to see you, but I believe it has something to do with certain…skills…that you have.”

Angela frowned.  “What do you mean?  What skills?”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he spoke the answer: “Exorcism.”

“Okay, let me the fuck out of here.”  Angela grabbed at the door handle but found that it was locked.  “Let me out of here NOW!”

“Jut calm down, Angela.  My employer only wants to speak with you.  If you’re not interested in helping her after that, you will be free to go.”

“Her?  Your boss is a woman?  Who?”

The driver was the one who spoke this time.  His answer was snippy.  “We can’t tell you because of the nature of her business.  She is a public figure and can’t afford to have news of her personal affairs getting out.  All we know is that she needs an exorcist and that you were the one she wanted.  She is willing to pay you for your time, whether you accept her plea or not.”

Angela closed her eyes and sighed.  What am I getting myself into?  I’m not a priest anymore, but if somebody really does need my help, can I actually say no?  I do still believe in some things.  Plus, I could really really do with the money.

“Start the engine,” she said. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The man in the passenger’s seat nodded.  “Sure thing, Reverend.”

“I already told you not to call me that.  I am not a representative of the church.  How long is this journey going to take anyway?”

“Not too long,” said the driver.  “Our employer is in Warwickshire.  I’d say perhaps just over an hour.”

“Okay, then I hope you don’t mind if I get a little shut eye and sober up.”

“Be my guest.”

Angela closed her eyes.

***

She awoke in what seemed like only a few minutes later, but the driver snidely informed her that that she had slept almost the entirety of the journey, snoring loudly all the way.  The saloon was currently speeding its way along a narrow country road typical of Warwickshire’s rural landscape.  It was probably the unevenness of the back road that had stirred her from sleep.

She’d spent time in the county before when she’d covered a parish in a semi-rural village called Studley.  It had been a quaint little place with lots of pubs and places to eat, and she’d enjoyed her time there.  Warwickshire was a nice place to live. If you had the money.

“We’re almost there, Angela,” said the man in the passenger seat.

Angela checked her watch.  It was past ten.  “What am I going to do afterwards?  It’s late.”

“Depending on what transpires, you can either stay at the house, or we will put you up in a nearby hotel and take you home in the morning.”

A night in a hotel.  Things are getting better.  Wonder if I can get them to pay my tab as well.

“Do either of you have any water up front?” she asked.  “My mouth is as dry as a camel’s arsehole.”

The man in the passenger seat laughed while the driver cringed.  He opened up the glove compartment and retrieved a half-finished bottle of spring water.  Angela took it from him and finished it in one eager gulp, releasing a satisfied belch afterwards.

“Some fine manners you’ve got there,” the driver commented.

“Bite me.”

There was silence in the car for another ten minutes or so, until the driver pulled onto a gravel driveway cut in half by an immense wrought iron fence.  The saloon stopped in front of the gates and the driver pressed a button on a key fob hanging from the ignition.  Slowly, the heavy gates parted in the middle and allowed access.  The car continued up the drive, tyres crunching in the gravel.

About a hundred metres up, the driver parked up beside a vast Georgian-style mansion.  The building was a gargantuan square, with four floors of six windows across (twenty-four all together).  The building wasn’t far off being a palace.

“I’ve stayed in worse, I suppose,” said Angela.

The man in the passenger seat chuckled.  “It’s quite a place, isn’t it?”

“If you mean a shrine to affluence and greed, then yes, it certainly is.  How many people live here?”

“Just my employer and her son.  There were various staff that boarded here also, but at the moment the place is pretty empty until some rehiring is done.”

“How the other half live, eh?”

“Indeed.  Shall we?”

Angela rubbed at her face to wake up more and then nodded.  “Ready when you are.”

The car door was opened for her and Angela stepped out.  It was still chilly but the air was now fresh and crisp, cleaner than the air she was used to breathing in the industry-filled surroundings of Staffordshire.  Angela found it interesting that the super-rich even got to enjoy a cleaner atmosphere than everyone else did.

“We can go in through the main entrance,” said the man chaperoning her.

“How about you tell me your name,” said Angela.  “I’ve just driven fifty miles with you, after all.”

The man smiled and offered his hand.  “My name is Mike, but to be honest you probably won’t have much to do with me if you choose to stay here.  Graham and I – Graham’s the guy who drove us here – are just glorified dogsbodies.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Mike.  Can’t say the same about Graham; guy seems like a bit of an arsehole.”

“Yeah, he is,” Mike replied with a smile. “But he’s not that bad once you get to know him.  I don’t think he likes priests to be honest, but that’s no reason for him to be so short with you.”

“Well I don’t like priests either.  Maybe somebody ought to tell him that I’m not one of them.”

Mike nodded and then swept an arm towards the house.  “Shall we?”

They walked across the driveway and up a small set of stone steps.  They led to the large set of thick wooden doors marking the house’s entrance.  Angela didn’t know what type of wood they were made from, but they were dark and intricately carved.  The two doors probably weighed a tonne each.

Mike pressed a button on an intercom beside the door. There was a brief burst of static and then a voice floated out of the speaker.

“Who is it?”

“Frank, it’s Mike.  I have Rev…Miss Murs with me.”

There was no reply, but a positive-sounding buzz came from the speaker.  Mike turned the handle on one of the gigantic doors and pushed it open with ease.  Angela followed him through and found herself inside a cavernous, marble-floored foyer that looked more like a five-star hotel then a person’s home.

A large and wiry, silver-haired man appeared at the top of a wide staircase in the centre of the room.  He descended down the steps slowly as if he had all the time in the world.  The man seemed a humourless, no-nonsense type of character and Angela took an instant dislike to him on principle.

“Thank you, Mike,” the man said.  “That will be all.”

Mike nodded and departed back outside.  The other man – whom Angela assumed was Frank – took the final few steps and approached her.  He offered out a thick-knuckled hand covered by scars.  It was a fighter’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Murs,” he commented.

Well, at least he didn’t call me Reverend.

“Frank, I assume?  Are you the person who wanted to see me, because I was told it was a woman and you don’t seem to fit the bill.”

The man did not laugh, but didn’t seem offended either – more that he simply lacked any kind of sense-of-humour.  “The lady of the house will be down shortly,” he said.  “She has asked that I make you comfortable.  I am Chief of House and I will be looking after your needs during your stay.”

“If I stay.”

“Of course.  Now, can I get you anything?”

Angela shook her head.  “Just somewhere to sit, please.”

Frank nodded and led her to a small ante-chamber that consisted of two plush sofas and nothing else.  He left her alone there and Angela started to think just how surreal the whole situation was.  A couple of hours ago she’d been hanging around a student bar in Wolverhampton and now she was sitting in a Warwickshire mansion about to meet some mysterious stranger who obviously had more money than sense.

Then there’s the whole exorcism thing.

Angela had left the church for many reasons, but she knew that, deep down, it was also because she feared being a part of the clergy as much as she disdained it.  She was afraid of having to confront evil and tend to its victims. Her placement on the isle of Jersey had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.  The blood that soaked the church walls there was as much from the death of her faith as it was the death of her parishioners.

Angela’s weaknesses were too many to be responsible for others.  She was too susceptible to taking the path of sin.  That had become abundantly clear on her final night as a priest in Jersey. The church had been knocked down just two weeks after she’d quit the calling she once thought would carry her forever.

“Miss Murs, I’m so grateful that you came.”  An attractive woman appeared in front of her.  “My name is Jessica Bell-Raymeady, wife of the late Joseph Raymeady.”

Angela’s face was expressionless.  Neither name meant anything to her.  “Pleased to meet you.”

“Please, follow me.  We can grab ourselves a drink in the lounge.”

Angela was wary of getting tipsy again, but if her host was drinking then what was the harm?  It was strange, but she’d expected some toffee-nosed aristocrat to be the owner of the house, but the woman in front of her didn’t sound like an affluent person at all – not common exactly, but neither was she posh.  Her appearance gave the same casual impression – a middle-aged, blonde woman in tatty jeans and a loose sweatshirt.

Angela followed the woman out of the anti-chamber and into a lounge room hidden behind the grand staircase.  Inside there was a piano stage and a bar, as well as many tables and chairs.  It actually looked a lot like a cruise ship lounge and Angela wondered if it was ever used to its capacity.

“Take a seat, Angela.  Do you mind if I call you Angela?”

Angela shook her head.

“Good.  I’ll go and fetch some drinks.  What’s your tipple?”

“Scotch, if you have it?”

Jessica smiled.  “Of course.  I have a delightful bottle of Longmorn 16.  Will that do?”

“Supermarket value whisky is fine by me, but hey, whatever you have.”

Jessica let out a short, sharp yelp of laughter.  The gesture was genuine, but there also seemed to be a strained quality to it, as if the woman were dangerously on edge.  “To be honest with you, Angela, it all tastes the same to me too.  My husband was somewhat of a connoisseur, but I’m just as happy with a cheap bottle of plonk and a pizza.”

Angela smiled and wasn’t just being polite.  The woman was not what she’d expected and the surprise was more pleasant than disappointing.

Jessica disappeared behind the fully-stocked bar and then returned to join Angela at the table she’d chosen to sit at.  Angela took a sip from the whisky she’d been given and was not surprised that it tasted like any other brand.  In fact she had preferred the taste of the £2 shot she’d downed at the student bar in Wolverhampton.

Jessica was sipping from an extra-large glass of white wine and seemed to be lost in thought.

“So what is all this about?” Angela asked the woman.

Jessica’s gaze snapped back to reality and a weary smile came over her face.  “It’s my son, Angela.  He’s very sick.”

Frowning, Angela said, “Then you should really call a doctor, not an alcoholic ex-priest.”

Jessica laughed.  “Oh, believe me, there’s been doctors in and out of this place for the last six months.  Psychiatrists, Paediatricians, Oncologists, GPs; I’ve had enough to staff a small hospital through here lately.  They’ve all had a good look at my poor Sammie, but none of them have been able to do anything to help – anything at all.  He’s just been getting worse.”

“What’s wrong with him exactly?”

“If only I knew.  Sammie was such a sweet, energetic little boy, but about nine months ago he awoke in the night screaming, yelling that something was inside of him.  Of course, my husband and I put it down to a bad dream, but the following morning Sammie was sullen and pale, as if he had come down with some wretched flu.  He’s been like that ever since, and now he barely eats or sleeps either.”

Angela placed her whisky down on the glass table.  “I still don’t see why that would make you seek me out.”

“Because you were an exorcist for the Church of England.  You performed more than one hundred exorcisms, yes?”

Angela picked up her whisky again and took a large sip.  She let out a sigh.  “It was more like thirty in actual fact, but the church only conducts exorcisms to bring people peace-of-mind anyway.  A bit of dodgy plumbing or noises in the night and people think demons are to blame.  It’s usually nothing more than a mask for other underlying problems that people don’t wish to confront.  But it’s a good way for the church to take advantage of people and gain their faith, so they perform their rituals and flick their holy water. I was a part of that charade, yes, and nine times out of ten, an exorcism is merely theatrics – like most things in the church to be honest.  You’d be better off using all your money to find a medical specialist.  Your son sounds very poorly.”

Jessica smiled knowingly.  “Nine times out of ten – so what about that one out of ten that is more than just theatrics?”

“I don’t know,” Angela admitted.  “Scam artists, schizophrenia, unknown phenomena?  What are you getting at?”

“I know about Jersey, Miss Murs, and I know that there is more to what went on there than what the papers reported.  I know that you’ve dealt with evil before.  You know that it exists.”

Angela started to rise from her chair.  “Look, I’m very sorry, but I think it was a mistake me coming here.”

Jessica reached out and grabbed Angela’s wrist.  There was pleading in her almond eyes.  “Please, just listen to what I have to say.”

Angela sighed. She never could resist a plea for help.  She sat back down.

Jessica smiled but seemed close to tears.  “Thank you.”

“Go on then,” said Angela.  “Tell me what you have to.”

“Okay.  Well, Sammie has been sickly since the time he had that nightmare – about something being inside of him – but that’s not all that’s happened.  Sometimes it’s like he’s somebody else, somebody older.  He uses language that he’s never been taught and sometimes he…swears.  Such filthy language that you wouldn’t believe it.  Then there’re all the accidents.”

“Accidents?”

Jessica nodded.  “There’s a reason for there being no staff around here anymore: they all left. The ones that were still in one piece, anyway.  Our chef, Nicholas slipped while carrying a pan full of boiling pasta.  One of the maids tumbled down the stairs and broke her neck like a twig. Our gardener lost two fingers to his own shears and managed to blind himself in one eye. And my husband…my husband hung himself, which is something he would never have done.”

“I’ve seen a lot of suicides in my time,” said Angela.  “Anyone is capable.”

“With all due respect, Miss Murs, my late husband was Joseph Raymeady, son of Wesley Raymeady, one of the original founders of Black Remedy Corporation, the largest commercial entity in the world.  My husband, like his father, was one of the wealthiest and most driven men in the history of our world.  Suicide to him was the same as failure, and failure was never an option to my husband.”

Angela’s eyes widened.  “Your husband owned Black Remedy?  Well then there are many reasons he may have felt guilty enough to take his own life.  That company has been indicted for everything from child labour to illegal arms dealing.  I’ve heard that the only reason they’re still even allowed to trade is because they buy-off governments like most companies buy stationary.”

“My husband was trying to change all that.  His father was in charge of the company until his death seven years ago.  Since then, Joseph was trying to clean up the company’s ethics.  Black Remedy donated more than six-hundred million pounds to charity in the last three years.  That’s more than the entire fifty-odd years that preceded it combined.  My husband was a good man, and he loved his family.  He would not have hung himself. There’s just no way.”

“Okay,” Angela said. “While I admit that the amount of accidents that you’ve had recently is unfortunate, I don’t see what makes you believe you need an exorcism performed?”

“This does.”  Jessica reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a dog-eared notebook.  It was small, about the size of an address book.  She slid it across the table to Angela.  “Open it.”

Angela did as she was asked and was immediately shocked by the very first page she turned to.  It was covered in the erratic scrawls of a child: crayoned pictures and pencilled words co-mingling in a tapestry of graffiti.  The images featured symbols she didn’t recognise and several depictions of winged beasts.  Most disturbing, though, was what the words said.  Several short sentences mentioned such disturbing things as: TAINtedsoUL, No eScape, He iSABYSS, SEekSAlvation. HeLp ME. Eventually Angela’s eyes fell across something in the lower corner of the page that chilled her bones to the marrow.  Written in neat, full capitals, so that it stood out more than any other words, was the plea: BRING THE PRIEST.  BRING ANGELA MURS.

CHAPTER FOUR

After one more glass of sixteen-year old whisky to calm her nerves, Angela had agreed to stay at the house, at least until morning.  The notebook with her name written in it could have been a fake designed to keep her there, but Angela couldn’t know for sure.  Real or not, it had left Angela concerned.

As soon as she’d set eyes on the childish scrawls, an ominous wave of dread rattled her bones. She knew deep down in her marrow that something strange was going on, and for some reason it involved her.  Whether or not it was due to natural or unnatural means was yet to be determined.  She needed to know more.

Frank had come into the lounge at Jessica’s request and taken Angela up to the second floor, where she’d been presented with a suite the size of a modest flat.  Then he had left her alone to survey her new surroundings.  An ancient four-poster bed occupied the centre of the room, its mahogany corner struts climbing from floor to ceiling.  Opposite the foot of the bed was a large bay window looking out into the velvet darkness of the night.  Angela imagined that outside there would majestic, landscaped gardens matching the grandness of the house, but right now they were invisible, cloaked in shadow.

Above the bed was a magnificent oil pattern that could literally have taken years to complete.  It picture a heavenly battle, perhaps Lucifer’s war against God.  In the foreground were two cherubim with gossamer wings outspread.  They wielded spears, brother against brother.

It was clear that Jessica’s late husband had been one rich son-of-a-bitch, and it was a surreal feeling to be sat in his family’s home. Angela wondered how anyone so blessed could be so selfish to take their own lives.

Obviously being filthy-rich isn’t as great as it sounds.

Angela headed over to the en suite at the far side of the room. There was an antique, freestanding bath inside, made of steel and perhaps two feet longer than most typical baths.  It looked like heaven.  There was also a separate shower cubicle.

A nice hot bath or shower was a tempting proposition, but Angela settled for the faucet right now.  The stainless-steel hot tap turned smoothly, and Angela stared into the wall mirror as she splashed the steaming water onto her face.  Her eyes were red and sunken; they were the eyes of someone a decade older.

How did I end up this way?  My life used to make sense, but now, here I am, standing in a gazillion-pound mansion because the lady of the house wants me to exorcise her ten-year old son, who is probably just reacting badly to the death of his father.  I’m wasting my time here, but let’s be honest: what else have I got to do?  Besides I need the money.  Booze doesn’t buy itself.

There was a knock at the door.  Angela left the en suite and crossed the bedroom.  “Who is it?”

“It’s Frank.”

Angela opened the door to find Jessica’s Chief of House standing with a tray full of sandwiches.  She could tell by his grim expressions that room service was not one of his usual duties.

“Ms Raymeady thought you might be hungry.”

Angela took the tray from the man and thanked him.  Angela wasn’t much of an eater but she had to admit the sandwiches looked good. Without further word, Frank went to walk away. She stopped him.  “Can you come in for five minutes, please, Frank?”

Frank seemed confused.  His silver sideburns wrinkled.  “I…yes, I suppose so.”

“I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

Frank marched past Angela and entered the bedroom.  For a moment it looked like he was about to take a seat on the bed, but he chose to remain standing in his usual stiff manner.  “Questions about what?”

Angela closed the bedroom door and faced him.  “I suppose the first thing I’d like to know is what you think of all this?  What’s been happening in this house?”

Frank sighed and shook his head.  “I wish I knew.  Things have been…tense.  The accidents seemed a little too many to be mere coincidences, but I’m sure that’s all they are.  Mindless superstition got the better of everybody anyway and the staff all resigned.”

“Except you?”

“I have a duty to Ms Raymeady.  Her late husband hired me almost ten years ago to look after his family.  He was a good man and I intend to fulfil that role even in his death.  Besides, I don’t believe in…well, any of what is being claimed.  Mike and Graham don’t either.”

“You don’t believe in Evil?”

Frank laughed and rubbed at the salt and pepper stubble on his chin.  “Before I took this job, Miss Murs, I spent twelve years in the Army.  I absolutely believe in Evil, but what I do not believe is that demons and monsters are responsible.  The very notion of an exorcism is laughable to me.”

“So you’re an atheist, I take it?”

“I believe in flesh and bone and what I can see in front of me.  But what I do or do not believe is of no consequence.  Ms Raymeady is concerned about her son – and I agree that there is sufficient need to be – so if you being here will make her feel at ease then I welcome you and will do my best to make you feel comfortable here at the house.”

Angela smiled at the man and decided that was as welcome as he was ever going to allow her to feel.  It was good enough, she supposed.  “So what do you make of Jessica’s son, Sammie is it?”

Frank shrugged.  “He’s a good kid.  A little strange at times but I’m sure that has more to do with his upbringing than anything else.  A child isn’t supposed to grow up in a place like this: surrounded by servants, home schooled, a father who was away more often than he was home.  I can’t even remember the last time Sammie got to play with another child.  Don’t get me wrong, Jessica loves her boy dearly, but sometimes this place is a little detached from the world. I don’t think Sammie has any idea what real life is like.  With his father dying, I’m not surprised he’s been acting out.”

“Acting out?”

Frank shrugged again and seemed a little uncomfortable, as if speaking so freely was a betrayal of his employer.  “He’s been swearing a lot, which is totally out of character, and he’s suddenly gotten much smarter.  I mean much much smarter – like he’s been reading a set of encyclopaedias.  It’s…peculiar.  Plus, he seems to know all about current events, from politics to pop music, but all I ever see the kid watch is South Park. Personally, I think the child needs therapy rather than anything else.”

“I thought a psychiatrist had already seen the boy,” Angela said.

Frank nodded.  “A couple have.  They didn’t provide much help, but such things take time.  If Ms Raymeady had been a little more patient then perhaps we might have seen a change.”

Angela thought things through.  In her experience, claims of demonic possession or evil presences often resulted in a verdict of mental illness.  A psychiatrist was almost always more use than a priest was.

But not always.

Angela had witnessed one event in her life when all the psychiatrists in the world would not have helped.  But that was something she put out of her mind.  It would only cloud her judgement.

“Look,” said Frank.  “I have other duties to attend to, so if you don’t mind? If you need anything, just dial 904 on the handset beside your bed.  Otherwise I will see you bright and early tomorrow.  Ms Raymeady will want you to meet with Sammie as soon as possible.  If you then decide to stay, Michael will drive over to your home to gather your things for you.  Try to get some sleep, and don’t worry if you hear anything in the night. Young Samuel has taken to causing commotion during the late hours. It is nothing to worry about.”

Angela shot the man a questioning look.  “Commotion?”

“Yes,” said Frank.  “He likes to quote the Bible, despite never having read it to my knowledge.  He can get quite…animated.”

“Okay,” said Angela.  “Could you do me a favour?”

“Of course.”

“Write down the passages he mentions. It would be interesting to see which parts of the Bible he’s focused on.”

“Will do,” said Frank. Then he left.  Angela got ready for bed.

CHAPTER FIVE

Angela was woken at 7AM according to her cheap CASIO watch. Once again, Frank had been at her door, this time with a tray of toast and orange juice, and once again he’d worn the same begrudging expression on his face.  The poor guy really was having to pick up the slack for all the people who had left.

“Hey, Frank.  Did you get any sleep yourself last night?”

“I got ten minutes here and there.  Don’t worry about me, though.  Did you sleep well?”

“I sure did.”  In fact Angela had slept like a log. The bed was so comfy that she hated having to leave it to face the day. She’d been mindful of listening out for Sammie’s religious tirades during the night, but once she’d slid between the sheets she had pretty much slept right through (fully clothed as well, for lack of having any night clothes).

“Ms Raymeady will meet you in the lounge where you shared a drink last night,” said Frank. “Along with a colleague you’ll be working with.”

“A colleague?”

Frank nodded and seemed to be trying to keep back a grin.  “Yes, a young man named Tim Golding.  I’ll leave you to find out about him directly.  He’s…enthusiastic, I suppose.”  Frank turned and walked back down the hallway. If Angela wasn’t mistaken she was sure she could hear the man laughing.

Obviously I’m not in on the joke.

She spent the next five minutes freshening up in the en suite’s sink, before polishing off the toast and juice and preparing to leave.  Once ready, she exited the room and stepped out into the hallway.  She then realised she was lost.  The burgundy carpet stretched on in both directions, turning a corner at each end.  Angela couldn’t remember which direction she’d come from the previous evening, so had to randomly choose to go left.  As it turned out, the corridor wrapped around and led to the main balcony and staircase from both sides. If she had gone right she would have ended up in the same place, just coming from the other direction.

Angela headed downwards, continuing past the first floor and arriving on the well-lit ground floor.  Her footsteps echoed as they fell upon the marble tiles of the vast foyer. It was like being an ant inside a vast catacomb, doors and hallways leading off in a hundred directions.  Angela remembered that the piano lounge was located at the rear of the staircase and made her way over there.  Through the door’s glass panes she could see Jessica and Frank sitting at a table together, along with a scruffy-haired ginger-nut in his early twenties.

Angela pushed open the door and immediately all eyes were on her.  Jessica was smiling, but the weariness in her eyes made the expression unconvincing.

“Can I get you anything to drink, Miss Murs?” Frank asked.

Angela waved a hand and said, “I’m fine, thanks.  I’m ready to get started.”

Jessica gestured to the scruffy-haired man at her side.  “Have you met Tim yet?”

Angela shook Tim’s hand and sat down.  “Not yet.  I’m Angela.  Pleased to meet you, Tim”

“Pleased to meet you too, Angela.  Looking forward to working together.”

“And how exactly will we be working together?”

“Tim here is a debunker,” Frank explained.  “He will be using scientific methods to monitor Sammie’s condition, while you use more…”

“Spiritual methods,” Jessica finished.

“So you’re here to regulate my religious mumbo jumbo, Tim.  Is that it?”

The scruffy man held his hands up in defence.  He was wearing a green t-shirt with a large picture of the Incredible Hulk on it.  “Hey, I’m just here for a paycheque.  I’ll just be doing my thing while you do yours.”

Angela wasn’t convinced.  “And what is your thing?”

Tim shot her a goofy, lopsided grin and said, “Science, baby!  I’ve found that you can disprove ninety-nine per cent of paranormal “phenomena” just by using everyday scientific procedures.  People get freaked out over the slightest thing, and then they stop looking for the simple answers in front of them and allow their imaginations to get the better of them.  But there’s always a reasonable explanation.  My job is to find it.”

“Well, at least we’re in agreement there,” said Angela.  “I’m not here to provide any kind of catharsis or religious endorsement.  I intend to be brutally honest about what I find.”

Jessica nodded and took a sip from a glass of what looked like vodka.  Angela realised then that the woman was slightly tipsy.  Her skittish pupils were a dead giveaway.  “That’s all I ask of you, Angela.  I just want to know what’s wrong with my boy.”

“Then perhaps we should go and see him.”

“Agreed,” said Jessica, necking back her drink.  “We’ll go and see him now.”

The group stood up from the table and Jessica led them back out into the foyer.  From the way the woman was walking, Angela could tell she was apprehensive.  Her agitated gait was bordering on manic.  The alcohol in her system, so early in the morning, probably didn’t help anything.

“Are you okay, Miss Raymeady?” Angela asked her.

Jessica stopped in the hallway and faced the rest of them.  “I’m just a bit worried.  To be honest, if you and Tim can’t help us, then I don’t know what to do.  Things have been getting worse and I’m at the end of my tether.  I don’t mean to place any additional pressure on you both, but this may be my last chance before I go insane.”

Tim placed a hand reassuringly on the woman’s shoulder.  It seemed like a genuine display of concern.  “We will do whatever we can to help you, Ms Raymeady.”

Jessica wiped away a tear that had spilled from her eye, then laughed at herself.  “God, look at me.  I must look disgraceful.  Anyway, enough dawdling, and please call me Jessica.”

Jessica led the group up the stairs to the first floor and took a left past a full-sized suit of armour.  There was a coat of arms beside it, featuring a black hillside with a white wolf howling up at the moon.  Above it, in Latin, was written: THE LABORER IS WORTHY OF HIS REWARD.  Angela recognised the quote from Timothy, verse 18 and spoke it aloud.

“You speak Latin?” Frank asked, almost sounding impressed.

“Some,” said Angela.  “I know my Bible verses at least.”

“The Raymeady family motto,” Jessica explained proudly.  “My husband lived by it.  Hard work equals reward.”

“What does the crest mean?” Tim asked.

“The wolf is an independent soul,” Jessica explained.  “The moon guides it through the darkness.  Our family is blessed with vision and independence.”

“Interesting,” said Angela.  “I think my crest would be a Jack Daniels label.”

Tim guffawed.  It was a spluttering, uncouth sound.

“Okay, you two,” Frank said gruffly, obviously not appreciating the humour.  “I hope you’re both ready.  Sammie’s room is just up ahead.”

The door at the end of the hall was covered in stickers and hanging notices that read such things as: YOU KILLED KENNY and DESIGNATED FART ZONE.  It was a typical bedroom door for a ten-year old child, but inside the exquisite Georgian mansion it seemed grossly out of place.  On either side of the doorway were two magnificent, bronze statues of four-winged cherubs firing bows into the air.  They represented love and protection.

“These statues are beautiful,” Angela commented, running a finger over their flawless surfaces.  “There’s a painting above my bed that also features cherubs.”

“Thank you,” Jessica replied proudly.  “Cherubs are supposed to be all seeing.  The artist told me that to place them outside your door or over your bed is to have them watch over and protect you.”

“Beautiful,” Angela said.

“Sammie likes to draw during the mornings,” Frank cut in with a voice that was somewhat ominous.  “Some of his pictures can be a little disturbing, so be prepared.  He may also start drawing pictures of us, which will be…unflattering.  Try not to take offence.”

Frank stepped forward and opened the door as Jessica seemed unable to do so herself.  She remained at the back of the group as everyone stepped inside.  Sammie’s bedroom was long and wide, cluttered from wall to wall with assorted toys and discarded clothing.  The walls were plastered with pinned-up drawings and dirty handprints.  An unmade child’s bed centred the room.  The sheets seemed grimy and wet.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” said a new voice from the back of the room.  “I’m afraid housekeeping has declined somewhat since the staff all left.  My dear mother tries her best, of course, but it simply never seems to get any cleaner in here.  It’s most bizarre.”

Angela peered over at the back of the room.  She saw the pale, bony flesh of a topless young boy.  Sammie was sitting at a desk and facing away from them.  The knuckles of his spine bulged through his skin as if it were tissue paper. The smell of sweat was thick in the air like a musty fog.

“Sammie, I assume?” said Angela.  “It’s good to meet you.  How are you doing today?”

The boy did not turn around, but said, “I’ve been better, Angela, I won’t lie to you, but one cannot complain.  There are people with burdens far beyond my own.”

Angela looked back at the others, made eye contact with Frank, and whispered, “How does he know my name?”

Frank shrugged.  “I never told him.”

“Nor did I,” said Jessica.

Angela asked the boy directly.  “How do you know my name, Sammie?”

The boy turned his head to look at her.  His neck muscles bunched up as he twisted around.  His black eyes bulged at her like a rodent’s and he tapped a finger against his forehead.  With a knowing smile he said, “There’s someone in here that knows you.”

Angela felt a wave break in her stomach.  “Who?”

Sammie grinned wider. His teeth were yellow pegs set into brownish gums.  “That’s for me to know.  Why don’t you all take a seat?  I’d relish the company.”

“You’re sure this kid is just ten?” Tim whispered behind her.  “He sounds like Mr Darcy.”

“It’s one of the changes in him,” Frank explained.  “Some of the doctors placed his mental age as that of a fully grown adult.  They could not explain it.”

Angela took several steps forward and, for a fleeting moment, she felt a buzzing in her head.  It ended with a brief spell of dizziness and then passed away. Afterwards Angela wondered if she’d only imagined the feeling.

Sammie had turned his head to face forward again and was drawing something at his desk.  The closer Angela got, the more she was horrified by the boy’s condition.  In fact, she was seriously beginning to consider reporting Miss Raymeady for neglect.  Sammie’s body was little more than a flesh-strung skeleton-- an unfed, unwashed child.

“How long has this other person been with you, Sammie?”  Angela asked.  “Is it just you and them, or are there more?”

“There’s just him and me.  He came to visit me a short while ago and has been here ever since.  I honestly don’t know what I would do without him now.  Funny how one can become so attached to new friends, don’t you think?”

“So you and he are friends?” Angela confirmed.  “What does he do for you?”

Sammie smiled.  “Oh, you know – this and that.  He’s shown me delights I never knew of.  Opened up doors I never knew existed.”

Angela raised her eyebrows.  “Doors?  What do you mean?”

Sammie stood up so suddenly that it made Angela jump back a step.  “Don’t worry yourself about it, Angela, my dear.  I’m sure you have many more important things to brood over than the ramblings of a ten year old boy.  Here take this.  I made it for you.”

Angela walked up to the boy and took the sheet of paper he was offering. She turned it over and looked at the crayoned image Sammie had drawn for her.   Her eyes stretched wide and the picture fell out of her hand as if it were a burning coal.  The image that Sammie had drawn was straight out of her nightmares.

“I’m leaving,” said Angela.

CHAPTER SIX

Tim was confused by what had happened.  He didn’t know what it was Sammie had drawn on the paper. Angela had taken the sketch with her, but whatever it was, it had freaked the woman out in a big way.  She’d fled the room like it had been on fire. Tim couldn’t say he blamed her; Sammie had freaked him out without even having to draw him a picture.

After Angela left in a fluster, Jessica sent Frank to retrieve her.  Now Tim was standing in the room alone with the boy and his mother.

Jessica was approaching Sammie gingerly, almost as if she feared him.  Tim stayed back by the room’s entrance, examining the walls for anything that could help him form a logical opinion on the boy’s behaviour and mind-set.  The kid was smart, there was no doubting that.  There was perhaps a chance he was one of those brainiac, savant kids, like Mozart, or Rain Man – that could explain his behaviour.  There was also little doubt, however, Tim thought, that smart kid or not, little Sammie was one disturbed mamajama.

The boy’s walls were plastered with paintings of monsters and bloody destruction.  Tim could pick out pictures of dragons, gargoyles, wolf-monsters, and many other creatures of the night that he couldn’t even recognise.  There were also pictures of people: human bodies torn asunder and mutilated on spikes.  Tim felt like he was standing inside an inmate’s cell at some high-security psych-ward not a child’s bedroom.

“You shouldn’t be so rude, Jessica.” Sammie chastised his mother as if he were the authority figure in the room.  “You haven’t introduced me to your new friend.”

Jessica turned around to peer at Tim and seemed extremely embarrassed.  “You’re right, of course.  Where are my manners?  Sweetheart, this is Timothy Golding.  He’s here to help Mommy with some things around the house.”

“What things?” Sammie asked.  There was a sliver of aggression in his ten-year old voice.

“Just…things.  You don’t need to worry.”

Tim decided to start his investigation and asked his first question.  “Sammie, could you tell me what you drew for Angela?”

Sammie grinned at him, shrugged his bony shoulders.  “I just drew what my friend told me to.  He wanted her to remember.”

Tim nodded, but didn’t understand.  “Remember what?”

“Perhaps you should ask her,” Sammie suggested. “It would be wrong of me to discuss other people’s business.  Don’t worry, though. I’m sure I’ll find time to draw something for you too.”

Tim laughed.  “Funny, but that almost sounded like a threat.”

Sammie giggled.  “Don’t be silly, Timothy.  I’m just a child.  What threat could I possibly be to you?”

That’s to be determined, Tim thought as he battled a growing feeling of apprehension.  The negative emotions rising from Sammie in noxious waves were making Tim feel sick.  Other people may not have detected the malodour, but Tim most certainly did.  Something was not right about the boy – in fact, something was very wrong.  But there would be some rational explanation, there always was, and Tim would find out what it was.  He always did.

Almost always.

“Do you mind if I went and had a quick word with Angela?” Tim asked Jessica.  “Perhaps I can get her to stay.”

Jessica smiled at him and nodded enthusiastically.  “If you could I would be grateful.”

“I’ll try my best.”  Tim left the woman alone with her son.  To be honest he was glad to get out of there.  It was getting hard to breathe in the thick, bodily stench of the room.

He headed back over to the main hall and quickly realised he didn’t even know where to find Angela.  The house was vast and easy to get lost in, but he quickly had a thought that would help him.  There was an intercom set into the wall by the foyer’s front doors and Tim dialled 904 on the keypad.  Frank quickly picked up on the handheld receiver that Tim had seen the man carry.

“Hey, Frank.  I wanted to talk to Angela.  Are you with her?  You are? Great.  Where can I find you both?  Okay, I’ll see you there.”

Tim hurried up the stairs.

According to Frank, Angela was on the second floor in the Saunders Suite.  Tim had no idea where that was, but he was sure he would find it.  The manor was a labyrinth of corridors, but he was gradually beginning to get his bearings.  The building was more or less a giant cube with four floors of luxury rooms.  How Jessica could stand to live in such a voluminous house almost on her own, he did not know.  Personally he would have gone crazy knocking around the mansion all alone.

Maybe she went crazy, too.  She does seem a little on edge.

The Saunders Suite was up ahead. Tim rapped his knuckles against the door and it quickly opened.  Frank stood in the doorway, blocking the room, but Angela was nowhere to be seen.

“She won’t come out of the bathroom,” Frank explained, moving to let Tim inside.

“Is she okay?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know.  She was locked in there when I arrived.  I haven’t managed to get her to come out and talk to me.”

“Okay.  I’ll see if she’ll speak to me.”

Frank shrugged.  “By all means.  Ms Raymeady really would prefer it if you both stay.”

Tim walked across the bedroom and stood outside the door to what was most likely an en suite bathroom.  He tapped against the wood and tried to speak through it.  “Angela?  It’s Tim.  I know we’ve only just met, but I was kind of hoping we could talk.  To be honest, I think there may be something going on in this house and I would prefer not having to figure it out on my own.  I’d like your help.”

There was silence.

Tim tried harder.  “I…know there’s obviously something in your past that is making you want to run away right now – I have a past too – but if you leave, then you’re just letting yourself down.  If you run then your past is making a coward out of you.  If you stay…well, then you’d have my thanks at the very least.

The door opened and Angela came outside.  She’d obviously been crying.  “You don’t know anything about me, or my past.  Why are you so sure you want my help anyway?”

“Because Sammie went out of his way to freak you out, and that means you know something about what’s going on – whether you realise it or not.  I don’t even know how a ten year old boy can freak out a grown woman he’s just met, but I figure it means he doesn’t want you here – which means that I do.  I heard about your name being written in Sammie’s diary.  There’s a conflict happening somewhere, because if Sammie summoned you here then he certainly didn’t act like he wanted you here just now.  Whatever is going on obviously involves you, and I think we’ll have a better chance of figuring it out if you stay.”

“I can’t stay.”

“Look,” said Tim.  “I don’t know what was on that drawing, but you’re not alone.  Whatever happens, I’ll have your back.  Let’s figure things out and try and to help this family.  Anyway, Frank told me we’re going to get paid a shit load of money, so what’s to think about?  How ‘bout it?”

Angela looked close to tears again, but she kept them back and nodded.  “Frank,” she said, looking over at the silver-haired man.  “Could you give us both a minute, please?  If I’m going to stay here then I’d like to know a bit more about the guy offering to watch my back.”

Frank obliged her and left the room.  Tim stepped over to the four-poster bed and perched on the end of it.  Angela pulled up a chair that was tucked up beside a vanity table.  She sat down on it and faced Tim.  It seemed like there were things she wanted to know, questions she needed to ask.

“Why are you all doing this to me?” was her first enquiry.

Tim was confused.  “Hey, I’m as in the dark about all this as you are.  I didn’t know anything about this until a couple days ago.  I figured I was just being hired for a simple job, but then I realised it was all a big setup to bring me here.”

Angela frowned.  “You were set up?”

Tim nodded.  “Well, yeah, sort of.  I guess in a way it was more of an informal interview.  Frank and some woman were posing as a family with “ghost” problems.  They called me to see whether I saw through their bullshit or not – guess they wanted to see if I was a hustler.  I caught onto their scam in about thirty-seconds flat.  So they brought me here.”

“Okay,” Angela said after remaining silent for a few moments.  “Maybe you’re in the dark as much as I am, but that doesn’t mean I trust them.  They’re up to something, and for some reason they’ve got their sights set on me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that they summoned me here specifically and then started playing games with my head.  That picture… They must have looked into my past.  I just don’t know the reasons why.”

“What was on that picture that scared the heck out of you so much?” Tim asked.

He didn’t expect her to trust him so soon, but it appeared that she was willing to give him the chance.  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the slip of paper with Sammie’s drawing on.  Tim looked at it and his eyes went wide.

“Is this…is this you, here in the corner?”

Angela nodded and Tim looked closer.  The childish artwork depicted the interior of a Christian church, complete with alter and oversized crucifix.  Tim assumed it was some place Angela had once worked.  There were blood-soaked walls depicted by thick, red crayon and a crudely scrawled carpet of stickmen-bodies making up the bottom of the picture.  In the corner of the church was a doodle representing Angela. Opposite was a tall man with bright red eyes, holding a knife.  The man looked crazy and malevolent.

“What is this supposed to mean?” Tim asked Angela.  “It’s sick, horrible.  Are these bodies down there at the bottom?  What does this have to do with you?”

“This drawing is a snapshot from my life,” she said.  “That picture happened to me for real.  I was involved in a church massacre.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Jesus had nothing to do with it,” she said.  “It was a parishioner named Charles Crippley.  I was stationed in Jersey at the time.  It was a dream position: big house, private island full of rich and generous parishioners. It was a cushy job.  But I had one parishioner who was a bit of a handful.

Tim nodded.  “Charles Crippley?”

“Yes.  He was a local farmer, a quiet man, kept to himself.  Some people said that he was mentally disabled, like a child in a man’s body. I have to admit that the man was strange, but I didn’t think he was unintelligent.  He was more odd than stupid.”

“How was he odd?”

“He spoke to an imaginary friend, for one thing.  Barley, he used to call him.  Said that Barley was his friend.”

“Just like Sammie says he has a friend?”  Tim ran a hand through his brittle, ginger hair and wriggled his bony butt on the edge of the bed, trying to get comfortable.  “That’s a coincidence I can’t say I like.”

Angela agreed with him.  “Exactly,” she said.  “That’s why I know this family is messing with me.  They know that the church ordered me to perform an exorcism to try and cure Charles Crippley of his delusions.  He had been brutalising the livestock on his farm, and publically condemning people that he felt were “sinners”.  The local community started to complain, so the diocese decided to do something about it.  I visited Charles at home every day for over two weeks, but every day he was worse.  He took to spitting at me and blaspheming.  He became sickly and stopped looking after himself.  I performed The Rites on him several times but they only seemed to exacerbate his condition.  His friend, Barley, was becoming more and more present and all I felt like I was doing was bringing something vile to the surface, like pus from an infected boil. But I continued anyway, even when Charles said that Barley was going to punish me, along with anyone who followed me.”

“So what happened?”

“Sunday services happened.  Charles wasn’t even there when I started, which was strange because he was always one of the first to arrive.  I started more or less as usual, and gave a sermon about the Good Samaritan and the importance of helping your neighbour.  I was almost finished when Charles came down the aisle.  He was shouting that we ‘were a flock of immoral lizards being led by a soulless dyke’.  He knew I was a lesbian, even though I’d never admitted it to anyone at that point.  In fact, I’m not sure I even knew myself back then.”

“That’s weird,” Tim said.  “Maybe the guy had one of those gay-dars or something.”

Angela took a deep breath and continued.  “As soon as he came in I noticed he was carrying the knife.  It was one of those big, curved blades that they use in slaughter houses.  He was blocking the doorway and shouting.  Then he got started.  He killed nine people by the time he was done.  I was the only survivor.”

“That’s horrible,” Tim said, empathising with how Angela no doubt felt. Looking at her, he could almost see the torment etched into the creases of her face.

Angela blinked and a tear fell down her cheek.  “Enough,” she said, wiping it away.  “I’m done with trips down memory lane.  My point was only supposed to be that Jessica and Frank have done their homework. They’re using my past to try and manipulate me.  Worst of all is that they’ve involved a ten-year old boy in their schemes.  Did you see the shape Sammie was in?”

Tim sighed.  “I’m not so sure you’re on the right track here, Angela.  My bullshit meter is pretty sensitive and I think Jessica is legitimately worried.  You must sense how utterly strung-out the woman is?  It’s clear as day. And as for Sammie, there’s no way they could coax a kid his age to behave the way he has been.  There’s something just not right with him, and that’s why we’re here – to help figure things out.”

“If Sammie is so innocent then how did he know what happened in Jersey?  He must have been briefed.”

Tim shrugged.  “I don’t know, but we can find out the answer together.  If I get one whiff that we’re being played for fools then I will walk right out that door with you.  But until then, I would rather have your help than not.”

Angela finally gave in.  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll stay.”

Tim stood up and clapped his hands together.  “Great!  Because I could do with some help setting up my equipment.”

Angela frowned at him.  “Equipment?”

He winked at her.  “It’s time to blind them with science, my lesbian friend.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Angela had decided to stay behind in her room to have a bath before doing anything else, so Tim left her alone to enjoy her soak. He’d since made the journey down to the Manor’s driveway and was heading over to his parked-up transit van.  Beside it was the long black Mercedes in which Frank had led him there two nights previous.  The five-door saloon was as financially-indulgent as the house and grounds were.  At the edge of the pebbled driveway was a garage block, and beyond that was a modest pond.  The water’s surface was devoid of ducks or other wildlife, which seemed strange for the time of year.

Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out the key for the van.  He disengaged the lock and opened the rear doors.  A wide smile stretched across his face and he said, “There you are, my babies.”

The back of the van was really Tim’s office, full of his gadgets and gizmos.  The intention of his various investigations was always to debunk claims of the supernatural or paranormal, and science – along with common sense – was the best way to do it.  His equipment included audio recording equipment, an infrared camera, microscopes, barometers, thermometers, a motion detector, assorted chemicals, and many other tools that would allow him to separate the “normal” from the “para-normal”.  For now, all Tim wanted was his environmental testing kit.  It would be best to start by investigating the grounds and working inwards towards the house.

He rummaged around and picked out a small plastic clip-case, then closed the doors to the van.  The nearby duck pond was as good a place as any to start investigating so he decided to head there first.  Maybe he could find out why the peaceful habitat was devoid of wildlife when it should have been teeming with the various species of birds, rabbits, frogs, and other creatures that inhabit the English countryside.

Tim detected a sharp odour as he approached the water’s edge.  It was a mild tang; subtle, yet faintly eggy like the fumes from an exhaust pipe.  The pond water lay still, undisturbed by the light breeze of the day.

Tim crouched down on the bank and unclipped the plastic clip-case.  From its contents he plucked a strip of litmus paper and doused it in the pond water. A few seconds later he waved it to-and-fro in the air.  A few more seconds after that, Tim examined the strip of paper and saw that it had turned a dark red.  Acidic.  Factoring in the eggy smell, Tim suspected sulphur.  It could have been used by the gardeners to alter the pH of the soil, especially if there was a high lime content.  It could then have seeped through into the pond, which would explain why there was no wildlife, but as Tim looked around he saw no attempt at planting vegetables.

He headed away from the pond, just a few meters, over to a patch of grass. He knelt down again, picked up a few grains of soil and cupped them in his palm.  Next, he produced a slim, plastic test tube from his testing kit and dropped the granules inside.  Finally, he added some litmus flour to the soil sample and some pure water from a small flask.  Rattling the test tube around for a couple of seconds, he then waited for the solution inside to settle.  Just like the pond water, the soil was acidic.  The liquid in the test tube had turned red.

There was a noise behind Tim, making him spin around.  The hissing sound was coming from the pond.  He took a step back towards the water’s edge and saw that the surface of the pond had become unsettled.  At first it just shimmered, but then it began to bubble and pop like soup in a cauldron.  The pond was beginning to boil.  Tim could feel the heat coming off it. The smell of eggs grew to eye-watering levels.

What the Hell…

Tim crept closer to the water, staring into its murky depths.  He got down on his hands and knees, moved his face closer.  The pond continued to churn, frothing violently, almost as if it could detect his increasing proximity.  He’d never seen anything like it.  Even if there was some sort of gaseous vent heating the pond, there was no way it could have gotten heated so fast.

The water hissed louder.

And then suddenly it was airborne.

Several fist-sized drops of boiling water flew toward Tim’s overhanging face.  He swung an arm up to shield himself but wasn’t quick enough.  Some of the liquid got through his defence and splashed against his face.  The soft flesh of his cheek and forehead stung in agony.

Tim leapt backwards and twisted to the ground, holding his face in his hands.  “Goddamn, motherf-”  He screamed out in pain.

“TIM!  Tim, are you okay?”

It was Angela’s voice.  Tim felt the woman hit the ground beside him and put her hands on him. She forced him over onto his back. He still clutched at his face and struggled to tell her what had happened.  “The water.  It, it…burned me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The pond.  The pond is hot.”

“I don’t understand.”  She sounded frantic.  “The pond is hot?”

The pain in Tim’s face lessened a little and he removed his hands tentatively and pointed to the pond.  “The pond is boil-”  He stopped mid-word.  The pond was normal again;  its surface as still and serene as a painting.  It was also full of fish.  Goldfish zipped through the water merrily, flitting back and forth.  Tim thought he even spotted a family of newts at the pond’s edge.

Tim’s mouth started working back and forth, but no sound came out.

“What’s wrong?”  Angela asked him.  “I don’t understand what’s happened.”

Tim tried to catch a breath and calm himself down.  “I…Oh, hellski, I don’t have a clue.   Maybe I’m losing it.”  His face no longer burned and, as he fingered the skin of his cheeks, it felt completely normal.  “Can I ask you a question, Angela?”

“Of course.”

“What does my face look like?”

Angela looked confused, but she gave him an answer.  “Ugly, same as usual.”

Tim laughed.  “Cheers.  No…burn marks, or anything, though?”

Angela shook her head.  “You want to tell me what happened?”

Tim heaved himself up onto his feet and shook his head.  “Nothing happened.  At least it appears that way.  Come on, let’s go back inside the house.”

Angela didn’t ask him any more questions about it, but as they walked away, she stopped and pointed down at something on the ground.  It was his environmental testing kit.  “Do you need that?” she asked him.

“No,” Tim replied.  “I’m beginning to think that my usual methods might not be as effective as I hoped they would be.”

“Guess you need a Plan B then.”

Tim scratched at his fuzzy beard.  “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever needed a Plan B before.”

“I’m going to take that as a bad sign,” said Angela.

“Yeah,” replied Tim, thinking about things a little deeper.  “Me too.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Frank unlocked the door to the Security Office and stepped inside wearily.  He hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, too mistrustful of the recent house guests to allow himself to sleep.  He would need to set some time set aside soon – his mind was beginning to get cloudy – but right now there was too much going on.

Frank’s main priority now was the protection of Ms Raymeady and her son.  With a disgraced priest and a professional ghost hunter-come-whackjob in the house, Frank needed his mind fresh and alert.  He needed to be ready for any tricks the two charlatans might pull.  While Tim had proven himself previously to be a man that looked for facts rather than fantasy, Frank still did not trust him.  He didn’t trust either of them.  If Jessica wanted them here then that was her prerogative, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

Then again, he didn’t have any better ideas to help young Sammie.  The boy was a grade-A nutcase heading for life in the funny farm, but he was also Joseph Raymeady’s son and the only existing link to a man that Frank had spent the last ten years serving.  He would do what he could to protect Sammie, but at this point he had to admit that things were looking pretty hopeless.

Frank took a seat at his desk and gave a quick glance to each of the CCTV monitors in front of him.  The house seemed to be in order for now.  Mike and Graham were in the kitchen fixing another batch of their gluttonous sandwiches to take out to the car.  Jessica was in the piano lounge with a large glass of wine, per usual.  The two tricksters, Tim and Angela, were currently walking around the grounds, thick as thieves.  No doubt colluding on whatever con they’re about to spin.  Finally, Frank checked on Sammie.  The boy was in his room (which was now more of a dirty cell) scribbling away at his desk.

The boy had a sick mind, that was for sure.  The things he drew were obviously the concoction of a deeply disturbed mind.  They were also frighteningly astute.  Frank himself had received many sketches from the boy and they had shown things from his days serving in the Army.  He drew scenes of torture in Sierra Leone one day and then dead children in Northern Island the next.  The one thing the pictures always had in common was that Frank had seen them all first hand.  It was as if Sammie was reaching into Frank’s nightmares for artistic inspiration, presenting him with the faces of all the men who had died fighting at his side.

The worst picture Sammie had drawn for Frank had featured a soldier firing cartoon bullets into a pregnant woman. The foetus was spilling from her guts and landing on the sandy floor in a sickly pile.  Frank knew the soldier was him.  What he did not know was how Sammie could have seen his darkest secrets.  The secrets from the day he led his men into a quiet little village that had seemed safe but was, in fact, nothing but a trap.  His bad decision making had cost lives, and a pregnant woman her baby.

One of the television screens flickered.

Frank gave the monitor a tap, but it just made things worse.  The picture had become scrambled with static.  Frank hit the monitor again, harder, and then flinched in his seat.  The picture suddenly snapped back into focus. Sammie was no longer at his desk. The boy was now just ten feet away from the CCTV camera lens, staring up at Frank and grinning.  His eyes were dark orbs and his teeth jutted out from swollen, brown gums.

Frank leant closer to the screen, trying to work out what the boy was doing.  Sammie was inching closer and closer to the camera, which Frank knew for sure was a good eight feet off the ground.  It was almost as if the boy was levitating.  Getting closer and closer…

Crack!

The monitor’s screen split from corner to corner, a deep furrow carved into the glass.

Frank leapt back in his chair.  The screen was shattered, struck by an invisible hammer.  Frank was silent.  There was nothing that he could say, alone as he was in the room.  Instead he chose to sit and think for a moment, twiddling his fingers as he processed the facts in his mind.  From the way things were going it could well turn out to be another twenty-four hours before he got any sleep.

CHAPTER NINE

Angela was still freaked out by the picture Sammie had drawn her – and the incident with Tim and the pond had done nothing to calm her nerves – but she was now determined to take charge of the situation.  She would not be manipulated or frightened.  If this was all just one big set-up then she would make sure those responsible regretted it, and if not…  Well, if not then Angela was determined to get to the bottom of things.

The only person she trusted right now was Tim, and that was only because he seemed as freaked out as she was.  There was little doubt in her mind that he was here for the same reasons that she was (primarily money) and for now she was willing to work with the dishevelled young man.

She and Tim were back inside Raymeady Manor now, standing in its vast foyer.  There was no one else around.

Tim put his fingers in his mouth and whistled.  “It’s a bloody nightmare trying to find people in this place,” he said.

“I know,” Angela agreed.  “I’m not surprised Jessica’s on edge.  Empty houses have a way of making people skittish – especially old empty houses.”

“You think that’s what’s going on?” Tim asked her.  “Simple paranoia?”

“I hope so, because what’s the alternative?”

Frank appeared from the east side of the foyer, his polished work shoes clicking on the marble.  “Miss Murs, Mr Golding.  I was beginning to wonder where you two had gotten to.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” said Tim.  “We’re ready to see Sammie again now.”

Frank nodded.  “Okay.  You may be wasting your time, though.  The boy likes to watch South Park during the afternoons.  He can be quite unresponsive.”

Frank led them back towards Sammie’s room on the first floor.  Even before they got there, Angela could hear the television blaring.  She’d never watched South Park herself, but she knew it was popular.  She also knew it wasn’t suitable for a ten year old boy.

“Why do you let him watch the program?  Isn’t it meant for adults?”

“It is, yes, but he gets violent if you turn it off.”

Tim scoffed.  “Violent?  Can’t you control him, a big man like you?”

Frank’s expression was impassive.  He did not rise to the insult.  “Sammie is stronger than he looks.”

They arrived at Sammie’s door and Frank unlocked it, allowing them to step inside.  Frank grinned at Tim and said, “I’ll leave you ‘experts’ alone to do your work.”

The door closed behind them and suddenly Angela felt very claustrophobic – trapped even.  The room was humid and tropical like a Florida storm.  Sammie was lying in his bed, wrapped up to his neck in sweat-stained bed sheets.  A wall-mounted television flashed in front of him, brightly-drawn cartoon characters frolicking across the screen.

Angela waved a hand.  “Hello, Sammie.  How are you feeling?”

The boy said nothing.  His gaze was transfixed on the television, his eyes unblinking.  Angela could not be sure, but he seemed to be muttering to himself very quietly.

Tim stepped forward and perched on the end of the boy’s bed.  “Hey, little man.  So, you dig South Park, huh?  Who’s your favourite character?  I like Cartman.”

Sammie said nothing.

But there was movement beneath his sheets.

Tim continued his attempt to get through to the boy by trying to speak on a similar level.  “Have they killed Kenny yet?  Huh?  Sammie, are you listening to me?”

The movement beneath the bed sheets got faster.

Suddenly Angela realised what the movement was.  “Tim,” she said horrified. “My God, I think he’s…”

Tim stood up from the bed with a disgusted look on his face.  “Sammie, you stop that right now.  That’s very rude.”

Angela couldn’t believe the young boy was masturbating.  The sheets were moving up and down rapidly, the small hand beneath pumping like a piston.

“Turn off the television,” said Angela.  “He’s in a trance or something.”

Tim looked around.  “I don’t see a remote.”

Angela couldn’t see one either. She went over to the television and rose up on tiptoes, reaching for the power button.  She jabbed it with her index finger and South Park disappeared.

“Look out,” Tim shouted from behind her.

Angela turned around to see Sammie standing on the bed, his naked body taut like a wild animal.  The boy wore only a pair of grimy underpants, which did nothing to hide a virulent erection.  Sammie glared down at Angela and growled.  The noise was guttural, unfit for a child.

Angela raised her hands in front of her.  “Sammie, maybe you should just get back into bed and we’ll talk.”

Sammie leapt at her from the bed, seeming to hang in the air as he covered the ten feet between them in a single bound.  His bony fingers closed instantly around her throat. She was deafened by the high-pitched shrieks escaping the boy’s lungs.  Her back hit the wall and, for a moment, she worried that the mounted television would rock loose and fall on her head.

Tim rushed over to help; the shock and surprise in his eyes palpable.  Together, they struggled to remove Sammie’s clawed fingers from around Angela’s throat.  The boy was trying to snap her windpipe with unnaturally strong hands.  Angela tried to cry out, but her voice was restricted.  Her eyes felt like they were popping loose from her skull.

Tim grabbed Sammie’s left arm, tried to work it free, but failed to gain any leverage.  Angela felt the blood vessels in her face overload as the pressure rose in her head. Frantically, she clutched for an idea.

She stopped struggling with Sammie and pointed her left hand at the television above her head, then made eye contact with Tim.  She tried to make him understand without being able to tell him.

After what seemed like an eternity – Angela’s life choking away – Tim finally got what she was trying to tell him.

Tim leapt up and bashed the television’s power button with his palm.

“Screw you guys, I’m going home!”

The television was back on.  Sammie released his grip.

Tim placed a hand against the boy’s shoulder and eased him back towards the bed. Angela slumped against the wall, clutching at her throat and hacking.  Her windpipe felt like sandpaper.  Another couple of seconds and she would have been unconscious for sure.

Or worse.

Tim got Sammie back into bed and came to check on Angela.  He helped her to stand up by putting an arm around her.  “Hell’s bells, you okay?”

“I’ll live,” she said, wondering if it were even true.  “I think so, anyway.  What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know, but he’s the strongest ten-year old I know.  If he hadn’t let go, I don’t know what I would have done.  We need to be more careful from now on.”

“No shit,” said Angela, fingering her bruised throat.  Her mouth had filled with saliva.

“Come on.”  Tim took her away from Sammie’s bed.  “Let’s go get you checked out.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but quickly reconsidered.  “Although, I could use a drink.”

Tim looked at his watch.  “It’s one in the afternoon.”  Then he smiled.  “What took you so long?”

Angela let out a laugh and wasn’t surprised to find that it hurt a lot.

CHAPTER TEN

When Angela and Tim entered the lounge they were surprised to find Jessica there sitting alone.  The lady of the house had a half-finished bottle of white wine in front of her and was nursing an empty glass as though she was contemplating whether or not to pour another.

Angela took a seat beside Jessica while Tim went behind the bar to get drinks.  They’d agreed to have just one, considering the early hour. “Are you okay, Jessica?” Angela asked.

Jessica returned a grim smile.  “I’m fine.  Just, you know, thinking about things.  I used to be able to do my thinking without alcohol, but lately things have become…fuzzy.  It’s hard to think straight in this place since my husband passed.”

Angela nodded.  “I can imagine.  Have you thought about living somewhere else?”

“I have, but this was Joseph’s home.  It wouldn’t feel right to sell it.  Anyway, it’s still in probate for the time being while the lawyers sort out my late husband’s estate.  Perhaps I’ll think more about it then.”

Tim sat down with the drinks: a whisky for Angela and a beer for him. Then he said, “We went to see Sammie again.”

Jessica sighed.  “I hope you didn’t turn off his program.”

“We did,” Tim said.  “Won’t make that mistake again.”

“I’m sorry if either of you were hurt.  I’ll tell Frank he needs to pay closer care to the both of you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Angela, rubbing her sore neck.  “What was more concerning was what he was doing while he was watching the television.”

“I know what you’re referring to,” said Jessica, the shame abundant in her eyes.  “He started touching himself a few weeks ago.  The first time he did it, the maids were still here.  He ejaculated into his hand and threw it into one of the lady’s faces.  That was the last we saw of her, of course.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it wasn’t her first time,” said Tim, but then seemed instantly embarrassed by what he had said.  “Sorry.  Bad joke.”

“Indeed,” said Jessica.  “None of this is very funny to me, Mr Golding.  The only reason you are here is because of the success you have had with finding rational explanations behind some very high profile cases.”

“I apologise, Ms Raymeady.  It’s not my intention to offend you.”

“That’s quite alright.  So, have you formed any opinions about my son yet?  Can you help?”

Tim shook his head and let out a sigh.  “I really don’t know, but I will try my best.  I think it’s safe to say that something very strange is happening to him.  I for one would like to know what.”

“Me too,” said Angela.  “I’m determined to stay and get to the bottom of this.”

Jessica seemed to lighten at the sound of that.  “So you’ll perform an exorcism?”

Angela frowned.  “I didn’t say that.  I’m not about to admit that Evil has anything to do with this.”

Jessica seemed frustrated.  “Then what help are you going to provide?”

“I’ve a lot of experience with sick people behaving in bizarre ways.  I’m certain my observations will tell me more about what is wrong with your son.  I won’t need a Bible to help you.”

“And I’ll run some tests,” said Tim.  “Try to find out if there’re any environmental factors for what is going on.”

Jessica let loose a breath and it whistled between her teeth.  “Thank you, both.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have a lie down now that‘s settled.  Please don’t hesitate to contact Frank if you need anything.”

“Will do,” said Tim, waving goodbye.  Once Jessica was gone, he turned to Angela with a sad look on his face.  “Poor lady.  I think she’s at breaking point.”

Angela agreed.  “Can’t say I blame her.  This whole thing is very strange.”

“You ever see anything like it before?”

“I’ve seen a lot of messed up things in my time, none of which I wish to speak of now.”

Tim looked her in the eye.  “Do you believe in Evil?  Did you ever do a real exorcism?”

“I…yes, I believe so.  Once.”

Tim nodded.  “Charles Crippley?”

“Yes, but it’s a story for another time.  Have you ever encountered a genuine case of – what do you call it – the paranormal?”

“I’ve seen a few things, here and there, which I can’t explain.  Most of the time, though, it’s just hoaxes and superstition.  There was one time, though…”

Angela leant forward.  “Go on.”

Tim shrugged and seemed to change his mind about wanting to talk about things.  “Well, let’s just say that at the beginning of my career I was indeed a conman, just like Frank thought I was when he booked my services.  I was screwing people over, left and right, playing off their grief to get their money.  Truth be told I was a pretty reprehensible piece of shit, but one night in a hotel changed my entire outlook on life.  Now I try to help people.  I try to find a rational explanation for the things that are scaring them.  Ninety-nine per cent of the time I manage to do just that.  The other one per cent keeps me awake at night.”

Angela let out a joyless chuckle.  “Funny in a way, because I feel like I used to be nothing but a conman too, back when I worked with the church.  I played off of people’s grief and gave them the same line of bullshit that you probably did.  I just wrapped it up in a different bow.”

“Guess, we’re going to make pretty good partners then, huh?”

Angela shrugged her shoulders and felt a knot come loose from her injured neck muscles.  “Think the jury is still out on that one for the time being.”

Tim nodded, then stared into space for a moment as he seemed to turn over a thought in his mind.  Eventually he said, “So what’s the plan?  You have any ideas how to tackle this?”

Angela shrugged.  “I just plan on spending time around Sammie.  See what I can observe.  When I was enlisted as an exorcist I took an interest in psychology; I thought it would be pertinent.  In most cases a person’s mind is a lot more likely to be damaged than their soul is.  Anyway, what about you?  What ‘tests’ are you going to perform?”

“I’m going to confront Ms Raymeady’s assumptions head on.  If she believes there is some sort of demon at work then I will first seek to disprove that.”

“How?”

Tim smiled.  “Best way to get a bear’s attention is to poke it.”

Angela didn’t know what that meant, but she had a feeling things would only get weirder.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Angela sat patiently on an antique chair while Tim hefted his equipment up to the first floor.  He was amassing it in a cluttered circle outside of Sammie’s room.  Frank had agreed to help with the experiments and was currently inside with Sammie, setting up some infrared cameras, microphones, and seismographs.  Tim had explained to her that he would be able to record the data and video feeds onto a laptop twenty-four hours a day.  It all seemed like silly videogames to Angela – boys and their toys – but she was determined to show Tim, and his methods, the proper respect.  They were colleagues after all.

Tim came up the stairs, now on his fourth equipment run.  This time he was carrying what looked like a doctor’s saddle bag.  “That’s everything,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with his free hand.

Angela stood up from her chair and nodded to the satchel he was carrying.  “What’s in the bag?”

“Medical supplies.  I want to see if Sammie is physically healthy before we explore anything else.”

“Are you qualified to perform medical tests?”

“Nope, but I haven’t been sued yet.  Besides, it’s not as hard as it looks.”

Frank opened the door to Sammie’s rooms and stepped outside to join them.  “Your equipment is all set up.  What’s all the rest of this junk you’ve left out here?”

“Oh, you know, just an Ecto Containment Unit, proton packs, the usual.”

Frank stared at Tim blankly.

Tim shook his head and sniffed.  “That was a joke.  The small machine that looks like a coffee maker is a blood analyser.  The larger machine on the right is an ultrasound machine and heart rate monitor.”

“Where did you get all this stuff?” Angela asked.

“Various places.  Auctions mostly, but some stuff I got pretty cheap from China.  They don’t give a shit who they’re selling to over there.”

Angela stood beside one of the cherub statues outside Sammie’s door.  “Let’s get started then.”

Frank backed them as they walked into the bedroom.  Tim brought his doctor’s bag with him and set it down on a nearby dresser against the wall.  He opened the clasp at the top and pulled the two sides apart, then reached in and pulled out a syringe.

“What do you plan on doing with that?” Frank demanded.

“I thought I would use it to play darts.”  He sighed.  “What do you think I’m going to do with it?  I’m going to draw some blood.”

“He’s already been poked and prodded enough.  I don’t know what you have to learn.”

“Well,” said Tim.  “If you don’t mind, I would like to take a small amount of blood anyway.”

“You’re very welcome,” came Sammie’s reply from the far side of the room.  The boy was looking out of the large bay window that stood in front of his crayon-covered desk.  For the first time since Tim had arrived, Sammie was wearing clothes.

Frank rubbed at his eyes and shrugged.  The man seemed extremely tired.  “Well, I suppose if Sammie doesn’t mind…just do what you need to do.”

Tim nodded and headed over to Sammie, who had already rolled up one of his shirt sleeves to offer out his veiny arm.  There was a knowing smile on the boy’s face that made Angela feel uncomfortable even from ten feet away and just observing.

“Okay, Sammie,” Tim said soothingly.  “This will just feel like a little pinch.”

“It’s okay.  Pain doesn’t bother me, Mr Golding.  Go ahead and take your blood.”

Angela watched in anticipation while Tim rubbed Sammie’s arm with a disposable swab. Next, he uncapped the syringe and placed the nib against the boy’s flesh.  Angela moved up closer, mainly to get a closer look at Tim’s medical skills, but also because she wanted to be nearby if Sammie had another bout of aggression.  She needed to watch Tim’s back the same way he had watched hers.

Tim prodded the needle against Sammie’s skin, but there seemed to be resistance. The nib unable to penetrate the skin.  Tim moved the needle away and repositioned it somewhere else along the boy’s arm.  He pushed the needle again.  Angela cringed as the needle scratched against flesh.

Sammie was smiling politely.  “Is there a problem, Mr Golding?”

“I…er…I am finding it hard to break a vein.”

“Perhaps you should try harder.”

Tim cleared his throat and suddenly seemed very nervous.  Angela wasn’t sure, but his hands might have been shaking as he continued struggling with the needle. He still seemed unable to break the skin.

Tim prodded and poked, stabbed and pricked.  Eventually the needle went in.

It went in deep.

A torrent of blood arced high into the air. The dark-red arterial spray soaked Tim’s face.  He stumbled back, spluttering and spitting.  His thighs hit against Sammie’s desk and he tumbled onto his knees.

Angela ran forward to help her colleague, but quickly realised it was Sammie who needed the help.  The boy was bleeding badly, his bodily fluids jetting into the air in a fountain of gore, puddling on the floor in a grisly lake.

“Jesus Christ,” Frank shouted as he rushed across the room.  “What the hell have you done?  Jesus!”

Sammie snarled at Frank as he approached and spat a mouthful of viscous black fluid right into his face.  Frank clutched at his cheek and was clearly disgusted by the foul liquid that came away on his hands.

“Blasphemer!” Sammie bellowed

Angela stood still, in shock and unable to move.

Then the bleeding stopped, as suddenly as it had started.  The arc of blood disappeared as if someone had turned off a tap inside the boy’s heart.  Sammie turned slowly to face the bay window and seemed almost to slither towards it.  He sat down at the chair of his drawing desk and started sketching with his crayons.  His bare feet had left blood prints on the plush cream carpet.

“What the fuck just happened?” Frank shouted at the top of his lungs.

“I have no idea,” said Tim.  “A syringe can’t open up an artery like that. And bleeding that heavy doesn’t just stop either.”

Angela bent forward, the tang of fresh blood taking her mind to a place of nightmares and misery.  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Tim came and put an arm around her.  “Come on.  Let’s get out of here until we can think this through.”

“Yes,” said Sammie, sketching away calmly.  “Why don’t you all just GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE AND LEAVE ME ALONE?”

The boy’s voice was the deep baritone of a circus strongman, not that of a skinny, ten-year old boy.  The words were so loud and full of bass that Angela’s ears rattled against her skull.  The surprise of it stopped her dead in her tracks for a moment, but Tim gently pulled on her arm and got her moving again.

“I don’t know if we should leave him,” she said.  “Maybe we should go get a doctor.”

Tim continued dragging her towards the door.  “He’s fine.  Look at him. It’s like nothing ever happened.  Anyway, I got what I needed.”

“And what was that?”

“I got Sammie’s blood,” said Tim.  “It’s all over me.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“You need to get those con artists out of this house,” Frank told Jessica. She was currently lying in her bed, trying to sleep off a hangover.  “They almost killed Sammie just now.  There was blood everywhere.”

Jessica sat bolt upright.  The urgency returned to her eyes at the news of her son having been in danger.  “What?  Sammie?  Is he okay?  Frank, tell me.”

Frank ran a hand over his throbbing forehead.  “He’s fine, somehow.  I don’t quite know what happened to be honest, but I know it started when that ginger-headed clown stuck a needle in your son’s arm.”

“Where is everybody now?”

“Sammie is drawing at his desk.  Angela and Tim are somewhere in the house planning their next performance.”

Jessica patted the bed beside her and, reluctantly, Frank sat down on the spot she’d indicated.  Jessica began to rub his shoulders.  “Frank, you promised me that you would give this a go.  These two people are the only hope I have left.  I know that you don’t agree with their methods, but let’s just see what they come up with.  I fear Sammie is doomed otherwise.”

“I think he’s in more danger since they turned up, but…”  He sighed.  It was pointless arguing, nor was it his place.  “If that’s what you want, Jessica.”

“Thank you, Frank.”  She began kissing the nape of his neck and stroked his chest.  He stood up quickly, not because he was adverse to her touch, but because he knew he couldn’t deal with the distraction right now.

“I need to get back downstairs,” he said. “Keep an eye on things.”

“When was the last time you slept, Frank?  You’re not usually this rattled.”

Maybe if you were sober a little more often I wouldn’t need to be so alert all the time.

“I’m fine,” Frank told her.  “I just want this situation dealt with, so we can all go back to normal.”

“Me too, Frank.  I appreciate your loyalty this last year.  I couldn’t have coped without you.”

You aren’t coping...

“It’s been my pleasure, Ms Raymeady.  I take it you will be joining us this evening?”

Jessica must have caught the disapproving look in his eyes because her reply was short and clipped.  “I will be down shortly.”

“Very good, ma’am.”  Frank opened the door of the master bedroom and departed.  The penthouse floor of the house was the most lavish of all and Frank hated it.  It represented the dirty money of Black Remedy and the wealth of its late owner.  Joseph may have been a better man than his father, but the opulence he inherited was still stained with blood and corruption.  Now that Joseph was dead, the Black Remedy Corporation would no doubt become an even bigger cesspit of immoral greed.  Jessica would inherit half of the company, but Frank knew that she was weak.  Her late husband’s business partner, Vincent Black, would run rings around her until he was in complete control of the company.  By the time little Sammie grew up, his mother would probably be left with nothing.  From billionaire housewife to destitute widow in less than a decade; that was how Black Remedy worked.  You were either a man-eating lion or you got eaten alive.  Jessica was a wounded pony, doomed to visit the abattoir and her suffering would only get worse.

Unfortunately, he loved her.

At least for the time being, Frank could do his best to protect Jessica and Sammie.  Whatever happened in the future he would have to deal with then, but for now there were more pressing matters to attend to.

He headed into Joseph’s former office at the east end of the penthouse and unlocked it with his master keys.  Frank knew what he was looking for and didn’t hesitate in going over to the wall-safe behind the broad, walnut desk taking up half the room.  After keying in the combination and swinging open the hatch, Frank fumbled between the various papers and wads of cash until he placed his hand around a wooden grip handle.  He pulled the police-issue Glock 17 handgun out of the safe and checked that it was loaded.  It was.  He slipped the weapon into his trousers and pulled his suit jacket over the top to keep it hidden.

I don’t know what those two clowns are planning, but I’ll make sure they’ll think twice before trying to take advantage of Jessica.  Any more of Sammie’s blood hits the floor and I’ll make them sorry.

Frank closed up the safe and took a seat in Joseph’s high-backed leather chair.  He pressed a button on his ex-boss’s computer and waited while the hard drive whizzed to life, loading the operating system.  Frank felt small sitting at the grand desk, surrounded by shelves full of books he could never hope to understand. He wasn’t a big enough man to fill his boss’ shoes and he wondered what Joseph Raymeady would have made of the feelings Frank had for his wife.  Joseph was a fair man, but loyalty was important to him.  Frank knew that his behaviour would have brought out the darker side of his employer.  Who would blame him, though?  Jessica might be a widow, but Frank still felt like he was betraying her late husband.  He felt like Judas.

You’re not doing anything wrong, Frank told himself.  You’re protecting the man’s family.  He would have wanted that.  The fact that she’s one of the richest women in the world and as emotionally involved as you are is just a bonus.

The computer screen lit up and Joseph’s desktop appeared on screen.  Why the computer wasn’t password protected, Frank would never understand, but it had made it much easier for him to look into his late boss’s activities.

In the months prior to his death, Joseph had been increasingly unnerved about something.  Frank needed to find out what it was in case it presented a danger to Jessica and her son.  He’d checked through the company’s financial records first and had found nothing concerning – profits were down, but that was mostly due to Joseph’s efforts to clean up the company and do things ethically, but overall Black Remedy still had its fingers in hundreds of very successful pies: from banking and finance, to a chain of successful bakeries, there was nary a single industry that the company didn’t have at least some of its hooks into.  The company had even recently begun purchasing cruise liners to add a tourism arm to its already vast shipping fleets.  But of course, as had always been the case, the jewel in the crown of Black Remedy was pharmaceuticals.  Whether it be for a common cold or full-blown AIDS, every time someone in the western world popped a pill, there was a sixty per cent chance that it came from one of Black Remedy’s processing plants.  The company possessed such power that it could regulate people’s health on a whim.

Frank had come to the conclusion that whatever had been worrying Joseph had not been a financial issue.  Which meant the threat must have been more personal.  Closer to home.  Frank clicked on a folder marked ‘Personal Files’ and was met with a list of several hundred files.  Organisation was not one of Joseph’s many strengths.

Frank looked through the randomly named files:  Car Insurance, holiday booking confirmation – March 2012, Receipt – Television for lounge, Tax summary – 2011, Letter to Thom Brady (Real Estate) January 2012, Job applicants – Gardeners.  Invoice – George Farley, Corporate Researcher.  Most of the files Frank saw were things he knew about or concerned people he knew.  That last file, however – George Farley, Corporate Researcher – was named after someone he had never heard of.  He clicked on the file and opened it.

A document opened on screen.  It looked to be a typical corporate invoice.  The letterhead read FARLEY DOSSIER SERVICE: Corporate Fact Finding.

“What the hell is Corporate Fact Finding?” Frank asked himself.  He looked over the document and saw a chargeable item listed as: Asset Investigation - £13, 500.  The next item read: Personnel Background and Surveillance - £24,000.

What the hell was Joseph paying almost forty grand for?

Frank looked over the document and located an email address in the small print of the footer.  He opened up the email manager and pasted in the address. Then he began typing:

Dear George Farley:

I am an employee of the late Joseph Raymeady, CEO of the Black Remedy Corporation.  I currently reside at his former home and am charged with the protection of his widow and orphan.  I believe that, prior to my employer’s death, he was under a great deal of stress.  Something was concerning him, and I believe that something could pose a threat to his surviving family.  I am hoping you could disregard the typical etiquette of confidentiality and divulge to me the nature of the work you recently undertook for Joseph.

Yours faithfully,

Frank Senz

Household Coordinator, Raymeady Estate.

Frank leant back in the chair and hoped that it wouldn’t take long to get a reply.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Who was that?” Graham asked.

“Frank,” Mike replied, putting away his mobile phone.  “He was just checking in.”

Graham took a sip from his coffee flask and then dropped it into the dashboard’s drinks holder.  “How’s everything inside the house?”

“Tense, by the sound of things.  I don’t think Frank trusts Jessica’s guests.  Apparently there was an incident with Sammie and now he wants them gone.”

“I don’t blame him.”

Mike sighed.  “They’re okay.  Angela seemed pretty normal.”

Graham laughed.  “You know she’s a dyke, right?”

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing.  Just saying.  No point wasting your time on a rug muncher.”

Mike rolled his eyes.  “I’ll bear that in mind.”  In all honesty, he wasn’t interested in Angela in that way, but meeting new people was a rarity in his current line of work and the woman seemed like fun.  If she and the other guy were asked to leave then the house and grounds would go back to being empty and Mike’s job would get that little bit more boring.

Graham turned on the radio and started flicking through the stations.  After finding nothing he liked, he gave up and rested back in his seat.  “Did Frank give us anything to do?  I’m going crazy stuck in this bloody car.”

Mike exhaled and shook his head.  “Me too, but he just wants us to stay put.  I think he wants us here as back-up.”

Graham scoffed.  “Back-up?  Against a weedy loser and a dyke ex-priest?”

“Like I said, Frank doesn’t trust them.  He’s worried about Sammie.”

“Why?  It ain’t his kid.  If I were that guy, I would get a job working for some other rich idiot, rather than babysitting a drunk woman and her weirdo kid.”

“Don’t talk about Sammie like that,” Mike admonished.  “Sammie will be our boss one day.  He’s going to inherit all of his father’s power and influence.  Greatness is that kid’s birth right.”

Graham waved a hand dismissively.  “Yeah, yeah, I know.  Until then, though, he’s still just a weird little brat.”

“Perhaps, but there’re reasons for that, which is why Jessica has hired people to help.”

“You think they’ll figure out what’s wrong with the kid?”

Mike shrugged his shoulders.  “Who knows?  I doubt it.  I don’t think anyone will be able to figure out what’s wrong with Sammie until it’s too late.”

Before Graham managed a reply, Angela rushed frantically out into the grounds.

“Speak of the devil,” said Mike, leaping from the car.  He hurried over and saw that there was blood on the woman’s shirt.  “Are you okay?” he asked her.  “What on Earth has happened?”

Angela looked down at herself and saw what he was referring to.  “I’m fine.  It’s Sammie’s blood.”

“Sammie’s?”

“He’s fine too,” Angela quickly assured him.  “He just had a little…accident, I guess you’d call it.  I just came out for some fresh air.  I’m feeling a bit sick.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Angela shook her head but laughed glumly.  “You know what, I think it’s about time you went and got me a change of clothes.”

“Yeah, no problem.  Graham and I would be glad to have something to do, anyway.  We’ll get going right away.”

Angela reached into her pocket and pulled out some keys.  She handed them over.  “My house keys.  There’s something else I need too.”

Mike nodded.  “Okay.”

“In my bedroom closet there’s an old black duffel bag.  I need it.”

“Sure thing,” said Mike.  “What’s in it?”

Angela shook her head wearily and seemed a little faint.  Her answer was blunt and without humour: “My exorcism kit.”

“Oh,” said Mike, stepping to one side as the woman vomited on the driveway.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tim prepared to run the blood test a third time, unsatisfied with the previous two sets of results.  After extracting a sample of Sammie’s blood from his shirt, Tim had run it through his portable analyser.  The results it gave him were bizarre to say the least.

According to the printout, Sammie’s blood had no recognisable type.  In fact, the analyser spat out nothing but errors.  It was as though Tim had loaded the centrifuge with motor oil instead of blood.  It made no sense.  He was considering running his own blood just to make sure the machine wasn’t faulty.

“Where’s Angela?” Frank asked, appearing in the corridor behind Tim.

“She went out to get some fresh air.  Not feeling too good after all the blood.”

“About that,” Frank said sternly.  “What the hell happened?”

“Hell if I know.  One minute the kid’s skin is like concrete and the next he’s opening up like a cantaloupe.”

“You had no right to take his blood.  You’re not qualified.”

Tim stood in front of the larger man and looked him in the eye.  “Hey, you gave me the go ahead.  You could have stopped me if you’d wanted.  Besides, I did everything by the book.  I didn’t cause that bleeding.”

“Then what did?”

“I don’t know,” Tim admitted.  “But according to my tests it wasn’t even real blood, which leads me to ask myself if I’m just the butt of some big joke.”

Frank laughed.  “You think it was a trick?  Look, Mr Golding.  I would love nothing more than for you to leave, so trust me when I say that the last thing I would want to do is play games with you.”

“Fine.  I’m just telling you what I know, and something doesn’t add up.”

“Then it’s your job to do the math.  I suggest you go and gather up your cohort and get back to work.”

Tim saluted.  “Yes, Mein Fuhrer.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing as he departed down the hallway.

Tim shook his head, muttering under his breath as the man walked away.   “Jackass.  I never asked for you to bring me here in the first place.  I’m just trying to help you with your mess.  A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

Angela came up the staircase and Tim smiled at her as she approached.  He was glad to see a friendly face after the frosty hostility of Frank.  “Everything okay?” he asked her.

“Yeah, I’m feeling better now that I puked a little.  Mike’s gone to get my things, but it looks like I’ve got to accept being caked in blood and vomit until then.”

“If it even is blood,” he said.  “I’m not so sure.”

Angela looked at him confused.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean all of the tests that I’ve run on Sammie’s blood have come up inconclusive.  I can’t get a blood type, mineral traces, or anything you would usually find.  It’s weird.”

“This whole thing is weird.”

“So what should we do next?”

Angela pointed at the bank of Tim’s machines.  “Don’t tell me you’re all out of science experiments?”

“I’m not, but I think it may be best if I switched to observation mode for the rest of the day.  I think I’d like to know a bit more before I jump back into the fire.”

“Good idea,” Angela agreed.  “I think I’ll leave getting started until tomorrow, too.  Has anyone told you what Sammie will be doing for the rest of the evening?”

“No, they haven’t, but whatever he gets up to, we’ll have a front row seat.”  Tim patted the lid of the laptop sitting amongst his equipment.  “How bout we set this up in the lounge and help ourselves to some more overpriced booze?”

Angela looked at her watch.  It was only just after five, a little early to settle down.  “Yeah, why not. My nerves could do with it.”

Tim nodded.  “Let’s go then.”

***

They’d been drinking for over an hour and, as it turned out, Tim was as much of a drifter as Angela was.  She listened to his stories about how he’d been free and single for several years now, floating from one town to the next while living out of his van. Most of his work was gained through a website he accessed through various Internet cafes.  His notoriety came from a high profile case in 2003 when Tim had debunked a poltergeist claim for someone loosely connected to the Royals.  Turned out that one of the staff was having fun with them by rigging parts of the house with practical jokes and false hauntings.  The story had been picked up by several national newspapers.

Placed on the table between the two of them was Tim’s oversized laptop.  It looked expensive, like most of Tim’s equipment did. It made Angela wonder how he could afford all of it.  On the laptop’s screen were several video-windows streaming footage from Sammie’s room.  One feed was from an infrared heat camera, while another was from a standard high definition feed.  A selection of dials and readouts cluttered the bottom of the screen, displaying temperature, air pressure, sound frequencies, and a bunch of other scientific garble.

Angela pointed to the screen at Sammie.  “How long has he been sitting there now?”

“Since we opened up the feed, which was more than an hour ago.  I wonder what he’s thinking about.”

Angela considered the answer.  Sammie was sitting in the middle of his bedroom floor, staring into space.  “I don’t know what he’s thinking,” she said.  “But I don’t imagine it’s anything good.”

“Well, tomorrow we’ll start trying to make some sense of everything.  Until then, bottoms up.”

Tim raised his glass and Angela finished off her whisky. She quickly poured another from the bottle on the table.  She poured Tim another too.  Then she shivered.

“Cold?” he asked her.

Angela rubbed at her shoulders.  “Yeah, it’s getting a bit chilly.”

“Guess it is.  I imagine it’s pretty hard to heat a place this size.”

The patter of rain started up and Angela looked across the room to the French doors that lined the far wall behind the lounge’s grand piano.  Pebble-sized splashes appeared on the windows as the downpour beat against the glass.

“Well, I wouldn’t bank on it getting any warmer,” said Tim.  “Looks like we’re in for a dreary evening.”

Suddenly the lights in the room went out, leaving them in moonlit darkness.

“Oh, great,” said Angela.  “If I wasn’t cold before, I’m definitely going to freeze with the power off.”

“I’m sure it will come back on in a minute.  Maybe there’s a storm coming.”

“As if this night couldn’t get any more cliché.  It’s a dark, stormy night at an old English manor and the power just went out. Are you kidding me?”

Tim giggled.  “All we need now is an axe-wielding maniac.”

The doors to the lounge shot open.

It was Mike and Graham, and they were smiling.  “Mind if we join you?” Mike asked.  “It’s a little too nippy to sit around in the car all night.  I brought your things, Angela.  I placed them in your room.”

“Fantastic,” Angela said.  “And, yes, you are welcome to join us.  I think we were just about to freak ourselves out, anyway, what with the power being off. The more the merrier, I say.”

Mike said, “Thanks,” and took a seat at the table.  Graham said nothing and headed behind the shadow-drenched bar to fetch a drink.

“I see Graham is as sociable as ever,” Angela commented, loud enough so that the man would hear.

“What was that?” Graham asked from behind the bar.  There was now a glass of gin in his hand.

“Nothing,” said Angela.  “It’s just delightful to have such charming company.”

“Let me tell you something, lady.”  Graham came over to the table and placed his glass down on the table more forcefully than he needed to. “You’re just a guest here.  I have been here for over two years, so maybe you should show a little more respect.”

“Of course,” said Angela.  “My apologies.  I didn’t realise that the respect of a stranger was so important to you.”

Graham shook his head and swigged his gin.  “You’ll end up walking home after all this is done if you’re not careful.”

“I don’t think Jessica would appreciate you speaking to us like that,” said Tim.

“Screw her.”  Graham growled.  “Woman’s a mess.  She doesn’t have a clue what’s going on half the time.”

“And alas, here I am now listening to you speak.”  Jessica had appeared in the doorway, dressed smartly in trousers and an ivory blouse.  She looked more in control of her wits than the previous times Angela had spent with the woman.

Graham leapt up, flustered.  “Jessica – I mean, Ms Raymeady – how are you doing this evening?”

“I’m good, Graham.  Thank you for asking.  I would feel safer however if I knew you were outside in the car.”

“But it’s freezing out there.”

“Then I suggest you turn on the engine.”

Graham walked off in a huff and Mike got up to go after him.

“No, no,” said Jessica.  “You’re quite welcome to stay, Michael.”

Mike sat back down again, slowly, as if he were unsure.  “Thank you, Ms Raymeady.  Will you be joining us?”

Jessica shook her head.  “Perhaps later.  I think I should probably keep a clear head from now on.  I hear that Sammie had an accident today?”

“Yes,” Tim admitted.  “We’re not quite sure what happened.”

“That’s quite alright,” said Jessica, “but let me assure you that I will not tolerate my son being hurt again.  Next time there will be consequences.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said Tim, sounding about five years old.

“Good,” said Jessica.  “I will be with Sammie if anyone needs me.”

Everyone at the table nodded, but remained quiet.  Jessica had gotten a hold of herself in a big way and was now unidentifiable as the drunken mess from that morning.  Suddenly, Angela could see her as a wealthy and powerful woman.  Jessica had given herself a reality check and was now back in control.

Either that or the woman’s close to a break down.  This could be the calm before the storm.

Tim snapped shut the lid on his laptop.  “So much for my equipment.  Not much use with the power off.”

“Frank will be looking into it,” said Mike.  “Power’s been going off a lot lately.”

“Doesn’t your laptop run off a battery,” Angela asked Tim.

“Yeah, it does, but not my cameras.  All the feeds have gone down.”

“What feeds?” Mike asked.

Angela poured herself another drink and explained.  “Tim has video cameras set up in Sammie’s room.  We were going to observe him this evening and try to figure out what’s going on with him.”

Mike chuckled.  “Yeah, good luck with that.  Jessica has had half the medical community through here the last few months.  No one could figure it out.  Most of them ran screaming from the building.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tim.

“Sure you’ve seen by now, but Sammie has a bit of a temper.  There was a psychiatrist that was here a few weeks ago that tried some behavioural adjustments – one of which was trying to take away Sammie’s crayons until he promised to only draw nice things.  Next thing we know, Sammie attacks the guy, bites one of his ears clean-off.  The doctor starts crawling around on his hands and knees, squealing like a pig, looking for his missing appendage – and then we realise.  Sammie had swallowed the thing whole.”

Tim’s face scrunched up with disgust.  “Hell’s bells.”

“Tell me about it.  Jessica had to cut the guy a fat cheque just to keep him quiet about the whole thing.”

Angela finished off her new whisky in a single gulp and quickly poured another.  “How come you’ve hung around though all this, Mike?  Frank told me that everybody else left.”

“Me and Graham work outside.  We have no contact with Sammie.  I guess we feel safe enough.”

“So you think Sammie is dangerous?”

“I know he is.  Whatever the reason for that, I can’t say, but you wouldn’t catch me alone in a room with him.”

“He’s just a ten-year old boy,” said Angela.

Mike shrugged.  “Yeah, maybe.  Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean maybe you being here is exactly what is needed.  Your exorcism kit is in your room.  I think you may want to think about using it.”

Angela cleared her throat and wondered if the man was serious.  “You believe that’s what’s needed?”

“I guess,” said Mike.  “I’m not really much of a believer in God, but I’d like to see what happens.  To be honest, every other option has been exhausted, so you’ve got nothing to lose.”

“I agree,” said Tim.  “I still believe that there’s a rational explanation for all this, but I’d like to dispel any notions of ‘possession’ as soon as possible.  You’re the best person to do that.”

Angela felt her eyelids getting heavy. The mere thought of performing The Rites drained away her energy.  “I’m not sure I even remember what to do anymore,” she admitted.

“It will come back to you,” said Mike.  “I heard you were very good at it once.”

Angela huffed.  “Too bad I can’t put it on my resume as a useful job skill.”

They all shared a laugh about that and sipped at their drinks.  After a few moments had passed, Angela looked at Mike.  “Tell me about Jessica,” she said.

“Jessica?  What’s to tell?  She’s lived most of her life in the papers and most of it’s true.  She met Joseph Raymeady at University.  I’m not sure what she was studying; she never finished anyway.  Joseph asked her to marry him right after he graduated and joined his father’s company.  Eventually, both she and Joseph took a place on the Board of Directors.  You’ve already witnessed the fruits of their labour.  Jessica is one of the richest women in the world, but I don’t think she really knows what to do with it all without her husband.  Things have been hard on her.”

“How long has she been drinking?” Tim asked.

“Not long, to be honest.  The woman you just saw is more the real her.  She is a kind soul, but very much in control of herself usually.  The drinking and depression has been very unlike her, but who can blame her?  In fact, I was pleased to see the way she just dealt with Graham. Perhaps she’s on the mend.  I think she feels better with the two of you here.  Let’s just hope you can help Sammie, or else I fear she’ll take another slide.”

“We’ll do our best,” said Tim.  “I don’t plan on leaving until we get to the bottom of-”

The laptop on the table vibrated.  The speakers emitted static.

Angela thrust her chin at the computer.  “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know.”  Tim put his hands on the laptop and slid it towards him.  He hesitated for a moment, which made Angela think that something was amiss.  Slowly, Tim raised the laptop’s monitor.  His eyes immediately went wide.

“What is it?” Angela asked.

Tim spun the laptop so that she and Mike could see the screen.  “The feeds are back up,” he said.  “I don’t know how.”

Angela looked at the screen and had to squint to make sense of what she was seeing.  On the regular HD feed Sammie’s room was dark except for a candle burning beside the ten-year-old’s bed.  It appeared that Jessica was reading to him while he slept.

There was also a second feed being displayed.  The infrared camera displayed multi-coloured blotches of heat on the screen.  Jessica’s form glowed beside the prone form of Sammie beneath his covers.  Angela didn’t know what it meant, but the heat register of Sammie seemed to be in constant flux, the reds and yellows pulsing and changing with every second.

Angela continued to watch the screen, eyes glued to it as she noticed that Jessica was getting up out of her chair.

“What’s she doing?” Mike asked.

Angela shook her head.  “I don’t know.  She’s going over to Sammie’s bed.  She’s…oh, God.”

Angela watched Jessica pull a pillow from beneath Sammie’s sleeping head.  She watched the woman holding it over her son’s face.  Then Angela cried out in horror as Jessica forced the pillow down on Sammie’s face, smothering him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Angela galloped through the long hallways of the house, trying to navigate her way to Sammie’s room as quickly as she could.  With every corner she took, she shouted out Jessica’s name at the top of her lungs.  The woman had finally lost her sanity and was trying to eliminate the cause of all her stress – Sammie, her son.  Angela knew it was a common defence mechanism for someone who was clinically depressed, but Jessica’s urge to kill her son was only a temporary madness that she would regret for the rest of her life.  If Jessica managed to succeed in what she was doing, the woman would never forgive herself.  Angela had to stop her before it was too late.

Tim and Mike were right behind Angela and she wondered why the two younger men had not managed to overtake her.  Were they scared?

Sammie’s room was just up ahead.  Even in the dark she could see the posters and signs that adorned the boy’s door.  Angela wasted no time in barging into the bedroom.

It was dark.  Shadows seemed to shift and swirl all around her.  Over in the depths of the room was the burning candle that Jessica had been reading by.  A flickering cone of light surrounded the flame, but it was not wide enough to illuminate anything beyond half-a-foot.

“Jessica!  Whatever you are doing, you need to stop.”

There was no answer.  Angela took a step forward, cutting through the darkness.  Sammie’s bed was ahead. The boy’s form rested beneath its covers.

“Sammie?  Sammie?  Are you okay?”  Angela took another step forward.  She smelled sweat in the air, coming off the sheets.  “Sammie, answer me.”

Tim and Mike milled in the shadows behind her, but Angela felt as if they were a million miles away.  It was just her and the bed and the grisly secrets it held.  Angela took the final steps and reached out a hand, her fingertips searching.  She dreaded what she was about to feel.  Were her fingers about to connect with the soft flesh of a dead child?  She edged forward, inch by inch, stretching on her tiptoes.

Something wrapped around Angela’s wrist.  She tried to leap back but whatever had her was too strong.  She cried out for help, struggling to break free.  Tim and Mike rushed up behind her and grabbed her around the waist.

The power came back on with an audible click.  The room flooded with light and Angela blinked as her retinas responded with pain.  Sammie was lying on the bed in front of her.  He looked at her through the narrow black slits of his eyes.

It was Sammie’s hand that was wrapped around her wrist.

“What are you doing, Angela?  I was sleeping.”

Angela found it hard to speak. Her lungs had seized up as if an invisible snake had roped itself around her chest.  “Sammie, where is your mother?  Where is Jessica?”

Sammie’s grin grew wider.  “Oh, I think she went up to her room to get some air.  She was feeling rather unwell.”

“Sammie?  Has something happened?  Did you mother do something to you with a pillow?”

Sammie giggled.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  As I explained, I was sleeping quite soundly until you woke me.  Maybe you should go check on my mother – I would hate for anything to happen to her.”

Angela leant closer to the boy.  “What does that mean?”

“Er, Angela.”  It was Tim’s voice, coming from behind her.  “I think you should take a look at this.”

Angela stepped away from Sammie and turned around.  What she saw on the walls was impossible.  More of the boy’s crayoned drawings had appeared, stuck into the plaster with push pins.  They depicted the rain outside and the house without power, the windows shaded black to show the lack of light.  Even more disturbing was a depiction of Angela, Tim, and Mike.  The drawing showed them all sitting in the piano lounge huddling around a laptop on a table between them.  Sammie had drawn them watching him.  There was no way he could have known how they were sitting or what they were doing – it had happened only minutes ago.

Tim placed a hand on Angela’s shoulder and turned her slightly to her right.  He pointed at one of the pictures.  “Look.”

Angela looked at the artwork and felt like a heavy stone had rolled its way through her guts.  Scrawled in harsh black pencil was a picture of Jessica.  She was hanging by her neck from a rain-drenched balcony.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When Angela and the others reached the penthouse floor, they could hear that Frank was already there. He was crying out for help in a way that made it very clear that something terrible had happened.

Angela had never been on the penthouse floor and neither had Tim, so Mike led the way.  The hallways of the fourth floor were wider than the others and the three of them were able to sprint side by side as if they were running down a track.  Mike motioned to a doorway at the end of the hallway and told them it was Jessica’s bedroom.  Frank’s voice was coming from inside.

Angela grabbed the door handle, but it was locked.  She rattled it back and forth, hoping it would turn, but it held tight.  She bashed a fist against the wood.  “Frank?  Frank, let us in.  What’s happening?”

“I can’t,” came Frank’s muffled voice.  “I can’t let go.  Please help me.  I can’t hold her much longer.”

Angela looked at Tim and Mike and saw that they were as confused as she was.  At least Mike seemed to have an idea.  He shrugged his shoulders and then took a step backwards, before skipping forward and aiming a heavy kick at the door.

The wood cracked.

Mike kicked again and the door swung open.  Angela rushed through into Jessica’s bedroom, dragging Tim along with her.  She looked around for Frank, but the room was empty.

“Frank!”

“Over here, on the balcony.”

Angela peered across the lavish bedroom and saw a pair of French doors at the far side.   They were open. The wind and rain were blowing in.  Angela wasted no time with standing around.

Frank was outside on the rain-soaked balcony.  Angela found him leaning over the cement railing, struggling with something unseen.  The shirt on his back was sodden.

“Frank, what’s going on?”

The man strained to turn his head to look at her, the muscles bunching up in his neck.  “Help me!”

Angela hurried over to the railing and was glad that Tim and Mike did the same.  Frank was tired and his body was starting to give out.  Jessica’s limp form hung from his grasp, dangling four stories above the ground.  She was unconscious. A thick noose cut into her throat, secured at the other end by one of the balcony’s cement balustrades.

“Holy mama!” Tim cried out.

Angela drove her upper body over the railing and grabbed a hold of Jessica’s wrist.  Frank had the woman under the armpits, but she was gradually slipping from his grasp.  Angela grabbed a handful of Jessica’s shirt and yanked.  She almost ended up tumbling over the balcony herself, but Mike managed to wrap both his arms around her hips and anchor her down before she went hurtling over the railing.  With Mike securing Angela, she managed to get both hands on Jessica’s clothing and pull with all her weight.  She and Frank worked together and slowly, they managed to hoist Jessica back up towards the balcony’s railing.  Once she was near the top, Mike and Tim grabbed fistfuls of Jessica’s blouse and helped topple her back over to safety.  The unconscious woman hit the floor with a thump!

Frank dropped down to his knees beside her and clawed at the rope around her neck.  He was frantic and almost crying.  This was not the stone-faced control freak that Angela was used to seeing.

“Frank?”  She put a hand on his shoulder. “What happened?”

Frank managed to loosen the rope around Jessica’s neck and sat back on his heels, relieved, shaken, and concerned.  “I got here just as she was about to jump.  I managed to catch her but her weight dragged me over the side.  I couldn’t get her back up again.  I think…I think she’ll be okay.  She was never hanged by her neck.”

Angela looked down at Jessica and saw that, physically, she was okay; breathing steadily as the rain fell down on her sprawled body.  Emotionally, however, the woman looked severely injured.  Her eyes were now open but merely stared into space, her focus aimed upwards at the faraway stars.  Angela knew that Jessica’s mind was just as far away as those stars.

“We need to call an ambulance.”

Frank shook his head.  “No!”

Angela didn’t understand.  “She just tried to kill herself!”

“If word of this gets out, she’ll be removed from the board.  All of Joseph’s work will be undone.”

“What are you talking about?”  Tim butted in.  “Who gives a shit about business right now?  She needs help.”

Frank was still adamant and shaking his head.  “We’ll keep her safe.  She’ll be okay.  No one can know about this.  Mike, you go and get Graham.  You can take turns keeping an eye on her until she’s better.”

“This is insane,” Tim said, pulling at a clump of his ginger hair as if he were going mad.  “Why did she even do this?  She seemed perfectly fine earlier.”

“No,” said Angela.  “She wasn’t.  People that commit suicide often seem okay right before they try to end it all.  Killing yourself takes courage and also a certain amount of inner peace.  The reason Jessica seemed stronger and more in control this evening was because she wanted to die with the dignity of being herself.”

“I wish we’d known what she was planning,” said Tim.  “I just wish we could have, you know…”

“It’s not your fault,” Angela told him.

“Like hell it isn’t,” Frank said.  “You people and your games are probably what sent her over the edge.”

Mike put a hand on Frank’s shoulder.  “Come on, Frank.  That’s not true and you know it.  Things haven’t been right around here since even before Joseph died.  Angela and Tim are just trying to help.”

Frank shoulders dropped slightly as he seemed to accept what Mike was telling him.  “Fine,” he said. “Someone just help me get her to the bed.  She needs to rest.”

Mike and Tim hoisted Jessica up off the floor, while Tim went and pulled back the covers on the bed.  Angela remained where she was, too dazed to move.  She focused on the caress of the rain against her bare arms and stared out into the night from the balcony.  Things were a mess, she thought to herself. The next thought that came into her head urged her to just get out of there and go back to her uneventful – but safe - life.

I can’t turn my back on Jessica now.  She needs my help more than ever.

No, I’m not leaving.   I became a priest once, not because of my belief in God, but because I wanted to devote my life to helping other people.  I don’t have to be part of the church to uphold that vow.  Maybe, I’m only just realising that my life can still have meaning without being a priest.

A rumble of thunder broke Angela from her musings and she went back inside.  She closed the French doors behind her and shut off the room from the wind and rain.  It still beat against the glass.  Jessica was now tucked up in bed, staring up at the ceiling, not blinking.

“I’ll stay with her for now,” said Mike.  “I’ll let Graham know what’s happened in the morning.”

“Thank you,” said Frank.  “I will keep an eye on Sammie while she recovers.”

“What would you like us to do?”  Angela asked Frank.

Frank stared at her for a moment and she expected some sort of verbal tirade, but eventually he let out a sigh and simply said, “Just get some sleep.  We’ll figure this out in the morning.”

Angela didn’t argue.  In all honesty, her bedroom seemed like the safest place to be.  She’d had quite enough of this evening and its stresses, so she left Jessica’s penthouse without complaint, not even bothering to say goodnight.

When she got to her own bedroom a few minutes later, she noticed that her suitcase lay on the bed. It reminded her that she was still wearing the blood-stained clothing she’d had on for two days.  It would be good to get into some fresh clothes.

Beside her suitcase was another bag.  The old leather satchel sill carried a layer of dust, despite its recent travels.  Angela hadn’t looked at the contents inside for a long time, and tonight she didn’t have the energy to.  She placed both her suitcase and the satchel onto the floor, then headed into the en suite bathroom.

Angela leant into the room’s shower cubicle and turned on the water.  A cold stream hissed from the shower head and slowly began to warm up.  She took off her clothes and let them fall to the floor.  In the morning she would ask Mike to dispose of them as no amount of washing would save them.  The mirror above the sink showed a reflection of her naked body.  She cringed, not because her own flesh disgusted her, but because her skin was stained with Sammie’s blood where it had seeped through her clothes.

The blood on her flesh made her think about Charles Crippley.

Will that man ever stop haunting me?

Angela ran a hand under the shower to test the temperature and stepped beneath the hot stream.  She shuddered in the heat and watched the dried blood flake and fall off her skin.  It wasn’t long before her skin was bare again – yet she still felt stained.  She used a nearby bar of soap to lather herself up and finally wash the horrors of the day away.  Slowly, Angela’s strength returned.

Her mind started to drift.  She thought about Jessica and what had made the woman attempt to kill herself.  Then she thought about the images on Tim’s laptop, of Jessica smothering her son.

But there’s no way that could have happened.  We were there too quick for her to get all the way upstairs and try to throw herself over the balcony.  Plus, Sammie was asleep when we got to him.  It was almost like…like we were being sent on a wild goose chase to stop us from finding out what Jessica was planning.  Thank God that Frank had been there.

There was still something that didn’t add up at all.  Jessica could not have been in two places at once – it was physically impossible – so what exactly had she, Tim, and Mike been seeing on the laptop’s screen?  Something else troubling her, equally as impossible, were the drawings on Sammie’s wall.  They predicted the rain, the darkness, and everyone being huddled around Tim’s laptop.

They also showed Jessica hanging herself.  Sammie had known what was going to happen.  He knew.

Angela thought about Charles Crippley again.  That man had also possessed certain talents of clairvoyance.  He had known Angela was a lesbian before she’d even known herself.  He’d also known the sins of her parishioners – he’d called them out in church as he butchered each and every one of them.

Was that what was happening now?  Was Crippley inside the boy?  Sammie had known Angela when they met; knew her because of his “friend”.

Don’t be ridiculous, Angela.  You’re losing your mind.  Whatever’s going on here, there’s no reason to think that there’s something – or someone – inside of Sammie.

Angela turned off the shower and let the water drain from her skin.  There was steam coming off of her flesh and for a moment she felt light-headed from the heat, but stepping out onto the cold tiles of the bathroom was soothing and brought back her senses.  She was careful not to slip as she padded across the room.  Her plan was to go to bed and reassess things in the morning.  She was too tired to figure anything out right now and at the moment, she felt like she could sleep forever.

As she crept across the tiles, something stopped her dead.

Angela turned to the mirror above the sink and saw that it had steamed up in the heat from the shower.  Written into the steam by unseen fingertips were two simple words.

SAVE ME.

***

Angela dared not look at her watch for fear that it would show a time closer to dawn than to midnight.  Sleep deprivation was one of her biggest dislikes and it felt like she had lain awake in bed for hours.  If she checked her watch and saw that it was nearly time to get up it would depress her unbelievably.

Angela could be a bad sleeper at the best of times, but tonight there were several causes for her insomnia.  Her head was filled with questions.  The main one being: Who had been in her bathroom while she showered and wrote a message the mirror?  If it was a joke, she didn’t find it very funny.  Tomorrow she would get to the bottom of it, but right now there was something else demanding her attention; the main reason she could not sleep.

Sammie’s voice was an endless babble of noise, muffled by the floors between them, but still loud.  Angela found it hard to believe that the boy’s voice could travel so far.  The words he spoke were indecipherable at such a distance, but Angela knew what Sammie was babbling about.  Frank had already told her that Sammie liked to quote the Bible during the small hours. That was no doubt what the boy was doing now.

Angela was tucked in beneath Egyptian sheets, listening to the ramblings of a mentally disturbed ten-year old, whilst his billionaire mother lay upstairs recovering from a suicide attempt.  Surreal didn’t even begin to describe it.

As she tossed and turned, struggling to get to sleep, something occurred to Angela.  When Frank had first told her about Sammie’s nightly activities, she had asked him to record the verses the boy was quoting.  Whether Frank had done so and forgotten, or just not done so at all, was unclear, but so far he had not even mentioned her request.  It was something she needed to remember to ask him about tomorrow.  The Bible verses could point to subconscious messages that Sammie was unable to communicate in other ways.  They could provide vital clues on how to help the boy.

Angela finally gave in and checked her watch.  It was a little past 3AM – not as bad as she thought.  She actually started to feel a little hopeful about getting at least a modicum of sleep.

That was, until the power went off again and the rain began falling even harder.  The only reason Angela cared about power going off was because she had been trying to sleep with the light on.  Being surrounded by the pitch-black darkness of an unfamiliar room sent shivers along her skin.  The rain had gotten so hard against the windowpane that it almost drowned out the sound of Sammie’s chanting voice.

Almost.

Angela shook her head and cursed in the darkness.  “I really hate this house.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Tim awoke, well rested, in his van at 10AM.  Frank had offered him a room inside the house when he’d arrived, but to Tim, the van was home. He didn’t see any reason to obligate himself to anybody else.  Sleeping in his vehicle also gave him the option of a midnight getaway if things got too intense.  Running away was one of the ways Tim survived.

Although he fully intended to see this job through, with the way things were going, Tim was prepared to leave at the first sign of danger.

Rain still fell from the ashen sky and the grounds were now waterlogged and glistening.  Fat crows stalked the gardens, looking for worms.

Tim rummaged around in the cloths hamper he kept in the bay of his van and pulled on a pair of jeans and a bright orange ATARI t-shirt that went well with his hair.  Tim knew that he looked like a massive nerd, but that was just his protection – his camouflage.  It was difficult to look in the mirror and face the man he was.  Growing his bright ginger hair out into a shaggy mess, not shaving, and wearing teenager’s clothes was a penance of sorts.  Tim deserved nobody’s respect so he ensured that he received none.  Without anybody respecting him, there was no reason for him ever to confront his past, or for anybody to expect anything from him in the future.

Tim hopped out of the van, his trainers crunching in the wet gravel of the driveway.  The large Mercedes was parked nearby, but neither Mike nor Graham was inside.  Tim remembered it was because they were on suicide watch.

Poor Jessica.  She must have been through hell to reach such desperation.

When Tim reached the front door of the house, he discovered he was locked out.  Thankfully, when he pressed the buzzer, it didn’t take long for Frank to arrive and let him in out the rain.

The Chief of House looked exhausted.  His sunken eyes were as grey as his hair and new wrinkles had appeared all over his face.  If Tim knew any better, he would say that Frank hadn’t slept in days.

“Everything okay, Frank?”

Frank tilted his head as if he was too tired to hold it up.  “As well as can be expected,” he said.  “Sammie is in his room and Ms Raymeady is sleeping.  I trust that there will be no disruptions today?”

Tim shrugged.  “No intentional disruptions, but they seem to be a regular occurrence around here regardless.”

Frank didn’t say anything. Perhaps he agreed.

“Is Angela awake yet?” Tim asked.

“I believe not.  I am yet to see her this morning.  Perhaps you should call on her.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

“No need.”  Angela was coming down the staircase.  She looked exhausted too, but at least she had a clean set of clothes on: a thin blue sweater and black trousers.  She was holding a satchel.

“How’d you sleep?” Tim asked her.

“I didn’t.”

“That sucks.  You going to be okay?”

Angela nodded.  “Don’t worry about me.  Frank, did you record the things that Sammie has been saying during the night?  You said that you would.”

Frank shook his head dismissively, but it was clear by the brief flicker in his expression that he had forgotten.  “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten around to it.”

Angela shook her head and seemed angry.  “Frank, you brought us here to help.  How can we do that if you’re not helping us?”

Frank seemed insulted by her chastisement and stiffened up defiantly.  “I don’t see what knowledge it would provide you anyway.  Seems like a fool’s errand to me.”

“That’s your opinion.  Now I have to wait another night to find out what Sammie’s been saying during the night.”

“No you don’t,” Tim said.  “When the power came back on, so did the video feeds I set up.  I’ll have audio recordings of anything Sammie said last night.”

Angela smiled, but then it quickly turned to a frown.  “But the power went off again during the night.”

Tim shrugged.  Having slept outside, he had not been aware of the power cut, but as he looked around he saw that the electricity was still yet to come back on.  “Well, I’ll have recordings up until that point at least.  May still be helpful.”

“You’re right,” said Angela, patting him on the back like a buddy.  “Good work.”

“My laptop is still in the piano lounge.  Shall we go and have a look now?”

Angela was in favour of the suggestion, so they got going.  Before they left the foyer, however, Frank had one last thing to say to them.  “Let me know if you intend on seeing Sammie.  No one sees him without informing me first.”

“Sure thing,” said Tim, actually preferring Frank to be there when they went to see Sammie again.

In the lounge, Tim’s laptop was still on the table where he’d left it.  The lid was closed so he pushed it open and took a seat.  The screen was black for a few seconds while the computer came out of sleep mode.  Then several images popped up on screen.

The video and audio feeds were no longer live. An error log reported that they had been interrupted by a hardware failure, which must have been when the power went out.  He checked the video cache and was pleased to see that there were still several hours of recordings.  With any luck, there would be plenty of footage that Angela could work with.

He clicked on the backup file.

A video popped up on screen. Tim moved the laptop so that Angela could see it.

“What time is this from?” she asked him.

“It’s from…half-past-twelve.”

“Can you fast forward it?  To about 2AM?”

“Yeah, sure.  Did something happen then?”

Angela nodded.  “I was awake.  Sammie was rambling at that time.”

Tim clicked on the video’s timeline, finding the approximate time.  “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”

The video stuttered briefly and then begun playing smoothly.  Sammie was pacing his room like a caged lion, sticking close to the walls on all sides, never encroaching on the centre of the room. It was the behaviour of a trapped animal.  The boy was shouting.

“Behold, I am coming soon! My reward is with me, and I will give to everyone according to what he has done.”

“What does that mean?” asked Tim as he listened to the boy’s guttural expulsions.

“It’s from Revelations,” Angela explained.  “It’s about being judged for our sins when the end comes.”

“The end?”

“Yeah, you know.  The whole Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse shebang.”

Tim smiled grimly.  “That’s comforting.”

“Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.  A brave man is a man who dares to look the Devil in the face and tell him he is a Devil. Be ever engaged, so that whenever the Devil calls he may find you occupied.”

“What’s he quoting now?”

Angela shook her head.  “Various chapters, but they all seem to be about the Devil or having evil tempt us.”

“Isn’t that all a bit cliché?  I mean, we’re here to maybe perform an exorcism and Sammie’s quoting verses about the Devil.  Next he’ll be puking mushy peas at us.”

Angela shrugged.  “Could be mental illness.  Religious mania tends to take a focus on the Devil.  It’s an excuse for the afflicted to explain their actions – to pass the burden of responsibility onto some intangible force.”

“Are we still thinking the kid is just a regular flavour whacko then?”

“I don’t know,” Angela admitted.  “If it were not for the past two days then I wouldn’t hesitate in saying that, but with all the strangeness that has been going on, I think I’m ready to take this to the next step.”

Tim thought about his experience at the duck pond and knew what she was talking about when she spoke about strangeness.  “So what is the next step?” he enquired.

Angela looked at him and sighed.  “I’m going to conduct an exorcism.  I’m going to do what Jessica brought me here to do.”

Despite his years in the “ghost business” Tim had never actually been involved in an exorcism.  To be honest, the thought made him a little anxious.  “Can I be of any help?” he asked, not wanting his cowardice to show through completely.

Angela nodded.  “I’m sure you can.  For moral support if nothing else.”

The laptop’s video feed went black.

“Must have been when the power went off,” said Tim.  “Hmm, that’s interesting.  It went off at 3AM exactly.”

“Yeah,” Angela said.  “I checked my watch.  It was about that time.”

“The witching hour,” Tim said.  “Jesus was crucified at 3PM, but 3AM is said to belong to the Devil.  Between midnight and 3AM is when the veil between our world and the next is at its thinnest.”

“Are you shitting me?” Angela said while laughing.

Tim giggled.  “I’m being serious.  Not saying I believe it, but it’s yet another cliché to add to the list.  We’re well ensconced in horror movie territory now.”

“Well, maybe they only became clichés because they’re true.  Who knows?  Are you trying to say that you still think this is a set up?”

Tim cleared his throat and sat up straight in his chair.  “I really don’t know.  I guess not.  I think there’s definitely a mystery here.  But, let’s just say that Sammie was possessed – hypothetically – why him?  It’s not like there’s a long list of people possessed by demons.  It’s a rarity – if it even exists at all – so what is so special about Sammie that it happened to him?”

Angela thought about it.  “I don’t know.  Some schools of thought say that only the devout are at risk of an evil entity invading their soul.  Others say that repetition of a specific sin attracts the Devil’s minions – such as excessive masturbation or swearing.  Some say it is a random occurrence while others say that for a demon to inhabit your soul you must consciously invite it.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think evil takes advantage.  I think it plays the human race like chess pieces on a board.  If a demon were ever to possess a person, it would do so for a specific reason – to further the cause of evil.  Some say that several demons cast out from Mary Magdalene went on to inhabit Judas, Emperor Nero, Adolf Hitler and many other powerful men.  I think that is what truly attracts the Devil – power.”

Tim scrunched up his face.  “And you think a ten-year-old boy is powerful?”

“A ten year old boy that stands to inherit a fortune one day and a place on the board of the world’s most powerful company?  Yeah, I think little Sammie is more powerful than you realise.  Hitler was able to influence millions towards evil, but Black Remedy Corporation has the influence to affect billions.”

“So you think that if there is a demon inside Sammie, it’s basically a power-hungry entrepreneur?”  Tim laughed.  “Sorry, I do get your point, though.  I guess Sammie does have a lot of potential backing him.  That would mean that this demon is in it for the long haul.”

“If there is a demon,” said Angela.  “I’m still not willing to accept that.”

The laptop flashed back on.

The backup file resumed playing on its own, screening more footage of the previous evening, but this time it no longer showed Sammie’s room.  The video footage this time was of Angela’s room.  It showed her asleep on her bed, the lights switched on.

Tim saw the concern etched across Angela’s face and wondered if he looked as worried.

“What time is this?” she asked him.

Tim checked the time stamp.  “5AM, but I don’t understand.  I haven’t set any cameras up in your room.  I don’t know where this footage came from.  Did you leave the bedroom light on?”

“Yes, I was…nervous.  I guess I must have fallen asleep and the power came back on briefly.”

Tim watched the footage of Angela sleeping and was lost for an explanation.  “I don’t understand this.  How did the feeds switch?”

“Someone was in my room,” Angela explained bluntly.  “I got out of the shower and someone had written a message on my mirror.  Maybe they left a camera in my room at the same time.”

“Who, though?  Frank?”

The laptop flashed again.  The screen changed back to Sammie’s room.  The boy was no longer pacing the room and quoting Bible passages.  He was in bed asleep; a normal ten year old boy.

Tim tried to jog the video backwards, to re-examine the footage from Angela’s room, but when he tried to rewind…

“This makes zero sense.”

Angela shrugged.  “What?”

“The footage of your room is gone.  Look.”  He moved the video’s timeline back and forth slowly.  The images showed only Sammie in his room.  “The video from your room is gone.”

Angela stared at the laptop’s screen.  “Or maybe it was never there.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mike sat on a chair across from Graham. Jessica lay on the bed between them.  The lady of the house was currently sleeping fitfully, eyeballs flickering like loose marbles beneath her bloodshot eyelids.

“So are you okay to take over?” Mike asked Graham.  “I need to crash or I’m going to pass out on my feet.”

Graham’s face was as grumpy as ever.  “Don’t have much choice, do I?  Why did she have to go and do something so bloody stupid, anyway?  Silly girl.”

Mike sighed.  “You know there’s more to it than that.  Just keep an eye on her. I’ll be by again later to take over.  Frank says we call him soon as Jessica wakes up.”

Mike left the penthouse and headed for the second floor.  Most of the rooms there had belonged to the live-in staff, but they were all now vacant.  When he got there, he just picked a room at random and headed inside.  The ottoman-style bed that met him there was a welcome sight and the thought of imminent sleep made his body limp with anticipation.

Things had been set in motion at the house, Mike could feel it.  There was a destiny at work and it was finally coming to fruition.  Jessica was not going to be the last person hurt before all this was through.  Sammie was just getting started.

Mike stood in front of the full-length mirror secured to the back of the bedroom door.  He took off his shirt in front of it and examined the runic symbols carved into his chest. The thick, pink scars brought memories of agony, and the necessary suffering he’d had to endure in order to be ready for what he would face.  The symbols would keep him safe.

At least for the time being.

When Mike took the job as the household chauffeur, he knew that his eventual responsibilities would include more than just driving the Raymeady’s Mercedes.  His role was much greater than anyone in the house knew and his employers were counting on him to ensure things went to plan.  So far they were.

Mike ran his fingertips over the scars on his chest and admired the handiwork one last time.  Then he slid beneath the sheets of the bed and got ready to sleep through most of the day.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Angela had spent the last hour praying to God and confessing her sins.

In order to perform an exorcism, one must humble herself before the Lord.  To invoke the power of Jesus Christ, one must not withhold any part of the self.  So, after unburdening herself, Angela finally felt re-connected to Heaven.  For the first time in several years, she once again felt the light inside of her; she felt pure.

To her surprise, Angela had found her old cassock and dog collar in her suitcase. Mike must have looked for it.  Wearing it again now, after so long without it, felt strangely comforting.  It was as if she had donned another layer of skin or a set of body armour.  She realised now how much she missed the purpose and identity that the robes gave to her.

She picked up her exorcism kit and exited the room.  Tim and Frank had arranged to meet her outside Sammie’s room and she headed straight there.  Both men seemed impatient when she finally arrived.

“Beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” said Tim, quite seriously.  From the sound of his voice it seemed that he wasn’t just impatient, but anxious also.

“Sorry,” she said.  “I needed to prepare.”

“No worries,” Tim forgave her.  “Are you ready now?”

“Almost.  I just need to run through a few things with you both first.”

“Such as what?” Frank asked.

“If – and I mean if – it turns out that Sammie has been infiltrated by a demon, there are several rules you need to abide by at all times.  Number one: Do not converse with the demon – leave any talking to me.  Number two: Do not challenge the demon in anyway.  Remember that it can hurt Sammie.  Number three:  Control your emotions.  Any sign of anger, fear, or even empathy, and the demon will use it to control you.  Number four: Do not touch Sammie once I have begun, and do not hand him anything.  Finally: Do not try to interfere.  Once this process begins, Sammie will appear to get worse as the demon is brought forth.  No matter what, though, you must let me finish.  Do you both understand?”

Tim nodded and Frank grunted.

“Okay, then.  Let’s go and see Sammie.”

Frank opened the door for her and Tim to step inside.  As soon as they entered, the now-familiar stench of stale sweat fell over them.  Sammie was at his desk as usual, half-naked, and sketching away with his various-coloured crayons.

“Don’t we need him lying down in the bed or something?” Tim asked.

Angela shook her head.  “No, that’s just in the movies.  As long as he can hear me.”

“Should we at least make a circle of protection?”

Angela hushed him with a finger to her lips and then told him, “The Lord will protect us.  You can keep your circles of salt for Halloween parties.”

Sammie leapt up out of his chair and faced them.  The movement was sudden, violent, but now the boy stood, looking at them serenely.  “How lovely to see you again, Miss Murs – and in your Christian armour no less.”

“Jesus Christ is my armour, Sammie.  Do you know who Jesus Christ is?”

A slight grin crept across Sammie’s face.  “A character of history, as I understand it.  A creation of mankind to lend credence to its own importance.  Fiction, Miss Murs.  You are wasting your life on fiction.”

“It is not fiction, Sammie.  Jesus Christ is here with us now.  He sees you.”

“I fear you are misguided,” he said calmly, but the awkward twitching of his cheeks spoke of some underlying irritation.  Of all the times she had seen Sammie, he now seemed different – spiteful.

Angela took a step closer to the boy and made sure she got good eye contact.  “He loves you, Sammie.  He wants you to come to him.”

Sammie laughed.  It was a bitter, guttural sound.  He made no other reply.

Angela took another step toward the boy.  This close she could see that there were scratch marks all over the boy’s skinny arms and sallow chest as if he had been clawing at his own flesh, trying to escape his own body.  “When did you last eat, Sammie?”

“I have all the nourishment that I need, Miss Murs.  Thank you.”

“Do you get that from your friend?” Tim butted in.

Angela shot a glare at Tim to remind him of his promise to stay quiet.  He averted his eyes and stared down at the floor, chastised, apparently catching her drift.

Sammie’s smile grew wider.  “Naughty Tim.  Angela is in charge here, don’t you know that? So quiet your insolent tongue.”  He winked at Angela.  “Am I correct, Miss Murs?”

“Yes, Sammie.  I am in charge here.  I am an adult and you need to answer my questions.  Okay?”

“Why, of course.  I wouldn’t dream of obstructing your investigation.  Although, you’ll have to forgive my confusion; what exactly are we investigating?”

“You,” said Angela.  “We don’t think you are very well, Sammie.  We want to help you get better.”

“Seems like an utter waste of your time, priest, seeing as how I’ve never felt better.  Perhaps it is you who is sick.”  Sammie empathised the word “sick”; almost spat it at her, in fact.

Angela ignored his attempts to sow doubt.  “This is about you, Sammie.  I want to know how you’re feeling.  Tell me about this friend that came to see you.”

Sammie looked upwards and smiled, as if imagining a beautiful day at the beach.  “At first we were not friends at all.  In fact, he disapproved of me.  Came to change my ways.”

“Did he tell you to do bad things?”

Sammie shrugged. His shoulders were like loose pegs.  “Let’s just say that we didn’t see eye to eye on things.”

“And now?”

“Now, my friend prefers to take a back seat.”

Angela asked the question she really wanted the answer to.  “What is your friend’s name?”

Sammie shook his head.  “I’m afraid it would be unkind for me to impart such information.  Names have power and I wouldn’t like to compromise someone so dear to me.”

Angela took two steps forward, almost to within arm’s reach of the boy.  “Let’s be honest with one another.  I’m not talking to Sammie now, am I?  Who are you?  By the authority of Jesus Christ, I demand that you name yourself!”

Sammie snarled, his face contorting like the cragged rocks around a lighthouse.  “Your words mean nothing, priest.  They do nothing but insult me.  Leave!”

“No,” said Angela, reaching into her pocket and bringing out her silver crucifix.  She held it in front of Sammie’s face.  “Be gone, demon.  Leave this boy and never return.  I ask you, Jesus Christ, to cleanse this unclean spirit.  I banish you, demon.  Return to hell and never come here again.”

Sammie clambered back, falling across his desk in a bundle of skinny arms and legs.  He thrashed and kicked, screamed and whined.  His crayons and drawings scattered onto the carpet.

Angela took another step forward, crucifix held before her like a shield.  “Leave here, minion.  Return to your master to burn in hell.  The power of Christ compels you.  Be gone!”

Sammie tumbled from the desk and fell to the floor, rocking side-to-side on his hands and knees.  He retched; whole body wracked with seizure as his diaphragm spasmed.  The sound was like a wounded cat, but it was gradually changing – its tone and pitch altering.

The sound changed to laughing.

Sammie guffawed on the floor so hard that his chest bellowed with every breath.  The young boy was in hysterics and he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling as if it were playing some wonderful movie.

Angela sighed.  She knew that her words had been unsuccessful.  Sammie was not cured.  He had been having fun at her expense.

“Bravo,” he said to her, still lying on his back.  “Quite the little scene we had there, eh?”  Slowly, Sammie got to his feet, his limbs unfolding like an ivory accordion.  He grinned and stared at her with his piercing, obsidian eyes.  “I enjoyed that, Miss Murs.  Do tell me what you have planned for us next?”

“Why are you here?” she asked him, her resolve already beaten and clear in her voice.

“Why are any of us here, priest?  We all have our parts to play, and we play them whether we choose to or not.  You and I both.”

Angela was losing all control over the situation.  She was failing to gain any influence over the boy or anyone who may have been inside of him.  “And what part do I have to play?” she asked him.

Sammie’s eyebrows lowered and a look of grim amusement seemed to settle over him.  “You, Miss Murs, are here to play the Martyr.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“What does he mean, you’re a martyr?” Tim frowned at Angela as they both milled around the piano in the lounge.  He was tapping keys randomly and the sound was setting her teeth on edge.  She bit at her lower lip until it was bleeding.

“I don’t know,” she said, somewhat snappily.  “I assume it means he expects me to die for my beliefs, which is strange seeing as I’m not even sure what I believe half the time.  Anyway, it doesn’t even matter.  A demon will say whatever it thinks will get a reaction.  I’d say it won that round.”

“So you think we really are dealing with Evil?”

Angela slumped forward so that her forehead rested against the cold, polished wood of the piano.  “Oh, Jesus.  I don’t know.  If Sammie is possessed, then I would have expected something more than the reaction I got.  My words were powerless.”

“How could that be, though?” Tim asked, seeming genuinely curious.  “Why would it not work?  Is there a success rate with this type of thing?”

“There shouldn’t be.  Evil is Evil and God is God; there are no variables.  Perhaps God is no longer with me.  An exorcist must be devout, connected to Heaven – but that’s not me.  I’ve been following the wrong path for years now.  I shied away from God and now I’m part of a charade, speaking in His name.”  She pulled the dog collar from her neck and let it fall to the floor.  “I’m a disgrace.”

“Sounds to me like Sammie got just what he wanted.  Five minutes with him and he’s got you running scared, doubting yourself.”

Angel scowled at him.  “I never said I was scared, or running.  And stop messing with that bloody piano! It’s giving me headache.”

Tim stepped away from the piano as if it were a smoking gun.  “Sorry,” he said, coyly.

Angela shook her head and rubbed at her temples.  “No, no, I’m the one that’s sorry.  You’re right.  I lost my confidence as a Christian a long time ago, and seeing Sammie lying on the floor and laughing at me just destroyed any self-esteem that I had left.”

“But that’s a good thing.”

Angela didn’t understand.  “How is that a good thing?”

Tim walked over to the bar and hopped up onto its surface, almost banging his head against the overhanging shelf.  “Well, in the army they break the cadets, don’t they? Totally rip their self-esteem to shreds.  But then they rebuild them, into warriors – ass-kicking, gun-toting, heroes of the free world.”

“What’s your point?”

Tim shook his head at her as if she was an idiot.  “My point is that now that you’ve hit rock-bottom, you’ve got nothing to lose.  There’s nothing Sammie can use against you if you’re already down and out.  Now you have the advantage.  It’s time to rebuild yourself as a warrior.  Come on, Christian soldier.”

Angela couldn’t help herself but laugh.  “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

“Yeah,” said Tim.  “Totally.  But every now and then I’m right on the money.”

“And now would be one of those times?”

Tim shrugged.  “Who knows?  I’m just a ghost-hunter that lives in his van.”

“Maybe that’s why it worries me so much that I trust you.”

“Well, perhaps it’s time to trust yourself.”

They could hear a voice clearing over by the door.  It was Graham.

“Sorry to interrupt your Hallmark moment, but I was looking for Frank.”

Tim smiled, polite, despite Graham’s rude tone.  “He was in Sammie’s room last we saw him.  Aren’t you supposed to be watching Jessica?”

“Not that it’s any of your business what my movements are, but, yes, I am supposed to be watching her.  Frank told me to come and get him if she woke up.”

“She’s awake?” Angela asked.

“She’s been awake about ten minutes,” Graham explained.

“Is she okay?”

Graham looked a little squeamish.  “Not exactly,” he said.  “There’s…something wrong with her.”

“What?” Tim asked.

Graham cleared his throat and said, “She’s blind.”

***

The afternoon had begun to give way to evening and the light inside the house started to wind down gradually.  It would not be long before the hallways were drenched in shadow.  From the penthouse floor, the closest to the Manor’s slanted roof, the rain outside sounded like a million, tiny drums that seemed to gather tempo.  The weather was getting worse not better.

Jessica was still lying in the bed when they arrived at her bedroom.  Frank was immediately at her side and seemed frantic.  Angela wondered if their relationship was more than just professional.

“Jessica,” he said.  “Jessica, what’s wrong?  Are you okay?”

Jessica looked around the room – except that she didn’t really.  Her eyes were glazed over with milky cataracts.  She reached out a hand and managed to locate Frank’s face.  “Frank,” she said, her voice sopping with approaching tears.  “I-I can’t see anything, Frank. I can’t see!”

Frank pulled Jessica towards him and embraced her tightly.  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said.  “Just stay calm.  We’re going to get this sorted.”  Frank turned his head and made eye contact with Graham who was leaning up against the doorway.  “Go and call a doctor.”

Ashen-faced, Graham did as he was told and left to make a call.

Angela padded across the plush carpet and sat herself down on the end of the bed.  Trying to sound as calm and as soothing as possible, she spoke: “Hi, Jessica.  It’s Angela.  Do you know what happened?”

Jessica turned her head in the direction of Angela’s voice, but could only gaze into nothingness.  “I-I don’t know.  I don’t remember.”

“Do you remember trying to jump off the balcony?”

“What?”  She sounded even more distressed at hearing that.  “No, no, no. I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Frank, what is she talking about?”

Frank squeezed her into another hug.  “Nothing, Jessica.  Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Angela turned to Tim and whispered.  “She doesn’t remember trying to kill herself?  Makes me wonder if she even knew what she was doing when it happened.”

“What do you mean?” Tim whispered back.  “That she was sleepwalking or something?”

“Or in a trance.  People can manipulated by hypnotic suggestion.”

Tim sniggered then stopped himself as he no doubt remembered that Jessica’s condition was no laughing matter.  “What?  You think we’re dealing with the Amazing Sammie-Mundo now?”

Angela shrugged.  “I don’t know what I think yet.  I’m just not so sure that Jessica tried to kill herself like we thought.”

“You’re starting to sound a little less Scully and a little more Mulder – I like it.”

There was a thick gurgling sound.

Angela looked at Jessica and knew exactly what was about to happen.  The lady of the house hitched forward in her bed and vomited onto the sheets.  The mixture was revolting: blood mixed with bile and semi-digested food.  The smell was even fouler.

Angela fought away her body’s own reactive urge to vomit by smiling.  It was an old trick she’d once learned during her visits to various hospitals on behalf of the church.  For some reason it always worked.

Frank leapt aside from the bed, narrowly avoiding the vile stream of puke.  Jessica continued to expel fluids until it seemed like all that would be left were her internal organs, then she shot backwards in the bed as if seized by some invisible hand.  She wept uncontrollably.

Between sobs she managed to choke out a garbled statement.  “I…I…I’m being punished for….for betraying Joseph.  God is punishing me for betraying my husband.  Please, please…please forgive me.”

Then she passed out, so suddenly it was as if someone had flicked a switch in her brain.

Tim’s face was stricken by shock.  “She-she’s sleeping again?  After that?”

Frank ran a hand over Jessica’s clammy forehead.  “Please, could you both give her some privacy?”

“Of course,” said Angela.  “Just let us know if we can help.”

Angela and Tim walked down the hallway of the penthouse in silence.  There was nothing yet to say as the situation currently made little sense.  Jessica’s sudden maladies, such as her complete blindness and unholy sickness, seemed medically impossible.  The woman had been inflicted with something malicious – maybe even poisoned. Angela had a feeling that little Sammie was responsible.

She and Tim headed down the staircase and met Graham coming the other way.  The man seemed flummoxed.

“You okay, Graham?” Angela asked.

“The phones aren’t working.  Don’t know if it’s the weather, or what.”

Tim seemed surprised.  “Really?  The rain isn’t all that bad.  I can’t see how it would affect the phone lines.”

“What do you want me to say?” said Graham.  “The phone lines aren’t working.  I don’t know why.”

“Okay,” said Tim.  “I’ll take a look at them.  I might be able to figure something out.”

“Be my guest,” said Graham, barging past them on the stairs and heading to the upper floor.

“I’m starving.”  Angela realised that she hadn’t eaten all day and it was now early-evening.  It felt wrong thinking about her belly when Jessica was seriously in need of a doctor, but she knew herself well enough to know that she’d be little help to anyone if she was hungry.

“Yeah, me too,” Tim agreed, “but I better go take a look at the phone lines first.  Why don’t you find the kitchen and rustle up some grub. I’ll find you in a bit.”

Angela thought it was a good idea.  She watched Tim head out the front door and disappear into the rain outside.  Then she headed for the west side of the house, where she expected to find the building’s kitchen.

She found it at the end of a long corridor, its presence obvious by the double aluminium doors that marked its entrance.  Inside, the kitchen was as grand as she expected it to be.  A double range cooker occupied one wall beneath a large extractor fan.  A full-length fridge sat beside a chest-style freezer.  The equipment, along with the preparation area, was fit to feed a small army, but it was obvious that the facilities hadn’t been used anywhere near to their capacity in some time.

Angela headed for the fridge and looked inside.  The stench of rotten meat slapped her in the face, making her gag. When she examined the contents on the various shelves she saw that a mould-covered chicken carcass was the cause of the odour.  Cringing, Angela grabbed the plate of spoiled poultry and flung it into a nearby bin, plate and all.  The large fridge was still infested with the smell, but not so badly anymore.  There was still yet another unpleasant whiff coming from the shelves, though, and Angela quickly located the two offending bottles of milk.  The white substance inside had curdled into a malignant paste that she eagerly tossed in the bin to accompany the noxious chicken.

Don’t they throw anything out around here?

And God knows what they actually eat.  They must get a lot of take out, I guess.

Angela gave up on the rancid fridge and instead rooted inside the cupboards.  Eventually, she found a large box of mini cookies and some still-in-date crisps.  It wasn’t a feast, by any means, but it would do for now.  She laid her finds out on one of the stainless steel work counters and pulled up a stool beside it.

The slightly-stale cookies tasted heavenly. Her stomach gurgled as it was being filled.  She would have to be careful not to eat them all; Tim would be by soon.

The smell of the rotten chicken wafted over to her from the bin.  The odour of spoiled flesh triggered unwelcome memories in her.  Memories of that day at the church.  Images of Charles Crippley hacking into innocent people with his bloody butcher knife. The scene played back in her mind like a grainy VHS videotape.

When Charles Crippley had walked down the aisle that Sunday morning, Angela knew right away that the man’ fractured mind had finally been reduced to kindled splinters.  Her attempts to help him over the previous few weeks had resulted only in the worsening of his condition.

The look on Charles’s face as he stalked down the centre of the church was bestial. He was more animal than he was human.  He proved it when he began tearing apart those in his path like a lion ripping apart gazelles.  Before long, the church was a carpet of pink flesh and leaking fluids.  Eventually Angela was the only one that was left.  A lone woman facing down a beast.

Out of instinct, Angela had begun performing the rites she’d learned from the Rituale Romanum.  She renounced the Devil and implored Jesus Christ to protect her from evil.  Charles had snarled and growled at her, but seemed unable to approach.  He strangely kept his distance as if held back by some invisible force.

I’ll burn your flesh in hell, you pussy-licking cunt! He had screamed at her.  I will tear your soul apart.

Angela had continued with The Rites, shutting out the vile curses of the madman before her and the sight of her mutilated flock.  She closed her eyes to the bodies of her former friends and parishioners and instead concentrated on the love of Christ and the power of the Lord.  Even when Charles managed to finally take a step forward, plunging his knife into her chest, she had continued undeterred.  There was no pain to inhibit her, for she was protected.

She had felt the presence of the Lord in every part of her being.

Eventually her words brought Charles Crippley to his knees.  The bloody knife fell from his hands and cluttered against the flagstones as he frantically clutched at his chest. It was the obvious signs of a heart attack.  The strength of Angela’s beliefs had stopped the man’s heart dead.  It was then that she knew, with absolute certainty, that God existed.  What she could not understand, however, was why He’d allowed over a dozen people to die on the floor of His church.

Charles stared up at her from his knees, eyes bulging from his skull as the pressure inside of him rose.  Despite his approaching death, the man still managed to speak to her, although it was not with his usual voice.  It was somebody else’s.  “YOU HAVE WON NOTHING, PRIEST.  YOUR TIME OF AGONY WILL COME.  YOUR DEATH WILL LAST AN ETERNITY.  YOU WILL DIE A LONELY MATRYR IN A WAR ALREADY LOST, ANGELA MURS.

Then Charles Crippley had died right at her feet.

“Yuck!  It stinks like my ass in here.”

Angela was yanked from her memories by Tim entering the kitchen.  She was glad of his presence and almost felt like he had rescued her.  The memories had been about to send her insane.

“Oh, great,” Tim said.  “Are those chocolate chip?”

Angela pushed the box of cookies across the table towards him.  “Did you manage to call help for Jessica?”

“Afraid not.  The phones are totally dead, just like Graham said.  I can’t work it out.  Frank is heading out now to get help.”

Angela frowned.  “Didn’t he want to send Graham or Mike?”

Tim shrugged.  “I think he wanted to make sure it got done as quickly as possible.  The guy is one totally freaked-out mamajama.”

“I know.  I get the impression there’s more to his relationship with Jessica than meets the eye.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that, too.  You know what sucks about this whole thing?”

Angela popped a crisp into her mouth and began munching.  “What?” she asked between chews.

Tim picked out a cookie and examined it before he ate it.  Once he was done, he said, “While Frank is gone, he left Graham in charge.”

“Oh, no,” said Angela.  “The Devil really is at work in this house.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

The rain beat against the windows like the march of an approaching army. Thunder rumbled constantly.  Mike hadn’t slept for more than a few hours, but he could survive on less.  The hiding sun, barely peeking out from behind the nearby forest told him that it was early evening.

A few moments ago, Graham had woken Mike up with a sudden clap of his hands, then given him five minutes to get ready and join him in Jessica’s room.  Graham hadn’t explained what was going on, but Mike assumed from his colleague’s rattled manner that some crisis had occurred in the house.

He left the bedroom and then headed back up to the penthouse.  The door to Jessica’s room had been left ajar and Graham was inside.

“Hey,” said Mike.  “So what’s been going on?”

“I need you to watch Ms Raymeady until Frank gets back.  He’s left me in charge and I need to keep an eye on the house guests.”

“Okay,” said Mike, not quite understanding.  He noticed the putrid stains on Jessica’s bedsheets and motioned towards her with a thrust of his chin.  “She okay?”

Graham shrugged.  “Fucked if I know.  She’s gone blind.”

Mike spluttered.  “Blind?”

“As a bat.  I’d clean her up a bit, but she’ll probably just puke again as soon as she wakes up.  Frank’s already left for the hospital to get help.  The phones aren’t working, so we couldn’t call.”

“Really?  That’s weird.  Okay, well, you do what you need to do.  I’ll keep an eye on everything here.”

“Thanks, Mike.”  Graham put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye.  “I’ll be happy when those two are out of the house and we can get back to doing an honest day’s work, rather than hanging around and babysitting people.  This stuff is no good for my heart, you know?”

Mike smiled at his colleague and patted the hand that was on his shoulder.  “Don’t worry, buddy.  Things will be over soon enough.”

“I hope so.  As much as this all narks me, I think this family has suffered enough.  I’ll see you in a bit.”

Mike watched Graham walk away, then took a seat beside Jessica’s bed and examined her.  He couldn’t see her eyes, since she was sleeping, but all colour had drained from her skin, making her flesh look like porcelain.  She was a sleeping doll--her beauty a stark contrast to the ghastliness of her vomit-stained sheets.  Mike wondered why nobody had bothered to change them.

People can be so thoughtless.

He got up and wandered out into the corridor, then opened up one of the linen closets that housed spare bedding.  After selecting a thick bed sheet from the neatly-ordered pile, he headed back inside Jessica’s room and stripped away her dirty linen.

She stirred slightly as he covered her with the fresh blanket.  “Frank?”

“No, Jessica.  It’s Michael.  How are you feeling?”

“I…I can’t see.  No, wait…I-I can.  I can see.”  She sat bolt upright in the bed, like a spring had triggered in her spine.  Mike tried to ease her back down, but she pushed him away.  “I’m fine.  I need to get up.  I…”

She tried to get herself out of bed but her strength failed her.  She fell back down onto her elbows, out of breath.

“You need to rest.”

“W-what is wrong with me?  I…I want Frank.  I need to see Sammie.”

“Sammie is fine.  Frank has gone to get you a doctor.”

“What?  Why?  I’m fine.”  She tried to get up again. Once again she failed.

“You’re not fine, Jessica.  You need checking over.  Maybe you’ve just caught a nasty bug or something, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.  I’m sure Frank won’t be long.”

Jessica was confused; the lack of understanding was carved into her face.  The poor woman really must not remember a thing.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“You tried to kill yourself,” Mike explained, hoping she’d remember.

Jessica shook her head.  “That’s impossible.  You’re lying.  Where’s Frank?”

Mike felt his patience thinning.  “I told you.  He’ll be back soon.”

“This is all because of this wicked house.  It’s fucking cursed.  It took Joseph and now it’s trying to take me.  I can’t stand it anymore.”

Jessica pushed herself up in the bed and this time managed to swing her legs round onto the floor.  Mike reached out to grab her but she was up on her feet too quickly and he missed. She was unsteady on her feet and almost stumbled to the floor. She managed to correct herself after a few unbalanced steps.

Mike got out his chair and followed after her.

She headed over to the room’s wardrobes.  “I need to get dressed,” she said.  “Please leave.”

“I can’t do that,” Mike explained.  “I’m here to keep you safe.  You need to remain here in the house.”

“I’m going downstairs, Michael.  I need to see my son.  I’m taking him out of here right now before anything else happens.”  She began to sort through the clothes racks, looking for something she wanted to wear.

Mike stepped up behind her and wrapped his arm around her neck.  He squeezed hard, imagining he was trying to pop her head right off her shoulders.

Jessica began to fade quickly, already weak from sickness.  The pressure on her carotid artery was sapping her brain of oxygen and unconsciousness was bearing down on her fast.

Mike felt her go limp in his arms.  He dragged her back over to the bed and laid her down gently.  With her current state of mind, she’d most likely remember nothing at all of this, but even if she did, he would just deny it, make her think she was going crazy.  It would be easy considering recent events.

Jessica and Sammie were going to stay in this house whether they liked it or not.  It was his job to keep them there and that’s what he was going to do.  No matter what.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Tim sat outside Sammie’s room and calibrated his equipment.  He was past the point where he felt any of it would do any good, but it was still important to maintain it.  This wasn’t going to be his last job, after all.

Although it’s starting to feel like it.

The urge to flee, to just get the hell out of there, was rising in him again. An atmosphere drenched the house.  It was…foreboding…for want of a better cliché.  It felt as if danger was lurking around every corner.

And the epicentre – the reason for it all – is a ten-year old boy in the next room.

Tim’s primary intention, whenever he was on a job, was to disprove any claims of ghosts and monsters.  He was past that motivation now.  There was little doubt that an unnatural presence resided in the house.  The others might not admit it, but he knew better.

Tim had met true evil once before.  At a hotel in Basingstoke: The Grey Gardens Hotel.  Tim and his brother had been called to the hotel to investigate any environmental factors there may have been for a spate of recent deaths at the building.  So many accidents had occurred that the hotel was now closed to the public.

At that point in his life, Tim had possessed zero belief in the paranormal.  He and his brother were simple conmen – dazzling people with expensive gadgets and pointless tests.  The money was good and the work was easy.

But things changed the evening they slept in that hotel.

Tim lost his brother, for one thing.

A beeping sound brought him back.

Tim looked at his equipment and tried to locate the source.  It seemed to be coming from his electronic barometer.  The air pressure had dropped.  There was a chance that it was due to the stormy weather, but even if it was…Tim was confused because he hadn’t switched the machine on.  In fact, he could see that it was unplugged.

Here we go again, Tim said to himself.  There was no longer anything inside the house that could surprise him, but he wasn’t about to throw himself into the fire.  He was going to sit right where he was.  That way nothing could happen to him.  Other people could take the risks, he was happy just taking the results.

The next machine to beep was his heart rate monitor.  It played the rhythmic tune of a steady pulse.  It, too, was unplugged.

Should I call someone, or just get the hell away from here?

Tim was a coward.  He was quite aware of it and even embraced it for the most part.  Being a coward was just another part of survival.  He avoided danger and kept himself safe – what was wrong with that?  His brother had always been the reckless one.

And look where that got him.  Although, if I was braver like he had been…I could have done something.

Tim made a decision.  There was some bad mojo currently targeted at him and he wasn’t about to sit around and see what happened while his equipment went haywire.  He needed to find someone else.  It’d be safer with company.

Safer from what exactly, I don’t know.

More of Tim’s machines began beeping and he took it as his cue to leave.  He stood up from his seat and hurried down the hall towards the staircase.  The house’s lights flickered back on briefly as thunder rocked the floor beneath him.

Like walking through a horror movie, Tim thought to himself while trying to keep calm.

As he reached the downstairs foyer, the lights went off completely.  It was not yet fully dark outside and there was still some light inside the house, although it was grey and fading.  From the lounge behind the staircase, Tim could hear the mellow tones of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” playing on the piano.

Seriously, this house even has a horror movie soundtrack!

He pushed through the doors to the piano lounge and stepped inside.  He found Angela sitting at the back of the room, playing the tune quite expertly on the ivory keys.  “I didn’t know you played,” he said.

She looked at him and continued playing perfectly.  It was all the more impressive now that she wasn’t even looking at the notes she was hitting.  “Six years of convent school.  You learn a few things.”

“You play beautifully.  Do you know anything a little more upbeat?”

She laughed.  “Yeah, I think I can play something.”  She broke into a jaunty rendition of “When I’m Sixty-Four”.

Tim went behind the bar.  “That’s better.  You fancy a drink?”

“My liver says no, but my heart says yes.”

Tim poured her a healthy measure of whisky and then poured himself a much smaller one.  Tim liked a drink, but he had the constitution of a poodle. Angela would easily be able to out-drink him.

He placed her drink on the top of the piano and took a sip of his own.  “Just been through some more freaky-deaky shenanigans upstairs.”

Angela stopped playing and looked at him.  “What do you mean?  The power going off again? Or something else?”

“Oh, you know, usual stuff: my equipment started turning on despite the fact none of it was plugged in.  I can’t help thinking that this place is building up to something.”

“Please, don’t you start wigging out on me.  So far you’ve been the only one to keep a clear head.”

Tim took another sip of whisky.  The liquid burned his throat.  “I can take strange, I can even take frightening, but what I can’t take is dangerous.  It’s just not my thing.”

“You’ve had my back.  I promise to have yours if anything happens.”

“Thanks, but all the same, I figure I’ll be off in the morning.  This whole thing is getting a little too far out of my comfort zone.”

“I wish you wouldn’t leave,” Angela told him.  “I plan on seeing this through, but it’s your decision at the end of the day.”

“I just think, with what happened to Jessica, it would be better to get a team of doctors in here rather than a guy like me.”

Angela stood up from the piano and closed the lid.  She picked up her drink and walked over to one of the tables.  Sitting down, she looked at him seriously.  “What do you think happened to her anyway?  Spontaneous blindness?”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing, but again that’s why I think a doctor should be here.”

“Frank should reach the hospital soon.  We’ll know more then.  Perhaps you should postpone your decision till then.”

“Maybe,” Tim said.  “But perhaps the whole thing is just to get Frank out of the way.”

Angela looked at him like he was mad.  “I don’t understand.”

Tim shrugged.  “I’m just saying that the last man of the house is dead.  Frank seems to be trying to fill Joseph Raymeady’s shoes.  Now, with Frank gone, everyone is left to do their own thing.  I think we were safer when he was here, but right now he’s gone and Jessica’s passed out in bed.  What are we even doing here anymore?”

“Trying to help,” was Angela’s answer, but she couldn’t help but laugh pitifully.  “Whatever that means.  Maybe when Frank gets back, he’ll make things a little clearer on what we should do next.”

“If he even comes back.”

“Will you just stop?” said Angela.  “You’re such a pessimist.”

“Hey, after a couple days in this house, I’ve learned that expecting the worst to happen is usually the way to go.”

Angela finished off her drink and went to get another.  “We’ll see,” she said.  “Let’s just relax for now, though.  I don’t plan on leaving this room while Graham is in charge.  I can’t believe I actually miss Frank.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed.  “Me either.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Frank kept his foot on the gas pedal despite the wetness of the road.  The rain fell in thick sheets and it was impossible to see more than a dozen metres, but Frank couldn’t afford to slow down.  Jessica needed him.  Whatever virus could send a person blind overnight was serious – it could be meningitis or some other malady affecting the brain.  For all he knew, she could be dying right now.

Frank had to brake sharply as a bend came out of nowhere.  The tyres slipped sideways on the wet surface, but he was able to get the car back under control easily enough.  He’d driven in worse condition, Afghanistan for one.  Once he’d driven a 3-tonne truck through a sandstorm so thick he couldn’t see beyond the windscreen.  He’d survived that and he would survive this.

The A429 was coming up on his right and Frank slowed down and took it.  The highway would take him to Warwick Hospital.  He had no plan for when he got there, too desperate to form one, but at the very least he could get an ambulance to follow him back.

The road was lit, but the thick rain obscured the illumination of the street lamps. Frank had no choice but to take ten miles off his speed. Acres of farmland would be flying by on either side of him, but in the stormy darkness, he might just have well been driving through space. He leant forward in the driver’s seat, trying to get as close to the road as possible.

“What are you doing, Frank?  Why aren’t you at the house looking after my family?”

Frank’s whole body tensed up as he heard the sound of Joseph Raymeady’s voice.  He looked up at the rear view mirror and saw his boss’ face staring back at him.  The next thing he knew the car was spinning.

He lost control of the wheel as it fought against his grip.  The tyres slid across the wet tarmac and the car spun a full circle.

Then it flipped.

Suddenly Frank found himself upside down, moving through the air briefly before sliding along the road and into a ditch.  His vision filled with stars – exploding grenades of light.

“Now that was careless,” said Joseph.  “What am I even paying you for?”

Rain water pooled around Frank’s head as he blinked away his dizziness.  Once again he saw Joseph Raymeady’s face in the now-cracked rear view mirror.

“What-what do you want?” Frank managed to ask.

“I just want to make sure that you’re doing your job, Frank.  How is my family?”

Frank struggled with his seatbelt, trying to get himself free of the wreck.

Joseph’s voice rose.  “I asked you a question, Frank.  How is my fucking family?”

“They’re…they’re okay.”

“YOU’RE LYING!”

“No,” said Frank.  “I will keep them safe.  They will be okay.”

“Then why aren’t you with them now?”

“Because Jessica needs a doctor.”

“A doctor?  A DOCTOR!  What have you done, Frank?  Why does my darling, sweet Jessica need a doctor?”

Frank made eye-contact with Joseph through the mirror.  What he was seeing was impossible.  His employer was dead.  Frank had been the one to find the body.  “You’re not real.  I’ve had an accident and you’re just a delusion.”

“You’re the delusion, Frank.  You think you can take my place?  I was a great man; a man of principals.  You are nothing.  A killer of men and children.  You deserve to be dead, not me.  Your job was to protect me and my family.  You let me die.”

Frank squirmed, wanting more than anything to get out of the upturned Mercedes.  “No, no.  You let yourself die.  You took your own life.”

The apparition of Joseph began to laugh.  The sound was malicious and mocking.  “Did I?”

Frank didn’t know what that meant, but seeing as the whole thing had to be a figment of his imagination, he decided it meant nothing.  Joseph wasn’t really in the car with him.  It was temporary madness.  “Go away, Joseph.  You’re dead.”

“Yes,” Joseph replied.  “And very soon, you will be too.  We’re all here waiting for you, Frank.  Me and all the people you killed in Afghanistan, Sierra Leone, the Gulf…so many, Frank.  So much death by your hands.  And now you want to add my little Sammie and Jessica to your list of murders. ”

“Nooooo!”

Some part of the car ignited.  Frank could not see flames because his neck was jammed up against the car’s roof, but he could smell the burning and hear the distinctive crackling.  The car was on fire, and if he didn’t escape, he would burn to death.

But as much as he tried, Frank could not get himself free.

“We’ll be waiting for you, Frank” said the apparition of Joseph Raymeady, who then started cackling so loud that Frank could no longer hear the fire or the rain.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The houselights were still out, and now that evening had arrived, total darkness had descended upon every room.  Luckily, Graham had broken character and made a helpful gesture of distributing candles throughout the building.  Each room was partially lit by at least one.

Angela sat with Tim in the house’s rear gardens. They were sheltered from the rain beneath a large camisole. A lit candle flickered on a small, round table between them.  There was something about being outside that made Angela feel safer than being inside.  With the heavy rain and the approaching storm, she could feel God’s influence everywhere.  Inside the house she felt something….different.

“You think we should have heard from Frank by now?” Tim asked her.

“I think the phones are still out.”

Tim shook his head.  “No, I mean, shouldn’t he gotten back by now?  He’s been gone a few hours.”

“I don’t know how far the hospital is.  I’m not from around here.  I’ll bet this rain is also slowing him down.”

“Yeah, it’s really going for it tonight, isn’t it?  Why exactly are we sat outside again?”

“Helps me think,” Angela answered.  “I like the weather being like this.  Makes me feel…connected.”

“To God?”

“Yeah, I guess, but it’s more than that.  It makes me feel connected to life.  Everything begins and ends with the rain.  Without it nothing could live.”

Tim looked confused.  “I just think it makes everything wet.  Has it helped you think any clearer?”

“Yes it has.”  Angela stole a glance at the candle flame and its healthy glow made her think about Hell and the demons that sprawled throughout its infernal hallways.  “After all that’s happened, I’m now convinced that there’s something inside Sammie.  The drawing he gave me, the things he knows, and what happened to Jessica.  There’s Evil at work here for sure.”

“I guess I’m starting to agree with that as well,” Tim admitted to her.  “My unplugged machines wigging out was the final proof I needed.”

Angela ran a hand through her hair and released a few knots.  “So, my question is: what is inside Sammie?  If there’s a demon inside the boy, then why didn’t it respond to my attempts to banish it?  Why did the exorcism fail?”

Tim looked at her.  “Is it an exact science usually?  I mean, is there no way for a demon to resist attempts to exorcise it?”

“I don’t know.  Demons often try to mess with your mind, to prevent you from even going through with the procedure, but Sammie was happy to let me speak freely.  At the end it was pretty obvious that he found the whole thing funny.  A demon should quake at the sound of Christ’s name.  They should cower at the power of the Lord.”

“Can’t say I saw any cowering,” Tim commented.

“That’s my point.  What went wrong?  What did I misjudge?”

“Maybe it’s not a demon.  Maybe there could be something else inside of him: a ghost or spirit, perhaps?”

Angela shook her head.  “It would make no difference.  They should react in the same way as a demon.  Anything that does not belong here can be compelled by the power of Christ.  I just can’t figure it out.”

“What about Charles Crippley?”

Angela shuddered and wondered if it was the cold or the man’s name.  “What about him?”

Tim shrugged.  “Just spitballing, but Sammie seemed to know you, so perhaps it’s Charles Crippley inside of him.”

“I won’t lie, I’ve worried about the very same thing, but once again, an evil spirit would be as susceptible to exorcism as any demon.  There’s something I’m not getting here.  I think I need to go back to my books.  I just wish I could get the name of Sammie’s ‘friend’.”

“Why don’t you go straight to the source?”

Angela frowned at Tim.  “What do you mean?”  A sudden gust of wind caused the candle to flicker out, but the flame barely hung on and came back to life a few seconds later.

Tim sniffed and then looked at her.  “Sammie won’t tell us the name of his friend, right? So why don’t we ask the friend directly?  We could use a Ouija board.”

Angela huffed.  “I have absolutely no experience of those…toys.”

“I do,” said Tim.  “To be honest with you, the last time I used one I promised to never use one ever again. But I think now might be the time to break that promise.”

“Do they really work?”

“Yes,” Tim said, but didn’t add anything more.

Angela thought about it for a little while.  Eventually she said, “Okay, I’m up for it.  When do you want to do it?”

Tim smiled.  “No time like the present.  I have everything I need in my van.  We’ll do it there.”

“In your van?  Seriously?”

Tim nodded.  “Worst thing that could happy is we get interrupted by someone.  My van is perfect for it – nice and private.  Plus, I can get my ass out of here if things go bad.  I feel trapped inside that house.”

Angela shook her head and sighed.  “Doing a Ouija board in the back of some guy’s van.  Feel like I’m in college all over again.”

“You’re not wrong,” said Tim.  “Tonight you might just get an education.  I don’t think you’re going to like it, though.”

***

Tim’s van was cramped, but clean.  It was obvious he lived here and treated it like his home.  Soft cushions scattered the piny-fresh interior and there was not a thing out of place.  The rain on the vehicle’s metal roof sounded like a drum roll – perhaps it was in honour of what they were about to do.

Tim reached up and pulled an antique-looking box from a storage net which lined one side of the van’s interior.  He set the box on the floor between them and unhooked a brass catch on the side.  The box then opened up into a small, flat board.  It was finely painted with letters and numbers.  YES and NO were printed in opposite corners of the board and the word, GOODBYE, was set between them.  One side of the board lifted up to reveal a hollow, and inside that space was a finely-carved, heart-shaped planchette.

Angela couldn’t believe what she was about to do.  She held no stock in such things as voodoo and witchcraft – it was nothing but ill-natured superstition.  While she had beliefs of her own, she flat out denied the validity of those primitive faiths.

“So how does this go, then?” she asked Tim.

“Pretty much like you’d expect.  We light a few candles – sandalwood works well – sprinkle a bit of copal shavings into the flame and then try our best to concentrate.”

“What on Earth is copal?”

“It’s a resin imported from Mexico, a bit like amber.  The ancient Mayans used it to contact the underworld – that’s pretty much what we’re planning on doing; or we’re trying to contact one of its inhabitants at least.  Simple sage works just as well, but I’m always tempted to cook with it.”

Angela waited patiently while Tim rummaged around the van.  From various compartments, he procured a candle and a small, plastic baggie filled with golden flecks.  Finally, he produced a pair of necklaces.  They were comprised of a simple loop of string, threaded through the centre of an acorn.

“Wear this,” he said, handing her one of the necklaces.

Angela took the looped acorn and examined it questioningly.  “Why?”

“Druids used acorns for protection,” Tim told her.  “I never perform a spell without an acorn around my neck.  Place it under your shirt against your skin.”

Angela did as he asked her, but felt ridiculous while doing it.  In fact she felt more than ridiculous, she felt blasphemous.  The Church had taught her to forsake anything that even bordered on witchcraft.

But I stopped caring about what the Church said a long time ago.

Tim lit the candle and sprinkled some of the golden flecks in it, then sat crossed-legged opposite Angela and positioned the Ouija board on the floor between them.  He shuffled forward a little so that their knees were touching.  Then he reached up and switched off the van’s rear interior light from a panel on the ceiling.  They were now lit only by the flickering candle.  Shadows shifted against the side panels of the van.

“You ready?” Tim asked.

“As ready as I’m gonna be.”

“Okay then, here we go.”  Tim placed his index and middle fingers on the board’s planchette and motioned for her to do the same.  Once she did, he closed his eyes and raised his chin to the roof.  “Spirits of old, evil and wicked, I forbid you from doing harm.  You are permitted to communicate through us and do no more.  I command you to remain in your own plane.  We are not portals.  If you circle the planchette we will withdraw and you may be trapped between worlds.”

Angela giggled.  “Circle the planchette.”

Tim scowled at her.  “It signifies a spirit trying to force itself into our world.  This won’t work if you’re against it.  You need to be quiet and open your mind.”

“I’m sorry,” said Angela wiping the smile from her face.  “Please continue.”

“We wish to speak to the one who claims to be the friend of Samuel Raymeady.  We wish to speak with the one who has descended upon this dwelling.  Come to us, explain yourself.  Name yourself.”

Nothing happened.  Tim sat with his eyes closed so tight that he looked like his lids might bleed.  Angela watched him and tried not to laugh.  The whole thing was ludicrous.  She felt ashamed of herself for even allowing herself to take part in such a chara-

The planchette twitched.

A jolt of adrenaline shot through Angela’s nerve endings, seeming to bunch up in her elbows.  Tim opened his eyes and smiled.  She knew then that there had never been any doubt in his mind that it would work.  Tim had faith in voodoo as much as she did in God.

The planchette moved an inch.  It hovered between C and D, before finally flinching left and resting on the C.

Tim spoke out the following letters, one after another, as the sliding planchette settled on each one.  “C…H…A…M…U…E…L…”

Then the planchette stopped. Angela thought hard about the spelled-out word.  “Chamuel?” she said out loud.  “Why does that word ring a bell?”

Tim shrugged, being sure to keep his fingertips on the planchette.  “Doesn’t mean a thing to me.  Do you think you know what it means?”

“I don’t know.  I…I can’t quite remember, but it’s there.”

Tim cleared his throat and spoke into the empty air.  “Hello, Chamuel.  Can you tell me why you’re here, what you want?”

This time Angela spoke out the letters as they came up.  “D…E…A…T…H…”

Tim let out a breath in a short huff.  “That’s jovial.”

“We want you to leave,” Angela commanded.  “Leave Sammie alone.”

N…O…  The planchette moved quicker.  E-S-C-A-P-E…D-A-R-K-N-E-S-S…

Tim frowned.  “Is that a threat, Chamuel?”

The planchette did not move.

“I said is that a threat?  Are we in danger?”

Y-E-S…D-A-N-G-E-R…B-L-O-O-D…P-A-I-N…

“Are you going to hurt Sammie?” Angela asked.

The planchette did not move.  Angela made eye contact with Tim who had gone a little pale.  There was resolve in her colleague’s eyes however and she knew that he would continue on with the séance for at least a while longer.

The planchette moved again, quicker than before – frantic.

Y-O-U…W-I-L-L…D-I-E…

H-E-L-L…W-I-L-L…T-A-K-E…Y-O-U…

R-U-N…

W-E…A-R-E…O-U-T-S-I-D-E…

Something struck the back of the van, rocking it on its wheels.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“What is that?”  Angela shifted towards the front of the van, away from the rear doors.  The thud had been so forceful that the steel had buckled inwards.

“Felt like we were hit by a bloody rhino.”

“Should we open the doors?”

“I…I don’t know.”

They waited in silence.  The darkness was cut only by the light of the single lit candle; miraculously it had remained standing in its holder. No more impacts struck the van and whatever had done so the first time was a mystery.

“I’m going to open up the doors,” said Angela, inching towards the back of the van slowly.

“Be careful,” said Tim.  “If you get eaten by something then I’m not cleaning up the mess.  In fact, I’m out of here at the first sign of anything bitey.”

Angela placed a hand against the door’s release-trigger. She took a breath, held it.  Then opened the door.

Shadows met her.

There was nothing outside.  The house and its grounds were shrouded in darkness. Thin, infinite streams of moonstruck raindrops cut through the velvet backdrop of the night.  A gust of wind blew in and filled the van with its cold touch.

“There’s nothing out here,” Angela said, sliding a leg across the van’s floor and down towards the pebbled driveway.  She planted both her feet and pushed herself up out of the van.  Her skin tightened and she shivered as the temperature outside fought against the warmth of her blood.  The feeling of loneliness was suddenly all consuming – the world felt empty.

“Oh, thank heavens,” came a voice in the shadows.  “I thought I’d been abandoned.”

Angela leapt back up into the van’s cargo bay, pulling her feet up of the ground as if she’d seen a mouse.

Sammie stood in front of her.  He was wearing only underpants and seemed unaffected by the cold rain glistening against his pale skin.  His flesh shone in the darkness like a spectre.

“S-Sammie, what are you doing out here?”

Sammie grinned, his teeth more crooked than ever under the colourless glow of the moonlight.  “I was wondering where everybody was.  I’ve been alone in my room for hours now.  To tell you the truth, I was beginning to get quite stir crazy.”

Angela’s skin crawled; flesh buzzing like it was covered by a thousand ants.  “Okay,” she said, scratching at her arms.  “Let’s get you back inside, Sammie, before you freeze to death.”

Sammie grinned wider.  “Oh, the cold doesn’t bother me, but your concern is heartening.  Is Frank back yet?”

Tim slid out of the van behind Angela and asked his own question: “How did you know he was even gone?”

Sammie shrugged.  “I heard him leave in the car.  Sounded like he was in a hurry.  I do hope he doesn’t have an accident.  That man has become like a father to me lately.  Perhaps he feels guilty about my father’s death.”

“Do you feel guilty about it?” Angela asked.

Sammie wore a look of confusion.  “Me?  Why would I feel guilty about it?  Unless you’re trying to imply I was in some way responsible.  I must say, that’s very unkind of you, Miss Murs.”

“I…I apologise.  You’re right.  Come on, let’s go inside.”

Tim locked up the van and he and Angela ushered Sammie back towards the house.  They kept a distance of a few feet from the boy, who walked barefoot in front of them.

Angela whispered to Tim.  “Where the hell is Graham?  He was supposed to be keeping an eye on things.”

Tim shrugged, headed up the steps to the house.  “With that guy, who knows?  I get the impression he doesn’t take his responsibilities very seriously.”  He opened the front door and the three of them stepped through into the house.

The foyer was bathed in darkness, the power still off and the weather still bad.  The grand, marble-floored space seemed smaller somehow, almost claustrophobic.  Angela wanted to be back outside in the open air but, with the rain, that would make her a mad woman.  She needed to be inside the house.  She needed to take control of the situation.

“Are you okay to take yourself back to bed, Sammie?  We’ll find out where everyone is and then get someone to stop by with some dinner.”  Angela checked her watch.  It was almost midnight.  Dinner was a long time ago.  “Well, perhaps it would be more of a supper.”

“I’ll go watch South Park,” said Sammie.  “Feel free to join me.”

Sammie started to head towards the stairs, but Tim asked a question first.  “Why do you like that program so much, Sammie?”

Sammie turned back around and smiled pleasantly as if the question was a delight to him.  “I suppose I like the irony,” he explained.  Then he left.

“Wonder what he meant by that?” Tim asked.

Angela shrugged.  “Who knows?  We need to find out where Graham got to.  I’m not comfortable with Sammie wandering around un-chaperoned.”

“Think he’ll end up getting hurt?”

“No,” Angela said.  “I’m more worried about him hurting someone else.”

“So where should we start looking?  This place is huge.”

“Well, if I know Graham, there’s probably one place he’d be.”

Tim nodded.  “Drinking in the lounge.”

They headed behind the stairs and could hear the piano immediately.  Someone was playing Mozart’s arrangement for “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”
(or “Ah! Vous Dirai-je, Maman” if her Music Theory lessons served her correctly).

“Who’s playing that?” Tim asked.  “They’re even better than you.”

“Only one way to find out,” said Angela as she pushed open the door.

The music stopped.

It looked as though no one was in the lounge.  It was hard to see for certain, but Angela would have sensed the presence of somebody else.  In fact, her senses were so alert after the last few hours that she’d have sensed a spider on the ceiling.

“Hello?” Tim shouted.

“Save it,” Angela said.  “There’s no one here.”

“Then who was Bach-ing it up on the piano?”

“Mozart.”

Tim frowned at her.  “What?”

“It was Mozart, not Bach.”

“Oh.  Well, whoever it was, they’re either invisible or fast as fucking lightning.”

Angela shook her head.  “No.  There was no one here. I’m sure of it.”

She crossed the room, slinking between the tables and chairs that filled the large room.  Her destination was the piano and as she got near it the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Angela spoke a single word: “Blood.”

Tim was still standing on the other side of the room. “What?”

“It’s blood.  The piano keys are covered in it.”

Where there would usually have been several dozen fingers of ivory, there was now only a congealed mess of thick blood covering everything.  The plasma filled the gaps between the keys and splashed the wooden frame of the piano.  It looked like a pig had been butchered.

Tim came up beside her.  “Oh, hell-diggity.  What on Earth happened here?”

“I don’t know,” said Angela, “but I think now would be a good time to do a head count.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mike heard a commotion downstairs.  Someone must really have been hollering for him to hear it all the way from Jessica’s penthouse.

What is it now?

Mike got up from his chair at Jessica’s bedside and headed out into the hallway.  He looked left and right into darkness.

The sound of people screaming and shouting did not scare Mike; he’d been taught to expect it.  He knew it would only be the first of many occasions before the evening was through, and that eventually, when the screaming was finally over, things would once and for all be set in motion.

He headed to the top of the staircase and descended to the floors below.  On the second floor, he met Angela and Tim.  They were hurtling through the hallways and shouting out at the top of their lungs.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mike said, holding up a hand to stop them.  “What are you bellowing about?”

Angela seemed relieved at the sight of him.  “Mike!  Thank God, you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.  Why wouldn’t I be?”

Tim told him why: “There’s a heck-load of blood in the piano lounge.  Someone must be injured.”

Mike frowned.  “What?  Are you sure?”

“I know blood when I see it,” Angela said in a voice which suggested intolerance for being doubted.  “Have you seen Graham?  He was supposed to be looking after things, but we found Sammie wandering around in the pouring rain.”

Mike was surprised to hear that.  “Sammie left the house?  That’s unlike him.”

“Well, never mind that now.  We need to find out whose blood is downstairs.  Do you know where Graham is?  What about Jessica, too?  Is she okay?”

“Jessica is fine,” Mike told her.  “She’s still sleeping.”

“Then it must be Graham’s blood,” Tim said.

“You don’t know that,” Mike argued.  “Nothing is certain right now.”

“Nothing is certain until we find Graham,” said Angela.  “So let’s find him.”

“I’ll check the ground floor,” Tim said.

Angela nodded.  “I’ll check the first floor.”

“Well, I’ve just come from the penthouse,” Mike explained.  “So I’ll check the second and third floors.”

The three of them set off to their separate floors, agreeing to meet back later at the piano lounge.  Mike was only going to search half-heartedly.  He knew with total confidence that Graham would turn up somewhere, but in how many pieces would remain to be seen.

***

Angela had taken the first floor for a reason.  Sammie’s room was located there and she wanted to keep a close eye on him.  The only way she could be sure of him not wandering around the house again was if she remained nearby herself.  If Sammie wanted to leave his room, he would have to get by her first.

The first floor also contained a modern-style living room, inconsistent with the antique furnishings of the rest of the house.  There was a large LCD television mounted on one wall and a plush, green sofa sitting opposite it.  Other than the furniture the room was empty, so Angela moved onto the next.

The door she opened led to a low-beamed ceiling with a full-sized snooker table filling almost all of the carpet.  Decorated with horse brasses and a dado railing, the billiard room was like something from a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel.  It was a fitting place for an atmospheric murder mystery but, right now, it too was empty.

The next half-dozen rooms Angela checked were just vacant bedrooms and a family bathroom.  There was also a small office which seemed no more than a cubby hole with a computer.  Every room she checked was empty.

The only room left was Sammie’s.

Earlier, Sammie had said he’d been abandoned, so Angela was confident she wouldn’t find Graham there, but she wasn’t positive.  Nor was she positive that she would even find Sammie there.  She and Tim had watched the boy climb the stairs from the foyer, but they had not physically seen him return to his room.  She wanted to be sure.

She placed a hand on Sammie’s doorknob and wondered if she was imagining the subtle vibrations coming from it.  The door creaked as she opened it and she was certain it hadn’t done so on previous occasions.

Sammie was in his bed, staring at the blank television screen, mesmerised.  A stack of South Park DVDS peeked out from the open drawer of a candle-lit dresser, but without power they were useless.

“Sammie,” she said.  “Sammie, will you talk with me for a moment?”

The boy ignored her.

“Sammie, have you seen Graham?”

No answer.

Angela had a sudden thought.  “Sammie, is your friend’s name Chamuel?”

Sammie continued to ignore her, but this time there was a brief flicker of his eyes.  It was a physical response to her question.  Whether or not Sammie was ignoring her, he could definitely hear her.

But maybe he isn’t the one in control.  Maybe he wants to answer me but can’t.

“Chamuel.” Angela said.   “Are you here with us now?  Can you speak to me?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” said Sammie, suddenly free from his trance.  “I’m trying to watch my program and you’re interrupting me.  Please leave.”

Angela didn’t let her surprise stop her and carried on.  “I will, Sammie, but first I want to know who Chamuel is?  What does he want?”

Sammie looked at Angela and shook his head.  He looked angry – angrier than a ten-year old boy ever should.  “He wants to kill me,” Sammie spat irritably.  “Happy now?”

“No,” Angela said.  “I’m not happy at all.  Why does Chamuel want to kill you?”

“Because I wouldn’t be what he wanted me to be.  He’s a nasty bully.”

Angela took a step towards Sammie’s bed and was almost close enough to touch him.  “What did Chamuel want you to be, Sammie?”

Sammie cleared his throat and it sounded full of thick phlegm.  Then he looked worried for a moment, just an innocent child again; not the detached, questioning adult he had been behaving as.  “He…he…wants me to become something I’m not.  He wants to change me.  He never stops trying to get his own way, and I’m getting so tired of fighting him.”

Angela felt her heart beating.  “I want to help you, Sammie.  I want to make him go away.”

Sammie stared at her, his dark eyes swirling with emotions she couldn’t work out.   “Please, help me,” the boy pleaded.  “Please make him stop.”

Angela placed a hand on Sammie’s naked shoulder and knew she had just met the boy for the first time.

“It’s good to finally meet you, Sammie,” she said.  “My name is Angela, and I’m going to help you. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

I just hope that it isn’t.

The door swung open behind Angela and she turned around.  Tim was standing there, panting and sweating.  “It’s Graham,” he said.  “We found him.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Angela hurried after Tim, struggling to keep up with his rocket-like pace.  He’d not told her what had happened, just said to follow him and follow him fast.  They headed up one flight of stairs and were now on the second floor.  Tim took a door on the right about midway down the corridor.  It was already partially open and Mike was in there waiting for them.

Angela was almost sick when she saw what was inside.

The room was some kind of spa room.  A sauna cubicle sat back against the far wall and there was a small steam room beside that.  At the adjacent wall was a partitioned changing area and in the centre of the room was a hot tub.  Hanging out of the hot tub, upside down, was Graham.

Graham’s head and shoulders lay crumpled against the carpet while his legs were still inside the bubbling tub, with his knees hooking over the lip.  His arms were outstretched from his sides at strict right-angles.  From where Angela was standing, Graham’s body looked as though it had been positioned into a cross.

Or, more correctly, an inverted cross.  The calling card of the Devil and his minions.

Angela repeated a prayer quickly in her head.  It made the scene in front of her a little more bearable.

Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle;
be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray:

and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits
who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.

Amen.

Angela’s eyes began to pick up more details, but she had to turn away and leave the room.  The sight and smell of fresh blood was just too much for her to handle – it brought back too many nightmares.  Graham’s naked body was plastered with gore, but Angela had not looked long enough to figure out where it had come from.

Mike had followed her outside, which was surprising as she would have expected Tim to be the one to check on her.  “You okay?” he asked her.

Angela walked a few steps further down the corridor, wanting to put more space between her and the room.  Finally she slumped against the wall and rubbed at her eyes; suddenly they felt like lead ball bearings in her skull.  “I-I…”  She cleared her throat, took a second.  “I’ll be fine.  I just don’t like the sight of fresh blood.”

Mike clamped a hand on her shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze.  “I don’t think anybody does.”

“What the hell happened to him, Mike? I swear this whole house is fucked up.”

Mike shook his head and looked down at his shoes.  When he looked back up again he was chewing at his bottom lip.  “Damned if I know what happened to him.  From what I can tell, he bled to death from a gash in his genitals, just beneath his scrotum.  There’s a broken whisky glass in the hot tub and a near-empty bottle on the floor.  I think he had some sort of freak accident.”

Angela shook her head.  “Bullshit!  He was murdered. No man accidentally severs his genital artery or whatever it is you’re suggesting made him bleed to death.  This was murder, anyone can see that. Just look how he’s been positioned.”

Mike frowned.  “What do you mean?”

“He’s been shaped into an inverted cross.  His feet are submerged in water like a reverse baptism.  The slicing of the genitals in and of itself could be construed as an act against God – it’s a condemnation of procreation and the spreading of the Lord’s creation.”

Mike huffed at her.  “What are you?  Perry Mason’s sister?  The psychological forensics is all very good, but if you’re suggesting that Graham was murdered, then who the hell is responsible?”

Angela ran the possibilities through her mind.  “Tim has been with me all night, Miss Raymeady is asleep, and Frank is gone, which just leaves Sammie – a ten year old boy – and you.”

Mike laughed, but was obviously insulted.  “You think I killed Graham?  That’s rich!  I’ve worked with the guy for a whole year.  It’s you and Tim who are the new faces around here.”

“I had nothing to do with it and neither did Angela.” Tim joined them in the hallway.  His face was pale, but he seemed in control of himself.  “But Graham was definitely murdered, and I can prove it.”

“How?” Mike asked.

Tim held his arm out between them. He opened up his palm to display two long slivers of metal.  “Iron nails,” he explained.  “I found them embedded into Graham’s feet.  The tub water was mixed with blood so they were used on him while he was alive. He hung there bleeding.  There’s no way he did this himself.  He’s been crucified.”

“Fuck this shit,” said Angela.  “I’m going to the police.  Someone in this house is a goddamn psychopath.  That same person is probably behind Joseph Raymeady’s death, too, and everything else that has been happening.”  Angela sighed and scooped her hair back behind her ears.  “I’m sorry, Mike.  I like you, I do, but you seem like the most likely candidate for this.  I’m not staying around you or this house anymore.  Tim, will you drive me to the nearest police station, please?”

“With pleasure,” he said.  “I was already out of this madhouse before someone sliced Graham’s ball bag like a joint of ham.”

Angela hurried down the corridor, making sure that Tim was following her.  She hoped he would be okay leaving his equipment to collect later.  She didn’t want to be kept at the house any longer than she had to.

They took the staircase, two steps at a time, and quickly made it down to the foyer.  Mike was right behind them, shouting his protests and insisting they shouldn’t leave.  “You’re needed here,” he kept saying.

Angela ignored Mike’s pleas and headed straight for the front door.  She placed her hands on the door handle and pushed.

The door did not budge.

Angela fumbled with the deadbolt.  She tried to open the door again.

It still wouldn’t budge.

She spun around and faced the foyer, focused her glare on Mike.  “Open this door now.”

Mike stopped his pursuit of her and stood still on the marble floor.  “It isn’t locked,” he said. “Just turn the deadbolt.”

“I just did,” said Angela.  “It won’t open.”

Tim stepped up to the door.  “Let me have a look,” he said, and began fiddling with the locks and pulling at the door.  After a few attempts, he gave up with an apprehensive look on his angular face.  “It’s stuck.”

“What are you trying to pull?”  Angela demanded of Mike.

“Nothing.  I haven’t touched the goddamn door.”

Angela examined Mike’s expression.  The guy seemed to be telling the truth, but there was obviously something else going on, too; something he wasn’t telling her.  A brief glint in his eyes spoke of something more than pure ignorance.

“Come on, Tim,” Angela said.  “We’ll try the door in the piano lounge.”

Panic spurred Angela to race across the marble floor so quickly that she almost slipped.  Tim grabbed a hold of her arm just in time to steady her. Together they entered the lounge.

The French doors leading to the gardens were set behind the piano. As they passed through the room Angela smelt the metallic tang of blood again.  It was still a mystery where it had come from and how it had soaked the piano.  Graham was dead, but he had bled to death two floors above here.

Tim rattled the handles on both French doors.  They did not open.  “These are locked too,” he explained dejectedly.  “Looks like someone doesn’t want us to leave.”

Angela grabbed a chair away from the nearest table.  She shot a quick glance at Mike and said, “Send me the bill!”  Then she threw the chair in the direction of the French doors and watched as it tumbled through the air.  It hit the glass panes with a resounding clatter.

The chair broke into a dozen pieces, fell to the floor.  The glass panes of the French doors were still worryingly intact.

Angela looked around the room, frowning with consternation.  She headed behind the bar and rifled through the various shelves.  The most suitable thing she could find was a heavy crystal decanter.  She hoisted it under her arm and took it back over to the French doors.  Tim was still standing there, jaw agape, and she told him to take a step back.  Then, with all of her might, she hurled the decanter.

It bounced off the glass panes and came apart on the floor, just like the chair had.  The French doors remained intact.

Tim ran spindly fingers through his hair and blew air into his cheeks before letting it out in a blustery sigh.  “What the hell, man?”

Angela picked up another chair and this time swung it like a bat towards one of the room’s windows.  Again the chair broke before the glass did.  “This is impossible,” she said, looking around frantically for a solution and feeling more and more like a trapped rat.  Her heart raced.

“We’re trapped here,” said Tim.  “Stuck in a box with a crazy-ass, ball-slicing maniac on the loose.”

“Let’s just calm down,” said Mike, moving up beside them.  “It’s time to take a breath and stop panicking.”

Angela glared at him.  When she’d met Mike she’d had a good feeling about him, but now she felt distrustful of him – his demeanour had changed somehow since Frank had left.  “If you’re behind this, Mike,” she said, “I’ll leave you in worse shape than Graham, I swear it.”

Mike laughed.  “Some spirit you’ve got there, sweetheart, but, once again, I’m telling you I had nothing to do with any of this.”

“Then who did?” Tim asked.  “Who would want to keep us in this house so bad?”

Mike shrugged.  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Tim didn’t like this at all.  He was locked inside a house with no power, no light, and no way out.  Once upon a time he’d been in a similar situation, which had not ended well.

When Tim and his brother, Steve, agreed to stay the night at the vacant Grey Gardens Hotel, both of them had expected to find some rational explanation for the five deaths which had occurred during the previous six months ( always after midnight). In a previous investigation of a similar hotel, Tim and his brother had found a slow gas leak in the kitchen. It had been making the staff light-headed and accident prone, which had led to rumours of the place being cursed.  Of course that wasn’t the case, but Tim and his brother spun the owners a tall tale all the same.  Tim fixed the broken gas main while his brother performed a dramatic séance.  After “speaking” to a malevolent spirit called Lloyd who didn’t actually exist, Tim and his brother had declared the building “cleansed”.

The pay had been decent and the owners were happy.  It was on to the next job, and despite the worrying number of deaths, Tim expected to play the exact same simple prank at the Grey Gardens.

But things hadn’t gone as planned.

With no one in the building other than Tim and Steve, there was no need to perform a fake séance – they could just tell the owner that they’d done one anyway.  Instead, they drank heavily and made good use of the hotel’s amenities.  It seemed like a good gig.

The first warning sign was when they were sipping from a bottle of the hotel’s best champagne in the bridal suite’s hot tub.  Very gradually, to the point that they hadn’t even noticed it at first, the water began to heat up.  The thermostat was already set to a cosy 40-degrees-C, but when Tim began sweating and glanced at it again, it was over 50.  By the time he and Steve leapt out of the tub, the thermostat was reading 68C.  They looked like lobsters.

But they didn’t learn their lesson.  They carried on drinking, while playing on the pool tables in the downstairs bar.  Steve was twice the player Tim was, his extra five years on Earth having been spent hustling various pubs and clubs.  Tim still enjoyed the game, though, despite losing constantly.  It was time with his big brother.

When the eight-ball left a long streak of blood behind it on the baize, they thought it odd, but still they did not let it bother them.  They were obscenely drunk and the supernatural was a job to them, not a reality.  They ignored what they were seeing.

Tim wished he could go back in time and shake some sense into him and his brother.

Once the evening got late, Steve and Tim retired to one of the twin rooms.  Their drinking had slowed down until both of them were feeling drowsy.  Tim plopped down on one of the beds and closed his eyes, while his brother took a bath. It was a peaceful ending to a wild night.

Tim must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he checked his watch it was almost 3AM.  It was then that he realised Steve was still in the bathroom.

The lights were off, but sounds of trickling water crept out from the en suite. Tim dragged himself off the bed. He moaned in agony; it felt like an elephant was running loose inside his head.  His mouth was as dry as an overfilled ashtray.

Tim’s bare feet took him across the room.  The sounds of water from the en suite grew louder.  “Hey, Steve,” Tim shouted out.  “You fall asleep in there?”

The bathroom’s door was ajar and Tim pushed it open all the way.  He strained his eyes to see through the darkness, and though it seemed impossible, there was a glow in the room which slowly brought everything into view.

What Tim saw then changed his life forever.

The monsters he invented to scam money off of innocent people were real.  There was one standing before him right now.

And it had Steve.

Standing in the room’s bath tub was an old lady.  Her ancient face was a withered mess of flaking skin and her black, sunken eyes seemed to drip crude oil.  Kneeling in the bath tub at the old hag’s feet was Steve.  He was half conscious and shaking with hypothermia. A pair of talon-like hands wrapped his skull, held him in place.  The old woman’s crooked, brown teeth formed a smile as Tim stood in the doorway.

“S-Steve?”

The old hag hissed at him.  Her voice sounded like an oven full of burning snakes.  She yanked Steve up by his skull, lifted him in the air, offered him to Tim like a weightless ragdoll.  “Taaaaakkkke hiiim.  Iffff yooou daarre…”

Tim looked at his brother’s dangling legs, and saw the pleading fear in his eyes.  Steve was trapped inside some impotent hell, but he was still aware; he knew what was happening.  He could see his brother, Tim, standing there and doing nothing to help him.

The old hag cackled, started to squeeze Steve’s skull.  Tim still did nothing.  Blood began to run down Steve’s temples from where the bony fingers were piercing his skull.  His eyes began to bulge.  Tim still did nothing.

Tim couldn’t move.  His heart was a clenched stone-fist inside his chest, his knees were stiff and useless. His entire body felt like an inanimate statue.

Tim did nothing as he watched his brother die.

The old hag released her grip on Steve’s misshapen skull and he tumbled to the floor like a string-less puppet.  Then she turned her malevolent gaze on Tim and opened up a mouth full of rotten fangs.

Finally Tim’s legs obeyed him. He bolted out of the room, already guilty that he only managed to move once his own life was in danger.  His brother’s peril had not been enough to make him act.

Tim lumbered across the room like a wounded gazelle, terror and alcohol making his movements clumsy.  He fell against the room’s door and fumbled for the handle.  He managed to get a grip on it but found that it wouldn’t budge.  It was as though it’d been welded shut.

Tim spun around.  The old hag floated inches above the carpet, drifting towards him with her arms reaching out.  The darkness parted before her, extinguished by a sickly green glow.  The smell of death preceded her.

“Please.” Tim begged.

Spiteful, hate-filled cackling.

Tim fell to the floor and cowered.  He closed his eyes.

More cackling, louder, closer.

His watch beeped; the changing of the hour.

Tim trembled, squeezed himself up into a ball as tight as he could manage.

But nothing happened.

He opened his eyes slowly.  The old hag was gone.

The hotel’s owner found Tim the next day, still cowering in the same corner by the door.  A brief police investigation had determined that Steve had gotten heavily drunk and slipped in the bath tub, caving in his skull.  Tim knew that wasn’t the truth.  Once he’d had time to think the events through, he knew the only reason he was still alive was thanks to nothing more than fortunate timing.

The old woman had disappeared at 3AM exactly – his watch had beeped to tell him so – when the witching hour had ended.  Timing had been less forgiving to Steve, though, and Tim would never forget his own inaction in preventing his brother’s death.  He had done nothing.  He was a coward.

Two months later, after one hell of a several-week drinking binge, Tim went back to the
Grey Gardens Hotel and torched the place to the ground.  No one else would ever have to die there.

But Tim had never stopped being afraid – especially of locked doors and dark rooms – which was why he was kicking himself right now, for placing himself in a bad situation all over again.  This time, instead of Tim’s brother, grumpy-ass Graham was the victim.

At least this time I’m not responsible.

“You okay, Tim?” Angela asked him.  “You look like you’re about to hit the floor.”

Tim shook away his bad memories and tried to smile for her.  “Yeah, I just don’t like being trapped.  Sends me into a panic.”

“We’re going to be okay,” Angela reassured him while patting him on the back.  “Long as we watch out for one another, we’ll get out of this infernal house one way or another.”

Tim took a seat on the bottom step of the grand staircase and winced at the frigidness against his rump.  Angela paced anxiously around the moonlit foyer in front of him, while Mike tried to open the front doors.

Tim didn’t know what to make of Mike.  Someone had killed Graham, that much was obvious, and the only people Tim knew were innocent were he and Angela, which left few remaining suspects.  It didn’t look good for Mike, but it was still far from conclusive that he was the killer.  For all Tim knew there could be a nutcase in a hockey mask roaming the gardens.  Who knew anything for sure?  Right now, the only thing certain was that Mike was trapped inside the house with the rest of them.  There was still a slim chance he was an ally rather than an enemy. Tim wasn’t ready to write him off just yet (even if Angela had already made up her mind).  There was, of course, one other viable suspect that no one else was mentioning: Sammie.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Mike admitted.  “The door is unlocked, I’m sure of it, but it still won’t open.”

Angela huffed.  “Don’t act like you’re surprised.”

Mike sighed and chose to ignore her.  He’d stopped defending himself a little while ago when it became clear that Angela wasn’t going to change her mind about him.  Tim didn’t blame the bloke for not wanting to waste his breath, but he still had Angela’s back before he would have Mike’s.

“Do you think we should try the phones again?” Tim asked.  “We really need to get a hold of the police.”

“Try them,” said Mike.  “Be my guest.”

“No,” said Angela.  “Nobody is splitting up.  We’ll go together.  Where is the nearest phone?”

“In the antechamber,” Mike said.  “Follow me.”

Mike took them over to a small side room with a couch.  The phone was fixed to the wall.  Mike went to pick up the receiver.

“No,” said Angela.  “Let me.”  She snatched the receiver from the wall and placed it to her ear.  From the way she slammed the handset back down Tim knew that the lines were still dead.

Tim felt himself panic. He was feeling more and more cut off from the world; trapped.  He felt like the cowering mess crouching in the corner again.  “So what’s the plan?”  He heard the anxiety in his own voice and took some deep breaths, then reaffirmed himself.  “I mean, we can’t just stand around here all night.”

“Well, I’m not going to go to bed,” said Angela.  “I think we all need to group together somewhere and wait for Frank and whatever help he brings.  We need to keep Sammie and Jessica safe with us as well.”

Tim blanched at that.  “For all we know, Sammie is the danger.”

Angela shook her head.  “No, I don’t think so.  I was getting through to him earlier.  He’s just a scared little boy.”

“What about Chamuel?” Tim asked.

“Who?” Mike asked, looking deeply confused.

Angela looked at him and explained.  “Chamuel is the name of the presence apparently inside of Sammie.  And to answer your question, Tim:  I don’t know.  I don’t know if Chamuel is a split-personality or if we’re really dealing with something evil here, but Sammie said that the thing inside of him wants him dead.  I don’t think we should leave him alone.”

Tim let out a long, whistling sigh.  He wished the tiredness would leave the inside of his eyelids.  It made him feel sluggish.  “Okay,” he finally said.  “Let’s go hole up in the kid’s room.  Maybe we can all watch South Park when the power comes back on.”

But when they entered Sammie’s room, the boy wasn’t there.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“We need to find him,” Angela said.  “Right now.”

Tim looked around Sammie’s room and wondered where he could have gotten to. A candle burned by the window, illuminating the boy’s drawing desk.  Even from several feet away, Tim could see the drawings arranged on top of its cluttered surface.  He moved closer.

There was one drawing in the centre of the desk that was perched on top of all the others – it seemed to take pride of place.  Tim picked it up and examined it.

Holy shitballs!

The picture should have chilled Tim to his core, but he felt numb inside – it was a serene moment of frozen emotion that probably came right before a full-blown breakdown.  It was the calm before the storm of mental anguish and manic fear.

The old hag’s charcoal eyes leapt right off the sketch, as if they were alive. The figure clutched a crudely-drawn severed head in her hand and Tim knew that it belonged to his brother.  In fact the contorted features of the disembodied face shared all the right features.

How does Sammie know?  It’s impossible.

Tim crumpled the drawing and threw it on the floor.  He fought the urge to flee, glumly reminding himself that there was no way out anyway.  His bladder wanted to void itself and his stomach felt sick.  Yet, mixed in with his urge to flee was also the beginning of an urge to fight.  Anger had started to flower in the pit of Tim’s stomach and he found a tiny sliver of extra resolve that he never knew he had.  Perhaps he’d finally had enough of being messed with.

Angela stepped up beside Tim and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “What was the drawing of?”

“Something only I could know about.”

“Yeah, I got one of those too.  Remember when Sammie first met me?”

Tim remembered how freaked out Angela had been when receiving her own drawing.  “How do you think he does it?” he asked her. “How can he see things from our pasts that only we know about?”

“I don’t think it is Sammie.  I think that whatever possessed Charles Crippley that day in Jersey is the same entity that is inside Sammie - Chamuel.  That’s how he knows.”

Tim wondered if this Chamuel was the same malevolent spirit that had crushed his brother’s skull.  “Do you have any theories about who Chamuel is yet?  Why don’t you think he’s responsible for killing Graham?”

“I’m not sure who Chamuel is, but I’m working on it.  I still think the name is familiar, but I just can’t place my finger on it.  I still can’t figure out why my attempts to exorcise the demon were such a failure.  I think I need to try again.  As for Graham, I just don’t see how a ten-year old boy could have done that to him.  There’s something else at play here that we’re not yet seeing.  But the only thing we need to worry about right now is finding Sammie.”

“Maybe he went up to see his mother,” Mike chimed in from behind them.  “We should go check on her, anyway.”

It was a reasonable suggestion so Tim didn’t argue about it; neither, surprisingly, did Angela.  They all headed back out of Sammie’s room and into the hallway, then took the stairs all the way up to the fourth floor.  Angela carried a candle that had been on a nearby windowsill.

Jessica’s door was open.  Light from her own bedside candle flooded weak light out into the hallway and highlighted the red carpet in its spotlight.  Tim saw that Jessica was still sleeping in her bed; he also saw that Sammie was nowhere to be seen.

Mike stated the obvious.  “Sammie’s not here.”

“Then we keep looking,” said Angela.

Tim wasn’t so sure.  “Do you think it’s safe to leave Jessica alone?”

“I’ll stay with her,” Mike offered.

Angela shook her head.  “No way.  We stick together.”

“Fine.  Then we either stay here or we carry on searching.”

“Let’s just search the rest of this floor,” said Tim.  “If we don’t find Sammie we’ll come back and wake Jessica up.”

Everyone agreed.

The first room they came to after leaving Jessica’s penthouse was a large office with an antique desk.  On top of the desk was a computer.  Somehow, it was still switched on – the only thing in the house that still had power.

“How is there still electricity in here?” Angela asked.

“There’s not,” Mike answered.  “That was Joseph Raymeady’s personal computer.  He used it for his work at Black Remedy.  It’s installed with a backup power supply to protect against the constant power cuts at the house. The battery charges off the house’s supply when it’s on and kicks in if the electricity is cut off.  It’ll run out eventually.”

“Mind if I take a look,” Tim asked.  He didn’t know what he expected to find but he couldn’t see how it could hurt either.  There might even be a way to contact the police.

“Go ahead,” said Mike.  “I don’t think Joseph’s in a position to complain.”

Tim sat himself down in the high-backed leather chair and stared at the flat-screen monitor.  The Black Remedy Corporation logo bounced around the screen, skipping from corner to corner.  Tim shoved the mouse and the desktop appeared.  It was neatly organised with just a few folders and a recycle bin icon.  Tim also noticed that the email manager was blinking on the bottom taskbar.  There was an unread email.  Tim clicked on it.

The email application flashed up on screen.  A message appeared with the subject line: WORK UNDERTAKEN, JOSEPH RAYMEADY.  Tim read the email that followed:

Dear Frank Senz,

I trust that you will keep our communication confidential as it is of a sensitive nature.  You are correct that, prior to his death, Mr Raymeady was rather unsettled.  He believed the company he owned was working against him from within and that his life was in danger.

When Joseph’s father died and his controlling interest of Black Remedy passed on to him, Joseph began involving himself in all aspects of the company.  He quickly became aware that great portions of Black Remedy’s funds were unaccounted for or secretly diverted.  When he sought to investigate these discrepancies, the other members of the board were not forthcoming.  In fact they were actively hostile.

That is when my services were sought.

Through a series of investigations, which unfortunately I cannot go into, I was able to find evidence that Black Remedy Corporation was involved in acts of corporate espionage, government bribery and extortion, arms dealing, insider trading, and attempting to buy-off the Monopolies Commission.  Even more bizarre, the company had spent several million in undisclosed capital acquiring the deeds to several religious buildings, only to close them down and destroy them.  The Acquisitions Board also purchased a group of historically significant artefacts which were unearthed at the Golgotha site in Jerusalem (where Jesus was allegedly crucified).  I can’t imagine what the purposes of such acquisitions are, but the company certainly seems to have religious interests.

Furthermore, there was also a list of large payments made to several unnamed persons, leading me to believe that Black Remedy has a personnel of freelance employees to perform tasks that are ‘off the books’ so to speak.  It was upon learning this that Joseph became most anxious.  He held the opinion that the company employed hitmen and mercenaries to ‘take care’ of certain problems.  He believed this even more when my investigations discovered the untimely deaths of several of the company’s adversaries (such as the French politician, Frank Gerome, who sought to shed light on Black Remedy’s exploitation of the current African AIDS epidemic by purposely limiting the production of life- saving medication in order to inflate prices.  He was found face down in his own swimming pool).  Joseph feared that his meddling in the company’s affairs, and the eradication of several immoral, yet profitable, operations, would lead to an attempt on his life.

Frank, as I’m sure you already know, Joseph became overly cautious in the months before his death and he started working mostly from home.  The fact that he has now passed away even despite his caution, suggests to me that there was someone within his own household working against him (one of these ‘off the books’ employees I uncovered).  From several previous conversations I held with Joseph, it is clear that you were one of the few men he trusted, which is why I have chosen to break protocol by divulging the nature of my work for your late boss.

But there is one other reason that I have opted to share information with you, Frank, and that is because I believe that Joseph’s son, Samuel, is in danger.  After Joseph’s mysterious death, I conducted a further investigation for my own peace of mind.  It became very clear to me, once I hacked into the confidential files of several key board members, that Black Remedy Corporation has an unhealthy interest in the future heir of the company.  The Raymeady family own 51% of the company, but if Sammie (and Jessica) were to die then the company would become 100% controlled by the Black family and its shareholders.  I believe that Samuel’s death is the number one priority to certain members of Black Remedy right now.  As a man that Joseph trusted, I hope that you can keep them safe.  Don’t trust anybody.

My prayers are with you.

Yours,

George Farley.

Tim lifted his head from the computer screen and stared at Angela.  “There’s an email addressed to Frank.  He must have been looking for answers as much as we are.”

“What does the email say?” Mike asked, moving closer.

Tim clicked delete and sent the email to the recycling bin.  With what was said about there being someone in the household working against the Raymeady family, he felt it better that Mike didn’t read the email for himself.  George Farley seemed to be suggesting that Joseph was murdered by someone close to him.  It could have been Mike.

“It’s from an investigation service,” Tim explained. “It said that Black Remedy Corporation was involved in a lot of bad stuff, and that Joseph’s attempts to clean up the company were not being met well by the other board members. Seems like they may have wanted him out of the way.”

Angela nodded.  “From what I’ve heard about that company, I’m not surprised.  They’re like Evil Inc.”

“Did it say anything else?” Mike asked.  He seemed unduly curious.

“Not really,” Tim lied.  “It was just a follow-up email really.  I think Frank was dealing with it.”

Mike came toward him.  “Let me take a look.”

“Sorry, I think I deleted it.”

“What?  You had no right to delete anything on this computer.”

“Was an accident.  We should maybe try to use the computer to contact the police.  What do you think?”

Mike pushed Tim.  “Move aside.”   He began clicking the mouse and Tim knew it would not take the man long to retrieve the email from the bin.

Tim was standing behind Mike when he noticed a presence in the room and the sound of clumsy footsteps.

“Who’s there?” Tim asked, straining to see across the dark office.

There was no reply from the stranger, but after a few more clumsy steps, the person was revealed to be Jessica.  She stood at the back of the room like a ghostly apparition.

“Jessica,” Angela said, once she noticed the woman standing there.  “Are you feeling better?”

“Sssssoul.”  Jessica spoke in a disembodied lisp – it was the voice of somebody else.  “The sssssoul is broken.  It cannot be ssssaved.  The child isss ascending. Ssssamuel mussst die.”

Jessica fell to her knees and vomited.  The noise it made was like thick custard hitting a fan.  When she was done, she looked up at them with tear-soaked eyes and spoke from a crusty mouth.  “W-what is happening to me?”

Tim stood in shock while Angela gathered the woman off the ground.  “Jessica, are you okay?  Can you see again?”

Jessica stumbled but Angela caught her before she fell back to the floor.  “I-I…Yes, I can see fine, but I feel…I feel…”

“Let’s get you somewhere comfortable,” Mike said.  He left the computer and walked over to her.

“What’s happened to the power?”

Tim answered her.  “It went off several hours ago.  We’ve been waiting for it to come back on.”

“W-who’s looking after Sammie?”

“We don’t know where he is,” Angela admitted.

Jessica straightened up.  “What?  It’s the middle of the night.  Why isn’t he in bed?  What have you people been doing?  Mike, take me to Sammie’s room.  I need to find him.”

“Of course,” said Mike.

“No!” said Angela.  “We need to stay together.”

Jessica seemed to strengthen.  “I give the orders around here, Miss Murs.  You do not tell me what to do, especially when it concerns my son.  I suggest that you both retire to your rooms.  We’ll continue this in the morning and then we can discuss why my son was allowed to go missing.”

Angela went to argue, but Tim put a hand on her shoulder.  He whispered to her, “Just leave it.  I don’t think she even knows that she’s been unconscious all night.  You won’t make her understand what’s been happening until she’s regained her senses.”

“But we’re in danger,” Angela whispered back.  “We can’t leave this house and Jessica herself just said to us that Sammie needs to die – although she sounded more like a snake when she said it.”

“I think we should just do as she says.  You and me can stay in one of the bedrooms and wait it out till morning.”

Angela nodded.  “Okay.  In the meantime, perhaps we can try and put some of this together – maybe come up with some answers.”

“Yeah,” said Tim.  “I suppose stranger things have happened.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Tim had been invited by Angela to hole up in her bedroom for the rest of the night and it seemed like as safe a place as any.  It was now 4AM and Tim felt nauseous for lack of sleep, but he didn’t expect to get any shut-eye yet.  He picked an antique wing chair in the corner and slumped himself down in it, trying to get comfy.  No way was he going to close his eyes though.

The room’s bed was unmade and Angela’s suitcase lay open on the floor beside it.  Angela noticed him staring at it and seemed embarrassed.   “Housekeeping isn’t my strong point,” she told him.

Tim chuckled.  “Mine either.  I live in a van.”

Angela lay down on the bed and propped herself up with pillows.  A candle on the bedside table lit her face.  “We never had a chance to discuss what happened in your van.  I mean, with the Ouija board and everything.”

“I know,” said Tim.  “I’ve done séances before, so I wasn’t surprised it worked, but I don’t have a clue about the answers we got.  Usually the spirits just natter about their family or hidden heirlooms.”

“It was all a little bit doom and gloom, wasn’t it? Blood…Death…Hell will take you.”

“It didn’t feel like a threat, though, you know?” said Tim.  “Seemed more like a warning.”

Angela nodded and rubbed at her eyes.  “And it said, “We’re here,” just as Sammie turned up.  It was almost like the Ouija board was acting like a beacon for him to find us.”

“For who to find us?  Chamuel or Sammie?  Who’s in control of that kid?”

“I spoke to Sammie just before Graham’s body was found.  He seemed scared, just like a kid should be.  He said that Chamuel wanted to change him; to make him do things he didn’t want to.”

Tim rubbed at his chin.  He could feel bristles of ginger stubble coming through.  “Did Sammie say what?”

Angela sighed.  “No, he didn’t.  He asked for my help, though.  He asked me to get rid of Chamuel.”

Tim yawned and shrugged his shoulders.  “Well, that’s what we do then.”

“How?  I get the impression that Jessica is going to kick us out of the house first thing in the morning.”

Tim had pretty much assumed the same thing.  Jessica had seemed irate at the situation she had awoken too, but surely she’d remember what had actually happened; would remember being blind, or would remember walking into the office and giving them a warning in a voice that was a serpentine hiss?  “Maybe tomorrow she’ll feel differently,” Tim suggested hopefully.  “She was just confused earlier. Things might become clearer to her by dawn.”

“Are you still going to leave?” Angela asked.

Tim nodded.  “Sorry, but I’d be gone already if the place wasn’t sealed up.”

“Do you know how it’s even possible that we’re trapped in here?  How did they suddenly make the windows unbreakable?”

Tim thought the answer was obvious.  “It’s security glass, isn’t it? A house like this, with a family like the Raymeadys, is certain to have tempered glass to stop people breaking in.  It might even have been a recent addition if the email I read was anything to go by.”

“What did it say?”

Tim shrugged.  “It was all a bit weird, but it seemed that Joseph Raymeady was worried about his life and had some guy investigating for him.  Turns out that Black Remedy is about as ethical as the Mafia – except without all the codes of honour.  The investigator thinks that Joseph’s death might not have been an accident.”

“Really?  He thinks it was murder?”

Tim nodded.  “Somebody close to him, he suggested – but not Frank, I don’t think.  It was Frank who the email was addressed to.  It seems like he’s been trying to get to the bottom of all of this, too, for his own peace of mind.”

Angela’s eyes widened.  “Then that just leaves Mike.”

“Yeah, I guess so, but there used to be a lot more staff here when Joseph died, so it could have been somebody else.  Can’t say I liked the way he shoved me away from the computer to get a look at that email, though.  He seemed pretty anxious to see what it said.”

“I don’t trust him,” Angela said bluntly. “But I guess you already know that.  At first I thought he was a pretty decent guy, but now I get the impression that he knows more than he is letting on.  I think he might be dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed.  “Perhaps.”

“Which is why I’m begging you to stay.”

Tim shifted in the chair.  The last thing on Earth he wanted to do was stay at the house a minute longer, but he also knew that he didn’t want to abandon Angela – especially if she was at risk.  He had to remind himself that he’d only just met the woman; he didn’t owe her anything.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “But first thing tomorrow, I’m out of here.”

It looked as if Angela was going to argue with him, but then she just nodded.  “Okay, well, it’s your choice.”

“You should get some sleep,” he told her.  “I’ll watch over you for a few hours.”

Angela smiled wearily.  “Would you mind?”

“Not at all.  If you’re going to stay and get to the bottom of things, then you’ll need your rest.”

“Thanks.  I feel like I might drop into a coma if I don’t sleep soon.  Wake me if anything happens though, yeah?”

“Sure thing.”

Angela closed her eyes and within two minutes she was snoring.  Tim watched her sleep and wondered what her deal was.  The woman was slightly overweight and baggy around the eyes – she was a drinker and an overeater which were sure signs of an unhappy soul.  Was her misery because of leaving the church, or did she leave the church because she was miserable?  Tim could tell that Angela was a caring person, a good human being, but her weaknesses were unhidden and clear for all to see.  After a certain length of time, depression could become part of a person’s personality, and then the hope of ever shedding it became an unattainable fantasy.  Tim hoped Angela found a way to face herself again one day.  He knew that possibility was gone for himself – he would never be anything but what he already was.

Against his better judgement, Tim rested his eyelids for a second.  Eventually he had no choice but to let sleep take him.

***

Angela opened her eyes to darkness. The candle in the room had extinguished.  Usually, whenever she woke from a deep slumber, there was a brief moment of confusion as she wondered where she was, but in this case she opened her eyes and instantly knew.  Her alert mind was unwilling to let her forget where she was even for a moment.  She was still trapped inside the house.

She sat up and could almost feel the darkness moving around her like a living thing.  She listened out for noises, worried there might be someone else in the room, then remembered that Tim had promised to watch over her.

She called out.  “Tim, are you there?”

There was silence in the room.

Angela slid her legs off the bed and onto the floor.  She cringed at the thud they made on the carpet.  “Tim,” she called out again.

Still no answer.

Angela crept across the room, arms out in front of her as feelers. She bumped against the chair Tim had been sitting on.  It was empty.

Damn it, Tim!  Where are you?  You promised to stay with me.

Angela wondered if he’d perhaps just gone to get a drink or something to eat.  He doubtlessly was exhausted, too. Maybe he’d needed something to keep from falling asleep himself.  Even so, Angela didn’t want to be alone in the house and didn’t like the thought of Tim wandering around on his own, either.  They needed to stick together.

She left the bedroom and sidestepped into the corridor like a secret agent on a mission of stealth.  If anybody else was around, she wanted to be sure she spotted them before they spotted her.  As it turned out, the corridor was deserted.

She decided to go downstairs and look for Tim in the kitchen. She headed for the stairs.  The moonlight shone in through the windows and Angela took the opportunity to check her watch.  It was 6AM, yet the moon was still high in the sky.  The sun should have been muscling its way onto the horizon by now.

Angela reached the staircase balcony and realised she wouldn’t have to look any further to find Tim.  He was right in front of her.

“Tim?  What are you doing?”

Tim looked down at her from where he balanced atop the railing.  His eyes were murky white and unfocused.

Angela looked over the railing, at the three-story drop to the cold, harsh marble on the ground below.  “Tim, please, could you get down from there?”

He stared at her vacantly.  The antique bannister beneath his feet rocked back and forth; his knees wobbled like loose springs.  One false move and Tim would fall to his death.

There seemed to be no sign of Tim getting down from the bannister of his own volition.  It was almost as if he was sleepwalking or under some kind of spell.  Maybe he had taken something to help him sleep, something he shouldn’t have.

Angela crept forwards, one foot carefully placed in front of the other; she didn’t want to startle him.  “Tim? It’s Angela.  I thought you were going to watch over me while I slept?   I woke up and you were gone.  I was worried.”

A strangled moan escaped Tim’s lips, almost as if he were a prisoner trying to escape his own body.

Angela took another step.

Tim’s moaning continued, grew louder.

She reached out toward him.

Tim flinched.  His foot slipped.  He fell.

Angela managed to grab a hold of the back of Tim’s shirt just in time.  She dragged his weight and managed to direct his tumble backwards to safety instead of forwards to his death.  He landed in a crumpled mess on the carpet with Angela lying beside him.

“What the hell were you doing?” she shouted at him.

The milkyness had cleared from Tim’s eyes and he seemed confused.  “I-I…how did I get out here?”

“You don’t remember?”

Tim propped himself up on his elbows and shook his head.  “I remember sitting in the bedroom.  You were snoring…”

Angela blushed.

“…and I must have fallen asleep.  I-I don’t know what I was doing.”

“Are you a sleepwalker?” Angela asked him.  She hoped he was so that they had a reason for his behaviour that didn’t involve something sinister.

Tim shook his head.  “If I am, this is the first time.  I wonder how long I’ve been out here?”

“Well, it’s past six now.”

Tim frowned at her.  “What?  But it’s still dark.  Shouldn’t the sun be rising by now?”

Angela shrugged.  She didn’t understand it either.  “Come on.  I think we should go back to my room.  This time you get the bed and I’ll keep watch.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Mike was clueless as to why the windows were suddenly unbreakable, but it fit well into his plans.  Everyone needed to remain inside the house.  Mike didn’t know what was going to happen, but he knew that an awakening was at hand – and that would require certain sacrifices.  It didn’t matter if Angela and Tim were suspicious of him or not; it was too late for either of them to do anything now.

To make things even better, Jessica didn’t remember a thing about what had happened in her bedroom – about him choking her unconscious.  Her voice was croaky and it was clear she had a bruised windpipe, but she was oblivious to the fact that Mike had been the one to inflict it upon her.

Jessica was currently sat on Sammie’s bed, weeping quietly to herself as she cradled the boy’s grimy pillow.  Mike was amazed that the woman still felt maternal over the wretched little monster - he was no longer the loving little boy he used to be.  Sammie had become a monster, something inside manifesting like mould on a loaf.  The boy’s soul had gone bad.

“Are you okay, Miss Raymeady?” he asked Jessica.

She looked over at him with teary eyes but managed to smile.  “No, not really, Michael.  I feel like I’ve just woken up from a coma.  Nothing is making any sense right now, especially with Sammie missing.”

“I’m sure he’s just playing games; hiding somewhere inside the house.  I should really get back to looking for him.”

Jessica raised her hand.  “No!  Stay with me.  I don’t feel safe without Frank in the house.  I don’t want to be alone.”

Mike nodded.  “I understand, but we really shouldn’t leave Sammie running loose with those two con artists in the house.”

Jessica frowned at him.  “Why do you think they’re con artists?”

Mike huffed.  “Come on, what have they done since they’ve been here, other than injuring Sammie and causing trouble?  They’re probably the reason Sammie is hiding; he’s probably scared of being cut open with a needle again.”

Jessica shook her head.  “I believe they’re trying to help.  Whether or not that’s enough for me to let them to stay, I’ve not yet decided.  What time is it, anyway?  I need to make a decision about them before the new day begins.”

Mike checked his watch.  “I’m afraid the day’s already started.  It’s a little after eight.”

Jessica looked at him like he was mad.  “What?  You must be mistaken.  It’s still pitch-black outside.  It can’t be morning yet – I mean, not late-morning as you’re suggesting.”

Mike had not actually realised it was still dark outside.  There was so much going on in his mind that the familiar surroundings of the house had become merely an unnoticed background.  Now that he was aware of it, however, it left him a little disconcerted.  The extended night-time, along with the sealed and unbreakable windows, made Mike feel uncomfortable.  He was supposed to be marginally involved in the events to come, but he was beginning to fear that his part would be bigger than he intended.

Mike stroked at the raised scar-tissue hidden beneath his shirt. He hoped the ancient flesh carvings would be enough to ensure his safety.

Jessica dropped her son’s pillow and pulled herself away from his bed.  “Come on, you’re right.  We should be looking for him.”

Mike opened the door for Jessica and followed her out into the corridor. He watched her sway unsteadily as if drunk.

Ironic, seeing as it’s probably the first time she’s actually been sober in six months.

Jessica stopped halfway down the corridor and glanced up at the wall.  The Edwardian grandfather clock there displayed the exact same time as the digital display on his watch.  Jessica was shaking her head at the clock as if she suspected it of playing some cruel prank on her.  “Impossible,” she muttered.

She got moving again and Mike continued after her.  When she reached the staircase, she chose to head downwards, reaching the ground floor and marching across the foyer to the front door.

Jessica rattled the handle for a few seconds and then spun around on her heels, looked at Mike with both her eyebrows raised.  “Why won’t this door open?  Have you done something to it?”

Mike shook his head adamantly.  “I don’t understand it myself, but no one has been able to open it since Frank left last night.”

“That makes no sense.  What about the other doors?  The ones in the piano lounge? The exit in the kitchen?”

“All the same.  No one can get out anywhere at the moment.  We were all waiting for daylight to investigate properly.”

“Well, the sun seems to have forgotten itself today, so we need to sort this out now.”

Mike shrugged.  He knew trying to get the door open would prove useless, but Jessica was his boss and refusing her would raise questions.  He stood before her, awaiting orders.

Jessica looked around the foyer then back at him.  “Well?  Go and find something to help.  No point standing there like a monkey without his bananas.”

“Of course,” said Mike, fighting off the urge to mock-salute the bitch.  She was almost back to the bossy, unbearable woman she’d been before her husband passed on. Perhaps she wasn’t the hopeless mess she’d appeared to be lately.

“I’ll go check the kitchen,” Mike said.  “Maybe we can try and pry the door open with a knife or something.”

“Fine,” said Jessica.  She continued rattling and punching at the door’s handle, every second adding to her frustration.

Mike entered the main kitchen and instantly caught a chill.  The lack of soft furnishings, in addition to the metallic surfaces and appliances, made the room harsh and cold.  But Mike knew that the chill running through his bones had nothing to do with the kitchen; it had a lot more to do with the fact that Sammie was sitting on the centre island, grinning at him while his little legs swung back and forth.

“Hello, Michael.”

Mike took a step backwards and flinched as his back hit the wall.  “Sammie?  We’ve all been looking for you.”

Sammie smiled knowingly.  “You for different reasons than the others, I think.”

“W-what do you mean?”

Sammie hopped off the work counter and planted his dirty feet on the tiled floor.  “I get the impression that you have some sort of interest in me that goes beyond simply being my mother’s chauffeur.”

Mike nodded.  “That’s because you’re a very special boy, Sammie.  Very special.”

“Why, thank you for saying so, Michael.  What a lovely compliment.”

“My pleasure.”

Sammie’s smile grew wider.  “You seem nervous.”

Mike shifted uncomfortably.  “No, not nervous.  Just tiredness, I think.  I’ve been up all night.  You have too, Sammie.  You should really be in bed.”

“Perhaps.  I seem to have less and less need for sleep recently.”

Mike nodded.  “Sleeping is unnecessary for someone like you.”

“Because I’m special,” Sammie stated.  “I wonder just how special I can be.”

“You have no idea,” said Mike.

Sammie reached over the nearest workspace and slid something long and metallic across its surface.  “Don’t I?”

Mike’s breathing increased as Sammie stepped slowly towards him with the knife held out in front of him.  “W-what are you doing, Sammie?”

Another step.

The knife came closer.

“What do you think I’m doing, Michael?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Sammie thrust the knife out at Mike.  Mike yelled, the sound a strangled whimper.

Then Sammie flipped the knife over and presented it, handle-first.  “You came in here for a knife, didn’t you?”

The air came out of Mike like a deflated balloon.  “Yes, I did.”

“You best get back to my mother with it then.  You know how she can get.”

Mike took the knife and felt a quick spark run through his wrist.  “Of course,” said Mike.  “Whatever you require, I am at your service.”

Sammie giggled.  “Excellent.  Then I trust you will not tell my mother you’ve seen me.  The night is endless and I wish to enjoy it a little longer.  The moon is magnificent right now.  I hear it singing to me.”

Mike didn’t know what to say, so he laughed nervously.

“I see nothing funny,” Sammie said, in a voice that was both soothing and angry at the same time.  “Leave me in peace, Michael.  Now!”

Michael left Sammie alone in the kitchen, moving as quickly as his feet would carry him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“It’s almost nine-o-clock,” said Angela.

She was now officially nervous.  The fact that she was looking out of the bedroom window at a full moon when there should have been a morning sun was enough to frighten her on a deep, primal level.  Human existence relied on certain constants: there would be air to breath, food to eat, and the sun would rise each morning.  Delete one of those constants and things went terribly wrong.

Tim came and stood beside her at the window.  “This is bad, isn’t it?  Like, horror-movie bad?”

Angela nodded.  Clearly something bad was at work in this house; something powerful and malevolent.  One man was already dead and Angela feared it was only the start of something even worse.  “I need to perform another exorcism,” she stated. “But this time I need to be more…aggressive.”

“What do you mean?” Tim asked her.

Angela walked over to her suitcase and pulled out her exorcism kit.  From inside she pulled out a long, stiletto-like dagger.  “There’s something called a blood exorcism.  It is something that the church condones only in absolute emergencies – no official records have ever been kept.  There hasn’t been one performed in over seventy years.”

Tim nodded.  “But you know how to do one, right?”

Angela nodded.  She remembered the Secrecy Order she’d been forced to sign.  She remembered slicing into the flesh of rabbits and guinea pigs as she practised the sacred rituals.  “I learned the Sacrament of Cursed Flesh a long time ago, but I remember everything – a person doesn’t forget a thing like that.  There is just one problem though.”

Tim frowned at her.  “What is it?”

“If I perform the Sacrament, there is a chance that Sammie could die.  To banish the demon from his soul, I will have to take him to the brink of death.  That is the only way to weaken the demon’s influence and expel it.”

“Hell’s bells,” said Tim.

Angela nodded.  “Let’s hope the Lord is with us this day.  We will need His guidance.”

“I think I should probably do some praying of my own.”

“You believe in God, Tim?”

Tim smiled.  “No, I was thinking about praying to my guardian, Thor.”

Angela looked at Tim’s unflinching face and wondered if he were crazy.  Then she said, “That’s a joke, isn’t it?”

Tim laughed.  “Levity is as important as religion at times like this.”

“I agree.”

“So what can I do?  I want to be involved this time.  Let me help.”

“I want you to.  Go to the kitchen and see if you can find any basil.”

“Basil?”

Angela nodded.  “Where basil is, no evil lives.  Sprinkle it in as many rooms as you can – particularly across the thresholds.  It will confine the demon’s influence and weaken it.  If you mix it with Black pepper, even better.”

“Okay,” said Tim, shrugging his shoulders but seeming happy to go along.  “I’m on it.”

He went to walk past Angela but she reached out and grabbed his arm.  She looked him in the eye.  “Be careful.  I don’t want you getting hurt.  If this is going to work then I will need your help.”

Tim raised his fist at her in a gesture of solidarity.  It was a manoeuvre more suited to a seven-foot basketball player than a skinny, white, ginger dude, but she appreciated his show of support.  He had her back.

It was time to put a stop to all this.

Angela put on her cassock and smoothed it down with her hands.  She looked in the mirror at her tired face and couldn’t believe how much it had changed in less than a week.  Weakness clung to every one of her bones, but her mind was still strong; her will resolute.  For the first time in a long time, Angela felt like she was doing God’s work again.  It felt good.

She pulled her crucifix from underneath her clothing and let it hang against the jet-black fabric of her cassock.

May Jesus Christ guide me.  May the Lord protect me.  May Heaven watch over my soul as it journeys the righteous path.

She picked up her Bible from where it sat on her bedside table and clutched it close against her breast.  With her other hand, she clutched the ceremonial dagger.  It was made from Damascus steel and etched with the verses of Genesis.

Deliver me, I pray thee.

Angela was ready to do what was needed.  The only thing left to do was find Sammie.

Hopefully before he finds me.

Angela stepped out of the bedroom, taking a candle with her.  She felt like Florence Nightingale as she floated down the corridor in her small globe of light.  For a moment she had the strange feeling that the hallway was infinite, stretching on endlessly, but then the stairway appeared on her right and she breathed a sigh of relief.

I’m being paranoid.

She headed down the stairs and could hear the sounds of banging from below.  Eventually she encountered Mike and Jessica on the ground floor.  They were working at getting the front door open.

“Is it still stuck?”  Angela asked as she exited the staircase.

Jessica turned around and gave her a stern look, but gradually forced a polite smile.  “Morning, Angela.  If you’re looking for Tim, he just headed into the kitchen.  I take it, from what you’re wearing, you intend on staying?”

“If you’ll allow me to.  Not like I can leave, really.”

Jessica took in a large breath and let it out in an exasperated sigh.  “I haven’t yet decided.  I just want to focus on getting this door open first.”

“Okay,” said Angela.  “Can I help at all?”

“No,” said Mike.  He was brandishing a badly bent chef’s knife in his hand.  “We have everything under control.”

Jessica shrugged.  “I don’t suppose you’ve spotted Sammie anywhere yet?”

Angela shook her head.  “Afraid I’ve been in my bedroom.  Tim and I can look for him now if you wish.”

Jessica nodded, her pointed chin cutting through the air.  “Yes, that would be most helpful.”

Angela saw Jessica’s attitude as a good sign.  It seemed the lady of the house had calmed down slightly since their previous altercation in Joseph Raymeady’s office.

Acting on the information she’d been given, Angela headed across the foyer towards the kitchens.  There was a good chance that Tim still intended to leave, but at least he had no choice to at the moment, not until the doors were open again.

Entering the kitchen, Angela found it empty.  There was a candle burning on the centre work surface and several of the cupboards had been left open.  It certainly appeared that somebody had been there recently.

Angela approached the centre table with the candle.  There seemed to be something lying on its surface.  She tiptoed, not wanting to risk injury by rushing around the unlit room.

Almost 20% of accidents occur in the kitchen.

As she got closer, the object revealed itself to be a piece of paper. Angela was just about to pick it up when somebody grabbed her from behind.  She shrieked.

“I’m not sure you want to look at that,” said Tim.

Angela punched him in the arm.  “You sod!  Almost gave me heart attack.  Where were you hiding?”

“Wasn’t hiding.  There’s a meat locker back there.  I smelt something rotten so I checked it out.  Just a bunch of spoiled meat, though; nothing…omen-y or anything.”

“Okay,” said Angela.  “So what is this thing that I don’t want to look at?”

Tim pointed at the piece of paper on the work surface.  “It’s another one of Sammie’s drawings.  Seems like we might have just missed him.”

Angela frowned.  “What would he have been doing in the kitchen?”

Tim shrugged his shoulders.  “Getting a snack?”

Angela took the final few steps over to the table and reached for the piece of paper.  She pinched it between her fingers and thumb, then slid it towards her.

“Oh, how delightful,” she said, clearing her throat of the mucus that suddenly rose up to fill it.  “Let’s just hope this isn’t a literal interpretation.”

“You’re telling me,” Tim agreed.

Angela turned the picture in her hands and looked at it from all angles.  It was obvious that the four bodies swinging from the charcoal balcony were supposed to represent Mike, Jessica, Tim, and herself.  All of them hung by broken necks and their eyes were gouged out and bleeding.  The detail was immaculate for a child’s crayon drawing.  It was almost as if the colours were dancing on the page and giving life to the flat, waxy images.

“Should we take it as a threat?” Tim queried.

“Definitely,” she said. “But it also means something else.”

“What?”

“If Chamuel is making threats it’s because he’s scared.  He knows we’re coming for him.”

Tim laughed nervously.  “Either that, or Sammie is trying to warn us about what will happen if we don’t leave this house.

I guess we’ll find out soon enough, thought Angela as she tore the drawing to pieces.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Angela and Tim joined Jessica and Mike in the foyer.  When they got there it seemed that Jessica had just about given up trying to get the door open.  The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up around the elbows and her sweaty forehead sheened in the moonlight.

Angela decided not to waste any time.  “I want to perform another exorcism.”

Jessica didn’t hesitate.  “No!  Mike told me the last time didn’t do any good so what would be the point of putting Sammie through such a thing again?”

“There are other rituals I can try.”

“Look,” Jessica said.  “I’ve had a think about it and, while I appreciate that I was the one who asked you both here, I think our business is done.  I don’t believe you can help my son.  In fact I feel quite silly for having ever asked for your help in the first place.”

“I can still help you,” Angela protested.  “You were right to ask for help.”

“The only help you can be to me right now is by finding Sammie and getting him back to his room safe and sound.  You’ll be paid generously for your time, Ms Murs, but I feel it would be best if you left us at dinnertime.  Mike will have to drive you if Frank hasn’t returned by then.”

Tim stepped forwards and was actually pulling his hair with frustration.  “Are you not seeing what we’re seeing?  There’re a couple of concerns I have with what you’ve just said.  Number one is that Frank left the house going on twelve hours ago and hasn’t returned from a trip that should have taken him no more than an hour or two.  Number two is that your request for us to leave at dinnertime is slightly marred by the fact that no one can get the frickin doors or windows open.  I won’t even go into the fact that, according to that moon out there, lunchtime is still a long way away.”  Tim took a moment to catch his breath, then continued.  “You tried to commit suicide last night, Miss Raymeady, and then you went blind – although only temporarily – and to top it all off, one of your employees is hanging dead out of a hot tub upstairs.”

Jessica gawped at him.  “What?  Who is dead?”

Mike was the one to tell her, although he seemed reluctant to do so.  He skirted over the more gruesome details about how they had found him.

Jessica put her hands against her face and growled in frustration.  “Graham is dead?  I don’t believe this.  How?”

“Somebody cut him and he bled to death.” Tim explained.

“Take me to him.  I need to see for myself.  Has anyone called the police yet?”

“I tried,” said Angela, “but the phones are all dead.  As for seeing him yourself, I wouldn’t advise it.  There’s a lot of blood.”

“Try giving birth, Ms Murs.  I can handle blood.”

Nobody was in the mood to argue and Jessica was so adamant that they all went back upstairs.  As they walked the second-floor hallway, there was a brief flickering of the lights and it appeared that the power might come back on, but it was not to be.  After a brief flash of colour and light, making the bright red of the carpet come temporarily back into view, the darkness resumed. In fact it now seemed even deeper.

The door to the spa room had been left open and the tang of chlorine drifted out from the hot tub.  Thankfully the chemical odour overpowered the smell of Graham’s blood.

“He’s in there,” said Mike.

Jessica nodded, then passed through the door.  Almost half a minute passed before she returned to the hallway.  “I don’t see anything,” she said, obviously irritated.  “Is this supposed to be funny?”

Angela didn’t understand.  She hurried into the room to take a look for herself.

Graham’s body was gone.

Puddles covered the tiles and there was a slight pinkish hue to the water that suggested the presence of blood, but to a casual observer there were no signs of any murder.  “This doesn’t make any sense,” she said.  “Somebody’s moved the body.”

“Who?” Mike asked.  “I’ve been with Jessica the whole time.  If there’s anybody who could have moved Graham’s body it’s you and Tim.”

“Hey!” Tim protested.  “There’s no way you’d catch me fondling a naked dead guy.”

“We didn’t move him,” Angela stated firmly.  “Somebody is playing games with us.”

“This whole thing is a game,” said Tim.  “We can’t be sure that we haven’t been played since the very start.”

“What exactly are you accusing me of, Mr Golding?  I’d be very careful,” Jessica warned Tim.  “I brought you here in good faith and things have only gotten worse since you arrived. If anyone is to be suspicious of a ruse, it is me.  This is my home.”

Angela put a hand up in deference.  “Tim doesn’t mean any offence, Jessica.  We’re just as confused – and as frightened – by this whole situation as you are.  You’re right, things have gone from bad to worse since we got here, but I assure you that Tim and I played no part in that.”

Jessica softened up a little, let loose a sigh.  “I just want to know that my son is safe.  Is that too much for a mother to ask?  I just want to know that my Sammie is okay.”

Angela looked left and right.  “Then let’s go find him.”

Somewhere nearby was the sudden sound of voices.

Tim’s face scrunched up in confusion.  “Who the hell is that?”

Jessica was the first to get moving.  Angela and the others hurried after her.

The voices were coming from a couple doors down.  As Jessica rushed, she explained to them that the room contained a small lounge.

“Do you think that Frank could be back?” Angela asked, but didn’t believe it was a possibility.  Why would he come back and not tell anyone.  Besides, she could hear more than one person’s voice.  In fact, it sounded like there were several.

Jessica turned around and called back to Mike who had fallen several steps behind.  “Michael, open this door.”

Mike nodded and strolled forward.  He seemed in no rush.

“Hurry up,” Jessica shouted.

Mike opened the door and poked his head inside.  Angela held her breath.  The voices inside the room continued and even got louder.  There were other noises too.  It almost sounded like…

“Is that a television?” Tim asked.

“I think so,” said Angela, relieved and disappointed at the same time.

“But that’s impossible,” said Tim.  “There’s no power.”

Angela stepped into the room and examined her surroundings.  The room was bathed in shadows, just like the rest of the house, but there was a glaring source of light at the far corner.  A television mounted to the wall there was switched on and working.

“Isn’t that…South Park?”

Angela didn’t know the program well, but she recognised it as the same cartoon that Sammie had been watching the day he attacked her for switching it off.

Jessica called out.  “Sammie, are you in here?”

There was no answer; only the sound of coarse-mouthed cartoon children.  Angela rubbed at her shoulders.  The room was freezing.

“Sammie must have been here recently,” Jessica said.  “We need to find him quick.  Mike, switch that television off.”

“But I don’t even think it’s switched on.  The power is off.”

“Maybe it’s a power surge from the weather or something.  I don’t know, just turn it off.”

Mike scuffled over to the television.  He reached up to press the power off, but paused. His fingers hovered half-an-inch above the button.

“What is it?” Angela asked.

“I…I don’t know,” said Mike.  He stared into the screen as if he was mesmerised by something.  His face moved closer.  “I thought I could see a…I don’t know…a-”

Something exploded.

The television screen shattered, splintered, exploded in a shower of wicked, glass shards.  Mike twisted and fell to the floor, letting out a muffled scream.

Jessica ran over to him.  “Heavens, Mike.  Are you okay?”  She wrapped her arm around his shoulders and ushered him away from the litter of broken glass.

Tim held a candle in his hands and thrust it out to illuminate the scene.  It was clear that Mike was in a bad way.

Tim’s face wrinkled in horror.  “Oh, shitballs.”

Angela had the same reaction.  Mike’s left eye was a jagged, red slit, embedded with shards of glass.  Blood ran down his cheek in grisly tears and dripped from his chin.  Despite the horrific injury, Mike did not cry out or scream.  He was calm.

“Jesus, what do we do?” Tim asked.

“I’m fine,” Mike said, trying to open his eyelid.  “I don’t think it got my eye; just the skin.”

After a short bout of fluttering, Mike’s eyelid managed to open and reveal the watery orb beneath. He’d had a lucky escape.

“Thank Heavens,” Angela said.  “I think your eye is okay.  You should get yourself cleaned up, though.  There’re still bits of glass that could get in there.”

Jessica told them she’d take Mike to the nearest bathroom.  “But you two stay here,” she added.  “I don’t want anyone wandering around.”

Angela folded her arms.  “Fine.”

Tim took a seat on the room’s sofa opposite the broken television.  Angela was shaken-up and decided to join him.

“The weird shit just doesn’t stop around here, does it?” said Tim.

“It certainly doesn’t.”

“Funny, but that’s the third eye injury in this house since we’ve been here – if you count Jessica’s blindness and my experience at the pond – and there was one before too: the gardener or something.”

“What’s your point?”

“Don’t know.  Guess I’m just wondering if there’s any religious significance to eyes.”

Angela thought about it for a moment.  “Well, God sees through all of us, so to injure a person’s eyes is to try and reduce God’s awareness of our sins.  Serial killers sometimes gouge out their victims eyes for the same reason – so that God cannot see their crimes.”

“Hmm, interesting.  Wonder if we’re being sent another message.”

There was a shuffling on the carpet in front of them.  Angela flinched and pulled her feet up onto the couch.

God help me, I’ve dealt with a lot of things in the last forty-eight hours, but if that’s a mouse…

“Look at the glass,” Tim told her.

Angela looked down at the littered shards of the television screen.  The moonlight caught their edges and made them glow.  They were moving.

“Be careful,” Angela said.  “They might fly up at us or something.”

Tim shook his head.  “No.”

Angela looked down at the vibrating splinters and watched them totter across the carpet fibres.  They were slowly assembling themselves into separate piles.  Those separate piles were beginning to resemble…letters?

Angela glanced at Tim and then back at the glass.  “What’s it trying to spell out?”

The glass kept moving.  Eventually the letters formed words.

Help me.

Save me.

Kill the night.  Bring the day.

Angela looked down at the words and spoke to them as if in conversation.  “Sammie, is that you?  Who is it inside of you?  Is it Charles Crippley?”

The glass shards reshuffled.  No.

“Then who is it?  Chamuel?”

Yes.

“How does Chamuel know me?” Angela asked.  “Jessica sent for me specifically because my name was written in a journal.  Does Chamuel know me?”

Yes.

“How?”

Helped you.

Angela didn’t understand.  “What?  Chamuel helped me?  How?”

Charles Crippley.

“I don’t understand.”

Help me.

Angela shook her head desperately.  “I…I don’t know how.”

Stop the darkness. Bring back the light.

There was a shriek from outside and the glass shards suddenly scattered in all directions.  The messenger was gone.  Angela still understood nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Tim raced out into the hallway to see what the commotion was.  He knew enough by now to expect nothing but the worst.  This was a house where bad things happened.

“No way this can be happening,” Tim said, as he tried to make sense of what he saw.  Jessica was on her rump, shuffling backwards while Mike was trying to drag her back up onto her feet.  Pursuing them was an abomination – that was the only way Tim could describe it as.

A sick, inhuman abomination.

Graham stumbled down the corridor, colliding off the walls and lumbering towards them.  In the dim light of the moon, the bloody streaks Graham’s hands left on the wallpaper appeared as black smudges.  The fact that the man was stalking them down the hallway was beyond impossible.

Graham is dead.  I saw it with my own eyes.

Graham’s neck twisted around and facing the wrong way, was proof that the man had met a gruesome end – yet his body defied the laws of natural order as it shambled along the carpet.

Graham came towards them, his body facing backwards while his head pointed forwards.  His clumsy, backwards steps thudded on the carpet while a river of blood pooled behind him.  The wound on his genitals was gaping open like a wet mouth.

“We’re in hell,” gasped Jessica.

Mike dragged her up off the ground and ushered her away.  They passed by Angela and Tim, leaving them directly in Graham’s way.  Tim shook his head in despair, and pursed his lips.  For the first time in his life, his anger was greater than his fear.

I’m starting to get pretty pissed off with this place.  First it was House On Haunted Hill – with a little bit of The Exorcist thrown in – and now it’s the goddamn Evil Dead.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing a hold of Angela and hurrying them both down the corridor.

Jessica and Mike were up ahead.  Jessica was screaming and was once again the emotional mess she’d been when Tim had first arrived at the house.  Even Mike had fear in his eyes.  It was as though nothing had surprised the guy up until this point, but seeing his ex-partner, Graham, stumbling down the corridor like a zombie, was too much for the guy to take.

“What happened to him?” Jessica cried.  “You all told me Graham was dead!”

“I still think he is,” Tim said bluntly.  “In fact, I’m pretty certain he is.”

“Then how is he walking around?” Angela asked, huffing and puffing as the group scurried down the dark hallway.  Graham moaned and hissed from the shadows behind them.

“I have no freaking idea,” said Tim.  “But I’m guessing he came back even more unfriendly than before."

Angela skidded to a stop on her heels.  “Tim, did you find any basil earlier in the kitchen?”

“What?”

“The basil?  I sent you to the kitchen to find some.”

“I totally forgot about it,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a spice jar full of basil. He held it out.  “But, yeah, I found some.”

Angela took the jar.

Mike scoffed.  “Can we think about the ratatouille later, please?  Right now, we have more important things to worry about.”

Angela sprinkled the basil flakes across the carpet in a line from wall to wall.  There was just enough inside the jar to complete the full length.

“What is that supposed to do?” Mike asked in a tone so mocking that Tim felt like punching him.  Perhaps he would have if not for the fact Mike could likely take him apart in three-seconds flat.

Angela seemed to ignore the man’s ignorant tone.  “Basil has been used for centuries to ward off evil spirits – even the church itself uses it.  If it works, Graham will not be able to pass.”

“You hear that, Balrog?” Tim shouted into the darkness.  “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”

Angela edged everyone back and stood in front of them, facing down the dark hallway like a sentinel.  Everybody waited behind her in silence.  Tim could hear his own heart beating.

Graham’s moans continued in the shadows.  The noise got louder, closer.

Eventually the shadows parted and Graham appeared.  His head was still twisted around the wrong way but had started to go limp as the cartilage in his spine weakened.  A viscous meld of fluids dripped from his nose and swung in front of him like a sickening bungee cord.

Angela stood her ground, but Tim couldn’t help but shrink back.  The sight of Graham made his stomach clench in revulsion.  He could feel his heat beat faster as absolute terror finally took a familiar hold; it was an old friend he knew would never be rid of.

“Angela, come on,” he urged.  “Let’s just get away from here.”

Angela ignored him.  She held up a crucifix around her neck and began quoting the Bible – several passages over and over – so fast that she was almost speaking in tongues.

Graham kept coming.  His blood covered everything.  His smell filled the air.

“I sentence you to Hell,” Angela growled.   “You will approach no further.”

To Tim’s surprise, Graham stopped at the line of basil on the carpet.  It was almost as if there was a string attached to his waist that had just reached its maximum slack.

Angela’s plan actually worked.

Then Graham reached across the line and grabbed Angela’s throat.

Maybe not.

Angela squirmed and tried to break free, but she was caught in a vice.  Graham’s arms had dislocated from their sockets and rose up behind his back at an unnatural angle.  His bleeding face grinned.

“Help her,” said Jessica.

Tim didn’t move.  Couldn’t move.

He stood and watched as Angela struggled with Graham; watched as her face went red, her eyes began to bulge.  Then Tim saw his brother, the old woman, the hotel room.  His heart froze in his ribcage. His knees turned to cement.

“I said, somebody help her,” Jessica demanded.  “Now!”

Reluctantly, Mike ran forward.  He barrelled, shoulder-first, into Graham and managed to knock his former colleague back down the corridor.  The fact that Graham’s body was facing the wrong way meant that his legs tangled up and he tumbled to the floor.  Angela was dragged to the floor with him.

Mike raised his boot, brought it down on Graham’s head.  There was a vile crack! as boot met skull and, thankfully, it was enough to make Graham release his grip on Angela.  Angela scurried away, choking and spluttering.

Mike brought his boot up again and again, stamping on his former colleague until there was barely anything left of his head but pulp.

Angela clambered to her feet.  Her cassock was twisted and dishevelled.  Tim could see the anger in her eyes as she stared at him.  “Got my back, huh?” she said.

Tim averted his eyes to the floor.  “I’m sorry.”

Angela sighed.  “Don’t worry about it.  No harm done.”

“No harm done?” Jessica echoed.  “A member of my staff is dead.”

“I had no choice,” said Mike.

“I know,” said Jessica.  “But that doesn’t make the situation any better.  We need to call the police, or go for help, or…something!  I feel like I’m going insane.  I need a drink.”

“I don’t think that will help,” said Angela.

“Right now, it’s the only thing that will help.  Mike, try the phones again.”

“Sure thing.”  Mike took off down the hallway and disappeared.  Tim was uncomfortable to see him go.  He didn’t trust the guy, didn’t like the thought of him sneaking around, but also Tim didn’t want Mike to leave in case there was another situation in which he froze.

If Mike hadn’t been here to deal with Graham, Angela would be dead now.  Even after all these years I’m still nothing but a coward.

Angela rubbed at her throat.  “The dead are walking, the night is eternal; I don’t like what’s happening here.”

“No shit,” said Tim.

“No,” said Angela. “I mean that this is more than just possession.  No demon has this kind of power.”

“No poltergeist either,” Tim added.  “So what the hell are we dealing with here?”

“I don’t know.  The Devil?  Or one of the other fallen angels?  Only the princes of Hell themselves could affect the world in this way.”

“You sound like a mad woman,” said Jessica.  “You’re talking utter nonsense.”

“I think the time for scepticism is over,” said Angela.  “It is clear that we are dealing with an ancient evil here.”

“Ancient evil, the Devil, poltergeists – I’m stuck in a nightmare.”  Jessica rubbed her palms against her eyes and then looked at Tim and Angela.  “So what do we do?” Despite her scepticism it seemed she was onboard with whatever plan they came up with.

Angela smiled at Jessica reassuringly.  “We find Sammie, and then you let me perform another exorcism, but this time we go all the way.”

Jessica swallowed audibly.  “What do you mean: all the way?”

“I mean whatever it takes to end this.  We cannot let this evil remain.”

“I won’t let you hurt Sammie.”

Angela shook her head.  “Jessica, sweetheart, your son has already been hurt.  The only chance he has left of living a normal life again is for me to take this as far as I need to.”

Tears fell from Jessica’s eyes, but she nodded.

Angela patted the woman on the arm.  “There’s one thing we need to do first.”

Jessica wiped the wetness from her cheeks.  “What?”

“We need to find out what Mike is hiding from us.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Sitting in the piano lounge, Mike didn’t intend on trying the phones (he knew they wouldn’t be working for one thing) but he wouldn’t have used them even if they were.  Mike’s function at the house was as a recruiter. That meant staying around to ensure that his employer’s predictions were correct, that Sammie really was who they were relying on him to be.  Sammie was changing, and it was Mike’s job to make sure that the boy knew where his destiny lay.

So why the hell am I being hit in the face by exploding television screens? I’m here to help the little brat.

The wound to his eye hurt, but Mike tolerated it.  He’d been cleansed by pain as part of his initiation into the Black Strand – a secret, off-the-books organisation including all of the most powerful individuals from Black Remedy’s numerous sub-divisions.  Mike was just a cog in a very large machine, but he took his membership seriously – it was a rare honour bestowed on very few.  Even Joseph Raymeady had known nothing of the Black Strand.  His father and grandfather had been key figures, but they saw the weaknesses in Joseph and kept him in the dark.  Joseph’s morals would have only caused problems.  Which is why it had posed such problems when Joseph’s father passed away.

With Joseph inheriting controlling interest of Black Remedy, he’d quickly begun an ethical crusade, turning over every one of the company’s rocks to see what lay beneath.  It would have only been a matter of time before Joseph discovered the existence of the Black Strand and their purpose – and the true purpose of Black Remedy Corporation itself.

Joseph had never seen it coming when Mike strung a rope around his neck and hoisted him over the balcony.

But where has that gotten me?  I’m beginning to feel like a lamb at the slaughter.  Sammie was never meant to be any danger to me, but nearly being blinded disproves that.  Not to mention the never-ending night and Graham getting up and walking like a member of the living dead club.  None of this was supposed to happen.  There’s something I don’t understand.

Mike poured himself a drink from the nearest bottle, which turned out to be rum.  He filled up a low-baller glass halfway and then downed the contents immediately, enjoying the pleasant burn at the back of his throat.

“Drinking is bad for you, Michael.  The body is a temple and it is a sin to defile it.”

Mike jolted, dropped the glass.  It smashed on the floor.  “Sammie, shit, where did you come from?”

Sammie stepped out of the shadows and grinned.  His teeth seemed even more crooked than usual.  “I’ve always been here, Michael.  What are you doing here?  Little early for a drink isn’t it.”

“Usually, yeah, but in case you haven’t noticed the night’s gone on a little longer than usual.”

“Yes, I did notice that.  Beautiful, isn’t it?  Everything seems so much more…intimate… in the dark, don’t you think?”

“If you say so.”

“What’s the matter?  You seem irritated, Michael.”

“Are you surprised?  You almost blinded me earlier.”

Sammie giggled.  “Not me.  My friend.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Michael, making himself another drink.  “You know I’m here to help you, right?”

Sammie tilted his head like a confused puppy.  “Help me with what?”

“Help you realise who you are – what you are.”

Sammie stepped closer.  The shadows seemed to flee from his presence.  “I don’t know what you mean.  I’m just a boy, nothing else.”

Mike downed a gin from a new glass and slammed it down on the bar.  Then he laughed bitterly.  “Oh, you are far more than that, and you know it.  A harmless little boy doesn’t have the power to raise the dead like you.”

One side of Sammie mouth slid up in a smirk.  “Ssshhh, Michael, it’s a secret.”

“Not from everyone.  There are those – a select few – that know exactly what you are.  They welcome you with open arms.”

“My father’s company?”

Mike shook his head.  “No, Sammie, your company.  Tonight you must kill your mother, the Jezebel.  Bathing in her blood will be the mortal sin that truly awakens your destiny.”

Sammie spoke like an innocent child.  “But if I kill my mommy, who will look after me?”

“Your late father’s business partner, Vincent Black, will adopt you.  Together you will change the world.  You were born to be great, Sammie.  You just have to accept our help.”

Sammie looked upwards as if to think about it.  Then he looked back at Michael and said, “No, thanks.”

Mike spluttered.  “What?”

“I’m thinking I’ll just take control of the company myself.  I don’t see what Mr Black could offer me that I can’t do for myself.  Perhaps I should kill him instead?  Then I would own the entire company.”

Mike shook his head and approached Sammie from behind the bar.  “No, you don’t understand.  You won’t be in charge until you are eighteen years of age.  In the meantime, Mr Black will teach you about the business and about your destiny while you mature.  You’ll be lost without him.”

Sammie put a fingertip against his chin.  “Perhaps you’re right.  I still have one question though.”  Sammie stepped closer to Mike, only a few feet away now.  Mike could feel his skin prickling.  “What exactly do I need you for?”

Mike didn’t like where this was going.  The ungrateful little shit was turning on him.  “I have been helping you from the beginning, Sammie.  Watching you and keeping you safe.  I deserve your loyalty.”

“I disagree.  I think Frank is the one who has been keeping me safe since your murdered my father.  Not that he ever really was my father.  Still, I loved the man all the same; he used to make me smile.  I think I owe him more loyalty than I do you, wouldn’t you agree?  And what better way to show that loyalty than to avenge his death, by gutting his killer like a sickly little pig?”

Mike had heard enough.  The fear was so thick in his veins now that his heart was threatening to burst.  He was trapped inside the house and now Sammie wanted to kill him.  There was no choice but to act.

Mike slipped his blade from the holster beneath his belt and placed it to Sammie’s throat.  The boy stayed calm, but one false move and Mike was ready to slice his fucking throat out.

If it’s between you and me, oh great Messiah, then I choose me to live.

Sammie started laughing.

Jessica and the others entered the room, surprised by what they saw.  Mike didn’t blame them.  The game was finally up.

Sammie laughed even harder.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“Mike, what the hell are you doing?” Jessica shouted.

Angela’s stomach acids crashed against the rocks of her abdomen, making her want to vomit.  The sight of a knife against flesh had always set her teeth on edge, ever since Jersey.  Seeing a blade against the throat of a child was even worse.  But she knew there would be two sides of the story that was unfolding in front of her.

“Hey, man,” Tim said, raising up his open palm.  “Maybe we should just put the knives away.  Things never end well when people start brandishing weapons.”

“I’d be inclined to agree,” said Sammie, extremely calm for a child with a blade against his throat.  “Such barbaric actions, Michael.  I’m embarrassed for you.”

Mike grabbed Sammie by the scruff of his neck and got him in a classic hostage-taking chokehold.  He held the malicious-looking combat knife beneath the boy’s left eyeball.  “You just keep your goddamn mouth closed, you little shit.  Maybe I should take your eye out like you tried to do to me.”

Jessica screamed at Mike not to.  Angela wasn’t sure if he was bluffing or had totally lost it.  From the look of his trembling hands and darting glances, it didn’t seem like Mike was in full control of himself.  His usually cool demeanour had slipped, falling away like a satin sheet from an unveiled painting. All that was left was a frantic shell of a man.

“Let’s not do anything hasty,” Angela said.  “We’re all on edge with what’s been happening around here.  You must be even more upset about Graham’s death seeing as he was your colleague.  Is that what this is about?  Do you hold Sammie responsible?”

Mike laughed at them.  “He is responsible.  What the fuck do you think’s been going on around here?  Open your eyes, idiots.”

“What do you mean?” Angela asked.

“Wake up,” Mike shouted at them.  “This is all because of Sammie.  He’s not a boy.  He’s more than that – so much more.  He is his father’s son, and his father was a great man.”

“You mean Joseph?” asked Tim.

Mike laughed.  “No, I do not.  Tell them, Jessica.  Tell them what a whore you are.”

Jessica was distraught.  Whether it was due to Mike’s accusations or because her son was in peril was unclear.  Probably it was both.  “How do you know?” she asked Mike in a voice that had become very submissive.  “How do you know that?”

“Mommie?  What is the nasty man talking about?”

“I’m sorry, Sammie.”  Jessica looked at Angela and Tim and began to explain.  “When I met Joseph I was just a young woman and he was always away at his father’s beck and call.  I used to get lonely.”

“I think I see where this is going,” Tim commented.

“I used to go to bars,” Jessica admitted.  “I used to…used to pick up men and bring them home.”  Jessica wiped a tear from her eye.  “But it was hardly ever.  Once in a blue moon.”

“Well turns out it was often enough for you to get pregnant by another man,” said Mike spitefully.

“Who was it?” Angela asked.  “Who is Sammie’s father?”

“A stranger.  I…I met him only once.  He was just some charmer with an Irish accent and I couldn’t resist.  I fell pregnant and that was the last time I ever…you know, cheated on Joseph.”

Angela patted her on the back.  “We all commit sin, Jessica.  It’s whether or not we repent that truly matters.”

Mike sniggered.  “Oh, I don’t think you’d be so forgiving if you knew the full story.”

“Let my son go!” said Jessica, managing to regain some of her resolve.  She took a step forward and pointed her finger.  “You’re finished, Mike.  By the time I’m through with you, you won’t be able to show your face in public ever again.  You’re lucky I don’t have you killed.”

Mike chuckled.  “Now that sounds more like it, darling.  Black Remedy would be ecstatic to hear you talking like that.”

Jessica stared daggers at him.  “Those days are over.  My husband was dedicated to cleaning the company up.  I’m going to finish what he started.”

“Think you might find some opposition there; most notably from your precious son.  The company will be his one day and you can trust me when I tell you his methods are going to differ from yours and Joseph’s.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mike, but you have three seconds to let go of my son before I come over there and rip you apart.”

Mike wrapped his arm tighter around Sammie’s neck and pointed the knife at Jessica.  “You stay back, bitch!”

“What did you call me?”

“I called you a bitch.  The only reason you’re anything is because you sucked off a rich guy good enough that he married you.”

“How dare you!”  Jessica ran at Mike with her fingernails outstretched like claws.

Mike threw Sammie against the bar, his head cracking against the thick wooden surface. Then he readied himself for Jessica’s attack: legs apart, shoulders wide, knife pointed out in front of him.  Their bodies collided in a flurry of limbs. Jessica’s nails swiped furiously at Mike’s face, drawing blood, but Mike just smiled.

Suddenly Jessica’s ferocity diminished.  Her flailing arms weakened, eventually falling to her sides.

Angela’s breath caught in her chest when Jessica turned around to face her.  Blood mushroomed through the woman’s blouse, its central point emanating from a spot inches above her heart.

Mike still clutched the combat knife in his hands, but now it was dripping red – soaked with Jessica’s blood.

Jessica reached out a hand to Angela despite being several feet away.  She didn’t know why, but Angela couldn’t help herself from reaching back with her own hand, as if she could somehow stretch her limbs and pull the woman over to her.  Instead, Jessica fell to her knees before slumping onto her side and bleeding out on the floor.

Angela looked down at Jessica’s body and then stared at Mike in disbelief.  “What have you done?”

Mike huffed.  “What I needed to.  Now I’m going to end this whole fucking thing.  Screw the Black Strand, screw this house, and most of all, screw this kid.”  Mike wiped the combat knife off on his clothing and then looked down at Sammie who was unconscious against the bar.  Mike strolled over to him and held the knife with the tip pointing downwards towards his body.  “Time to die, you little bastard.”

Angela screamed out, “No!”  But it was too late.  She would never make it over to Mike in time to keep him from delving the knife into Sammie’s soft torso.  He was going to kill the boy.

Mike rose the knife up above his head and brought it down hard.

An explosion rang out behind Angela that funnelled in through her ears and filled her skull.  It left her unable to hear anything but ringing.

The knife fell to the ground, skittering across the tiles.  Thankfully it never reached its target.

The look on Mike’s face was one of stunned surprise.  There was a small well of blood forming in the very centre of his chest. Then another explosion sounded and his head tore apart.  Mike’s limp body fell to the floor.

Frank pushed past Angela and made his way across the piano lounge until he was standing right over Mike’s body.  He fired the gun one more time.  The bullet finished off what was left of Mike’s head.

After a few seconds had passed, during which Frank stared silently at the remains of the man he’d just killed, he finally turned around then slumped against the nearest table.  It was clear Frank was hurt but before he collapsed completely, he was still able to say one last thing: “Can’t leave you people alone for a minute, can I?”

CHAPTER THRTY-SIX

Angela and Tim managed to prop Frank up on a chair.  He was woozy but still conscious.

Angela put a hand against his cheek; it was like a block of ice.  “Frank, what happened to you?”

Frank’s eyes fluttered and then focused.  “Car crash.  I flipped into a ditch.  Just got out before the whole thing went up in flames.”

Angela poured him a scotch from a bottle on the table.  “It’s a miracle you’re alive.  How did you get back here?”

“Walked.”

“You walked?” Tim asked incredulously.  “You got up and walked home after flipping your car into a ditch?”

Frank nodded weakly.  “I was…seeing things.  I just started walking.  I didn’t even know where I was going, but somehow I ended up back here.”

“Good thing too,” Tim said, looking down at Mike’s bloodied corpse.  “You saved the day.”

Frank creased his brow as if he had a headache.  “What the hell was Mike doing anyway?  Why was he trying to hurt Sammie?”

“I don’t know,” Angela admitted truthfully.  “He just lost it.  Stabbed Jessica and was going to do the same to her son.”

Frank’s bloodshot eyes went wide.  “He stabbed Jessica?”  He leapt up from the chair and searched the darkened room, shoving aside tables as he checked each shadowy corner.  When his gaze fell upon Jessica’s body beside the bar, he flung himself down beside her. He cradled her limp form in his arms.  “Jessica!  Jessica, wake up.”

Angela stepped over Mike’s body and crouched down beside Frank.  “She’s gone.  I’m sorry.”

“No, she’s not,” Frank growled.  “We just need to get help.”

Angela put a hand on Frank’s shoulder and tried to ease him away, but he was having none of it; he ignored her as if she were a pestering fly.  Tenderly, he placed his hand against Jessica’s cheek.

Jessica’s eyes opened.

She coughed, spluttered.  Flecks of blood spewed out of her mouth.

Frank shuddered visibly with relief.  “Jessica!  Thank God.  We’re going to get you help.  Everything will be fine, I promise you.”

Jessica’s eyes were dilated and it was hard to tell exactly what she was seeing – if she was seeing anything at all.  “Frank,” she muttered.  “Is that you?”

“Yes, sweetheart.  It’s me.”

“I can’t feel anything.  I-I…”

“It’s going to be okay.  We’re going to get help.  Try not to talk.”

Angela knew that no help would get there quick enough.  Jessica might be alive right now, but it was temporary.  Angela could already hear the chain stoking of her lungs.  The woman would be dead within minutes.

Jessica’s pupils were like pinpricks as they looked up at Frank.  “F-Frank…listen to me.”

Frank finally seemed to realise that their time together was short.  He stayed quiet as Jessica spoke her final words.

“Promise me that…you will look after Sammie.  Promise me…

Frank blinked away tears, wept.  The emotion seemed foreign on his strong, angular face.  “I promise you, Jessica,” he vowed.  “I swear to you that I will always keep him safe.”

There was silence as they all waited for Jessica’s next words, but she was gone.

Angela placed her hand on Frank’s shoulder again and this time he allowed her to pull him away.  “I’m sorry, Frank.  She’s in a better place now.”

Frank said nothing.

Angela looked down at Jessica and thought that the woman finally seemed at peace.  Since she’d arrived at the house, Jessica had appeared to be a highly-strung, deeply-troubled person.  At least now her troubles were over.

“Hey,” said Tim, breaking the silence.  “How did you get inside the house, Frank?”

Frank shrugged, as if the question was stupid.  “How do you think?  I came in through the front door.”

Angela and Tim looked at each other.  She knew they were both thinking the same thing.  This was their chance to escape.  As much as Angela wanted to stay and help Sammie, right now they needed to reach the authorities.  They couldn’t fail to report the presence of three dead bodies.

“Come on,” said Tim.  “We can finally get out of here.”

Angela didn’t argue.  She and Tim hurried out of the piano lounge and back into the foyer.  Frank stayed behind with Jessica, cradling her in his arms and whispering things that were known only to him.

In the foyer, Angela faced an amazing sight: the front door hanging wide open.  They were finally free of the infernal house.

We can finally get out of here before anybody else is hurt.

Tim grabbed Angela’s arm.  “Come on,” he said.

They sprinted towards the door, the fresh air outside a simple yet irresistible goal.

Angela hadn’t realised how much she’d wanted out of the house until now.  The thought of hurtling down the front steps and onto the driveway felt like a veil of malignant oppression lifting from her face.  She would return to help Sammie, but right now she needed to get the hell out of Raymeady Manor.  They needed to regroup.

Angela picked up speed, her feet cracking down on the marble floor, each step taking her agonisingly closer to freedom.  In only a few seconds she would be outside, breathing fresh air away from the house.

Just a few more steps.

Angela reached out for the door just as it slammed shut. Angela couldn’t stop her sprint and went hurtling into it, bashing one elbow and both her knees against the thick wood.  She bounced back and skidded along the marble on her back.  Tim went over the top of her and ended up on the floor as well.  For a moment the two of them just lay there, stunned.

“What the fuck?” Tim shouted angrily as he struggled back to his feet.  He extended a hand to Angela and helped her back to her feet.  Then he went over to the door.

“It’s sealed again, isn’t it?” Angela said, already knowing the answer.

Tim tried the door handle, rattled it, shook it.  Kicked it.  He turned around and looked at her, his skin ghostly pale in the moonlight.  “Yeah, it’s locked.  Looks like we’re still stuck here.”

“Too bad Mike is dead.  If there was one person that knew what was going on here it was him.”

Tim nodded.  “He was pretty convinced that Sammie was involved, too, but I guess we’ve already come to that conclusion.”

“He mentioned Joseph not being Sammie’s real father.  You think maybe it has something to do with Black Remedy?  Maybe they killed Joseph and had Mike kill Jessica so that Sammie would inherit the company.  Then they could prove he was illegitimate and take the shares away from him.”

Tim frowned.  “You think this whole thing is just some sort of power play?”

“Maybe.  The whole house could be rigged.  Mike could have been controlling everything that’s happened.  There might not be anything unnatural going on at all.  Maybe we’ve been played.”

Tim seemed to like the idea.  It was no doubt within his usual realms of being a ghost hunter/debunker.  He latched onto the idea and ran with it.  “Yeah, and the front door could be on electronically controlled hinges.  It’s being held shut mechanically.  After what we’ve seen here, I have to admit that the supernatural is a possibility, but I’m still always happier to look for the rational explanation and this seems like it.  I bet that arsehole, Graham, was in on the whole thing, too, as Mike’s partner.  Don’t ask me where he got the whole backwards man costume from, but enough money can get you anything.”

“That doesn’t explain the Ouija board or the glass shards making messages in the TV room.  Also, what part are we supposed to play in all this?  Why do we need to be here if the plan was just to eliminate Sammie’s parents?”

“That wasn’t part of the plan.  Jessica called us because she didn’t know what was going on, and now we’re just stuck in the middle.”

“Or,” Angela said, “we’re here as witnesses; a cover story.”

“So you think this Chamuel is just a fabrication?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t know what crap you two are talking about,” said Frank as he entered the foyer, “but you’re forgetting one thing.”

“Oh,” said Tim.  “What is that?

“What’s wrong with Sammie?  If you’re suggesting that a ten year old boy is part of a conspiracy to kill his parents then you’re both crazier than I thought.  I know this family.  Joseph offered me a job when I was at a low point, just about ready to throw in the towel.  I have dedicated my life to them since then; I know them.  Whatever made Sammie ill, made him change like he has, is not down to a conspiracy.  You were brought here to help Jessica’s son, and that is exactly what you are going to do.  I promised I would look after him, to keep him safe.  I intend to do just that.”

Angela was as confused as she’d ever been.  Is there evil in this house, or is it just the machinations of evil men?  The only thing Angela had confidence in was that Sammie was just an innocent boy.

An innocent boy that needs rescuing.

“Okay,” said Angela, adjusting her collar.  “Let’s figure this thing out, once and for all.  It’s time for another exorcism.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“What exactly are you intending to do?” Frank asked Angela in the piano room.  Tim had carried Sammie out into the foyer while they talked.  “Haven’t you already tried this?”

“No,” said Angela.  “In fact I have never tried this.  A blood exorcism is very dangerous, but it’s the only option left.  If we are all in agreement that Sammie is…I’m just going to say the word, possessed…then this is what I have to do.  The entity inside of him – this Chamuel – was too powerful to expel with the normal Rite of Exorcism.  We have to go deeper.”

Frank crossed his arms.  “Deeper?  I don’t like the sound of that.  I won’t allow you to harm Sammie.”

“Please, understand,” said Angela, “that my only intention is to help Sammie.  I am not in the business of hurting people unnecessarily.”

“It’s when it is necessary that worries me,” said Frank.

Angela looked at the man and actually felt sorry for him.  Despite his strength and abilities, his job to protect the Raymeady family had been a complete failure.  It was obvious that the burden weighed heavy on his soul.  “Look, Frank,” she said.  “I want to see Sammie healthy again, a normal little boy.  I want exactly the same as you.  Let me do what I need to do, okay?”

Frank swallowed a lump in his throat and looked down at the floor.  “Fine.  Just help him.  I can’t take any more of this.”

Angela went over to Frank and took his hand in hers.  She looked him in the eye.  “We’re going to sort this, Frank, I promise you.  Let’s get Sammie back to his room and we’ll get set up.”

Frank nodded.  “Yeah, okay.”

Angela left the piano bar and the dead bodies of Mike and Jessica, and re-joined Tim in the foyer.  He had taken Sammie out with him, away from the bloodshed.  It was clear, though, that he was uncomfortable being alone with the child. He seemed relieved to see Angela and Frank return.

“Everything okay out here?” she asked him.

Tim shot a sideways glance at Sammie, who was awake again and stood staring out of a nearby window, humming a quiet tune.  “Yeah, as well as can be expected.  Kid’s just been standing there, staring out at the moon.  Hasn’t said a single word; just humming that creepy song.”

“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” Angela said.  “It’s what was playing on the piano just before we found Graham.”

“Joseph used to sing it to the boy,” Frank explained.  “I’ve heard him humming it many times before.”

“Think it means anything?” Tim asked.

Angela answered, “Probably that he misses his father.  Perhaps it’s his way of finding comfort.”

“Come on,” said Frank.  “Let’s get him back to his bed.”

Angela stepped over to Sammie at the window and placed a hand on the clammy flesh of his bare shoulder.  She looked out the window and saw what he saw: a black, featureless night broken only by the ethereal glow of the moon and stars.

Twinkle twinkle little star…

Sammie broke from his stare and looked up at Angela.  “You know, some people say that the stars are angels in Heaven and that a shooting star is an angel falling from grace.”

“You mean like Lucifer?” Angela asked.

“Who is that?” Sammie asked.

Angela expected that the boy knew full well who Lucifer was, but she decided to play along with his ignorance.  “According to the Bible, Lucifer is the Devil.  He waged war against Heaven and was cast out for his sins.”

“Why didn’t God forgive him?”

Angela looked at Sammie and saw that his expression was earnest.  “Well,” she said. “Would you forgive someone who tried to destroy everything?”

“But I’m not God,” Sammie explained.  “I thought God was supposed to forgive?”

“He does forgive, Sammie.  He forgives all the time.”

“When it suits him, it seems.  Sounds like your God is a hypocrite, Angela.”

“No one is perfect, Sammie.  It is overcoming our flaws that makes our existence worthwhile.”

“Do you think God forgives you?”  Sammie asked her, drilling into her with his coal-black eyes.

“For what?”

“For licking pussy and seducing young girls.  You’re no better than the catamites; a perversion of God’s creation.”

Angela fought the sudden urge to slap the child.  She was not prone to violence, but the feeling of anger came over her so quickly that it almost took control.  “I don’t think you understand the things you’re saying, Sammie.  One day, when you’re all grown up, you will see that people are very diverse.  We all follow our own paths and worship God in our own ways. You don’t have the right to judge anyone.”

“Don’t worry,” Sammie said.  “I’m not judging you.  That is not my place.  You’ll be judged in the next life.”

Angela felt a chill down her spine and tried to ignore it.  “Let’s get you back to bed, Sammie.  You must be tired.”

Sammie allowed Angela to take his hand and, along with Tim and Frank, they all made their way upstairs.  Sammie continued to hum and swung his hand back and forth gleefully. Angela had to fight to hold on to it.

Tim asked a question as they travelled through the house.  “So, Frank?  Did you have any idea that Mike was working against the Raymeady family this whole time?”

Frank growled like an antagonised pit bull.  “What do you think?  I would have killed that Judas sooner if I’d known.  It’s obvious to me now that Joseph knew there was a traitor in his midst, but he never found out quick enough to save his life.”

“Joseph trusted you, though,” Tim said.  “There was an email on his computer from some investigation agency.  Apparently the only member of staff that Joseph trusted for sure was you.”

Frank’s eyes flickered for a moment and his head lowered to the ground.  “That only makes it all the worse that I failed to protect him.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Sammie chimed in.  “I’m sure if he could send you a message somehow he would forgive you.”

Frank’s head shot back up and he scowled at the boy.  It was the first time Angela had seen the man show anything but concern for Sammie.  He said nothing, though, and eventually looked away.

“You okay, Frank?” Angela asked.

Frank nodded.

Eventually, they reached Sammie’s room. Tim stepped forward to open the door.  The stink of sweat hit them as they entered the room and Angela immediately felt the walls closing in on her.  She had begun to hate the child’s room.  It was a lair; a den of evil.

“Could you get into bed for me, please, Sammie?  The adults need to talk alone for a moment.”

Sammie did as he was told but had a sly grin on his face.  Angela took Tim and Frank into a corner of the room and held a whispered conversation with them.  “I need to get some of my things and prepare,” she said.  “Are you two okay to stay here with Sammie while I go get them?”

Frank nodded, but Tim seemed less sure.

“Everything is going to be alright, Tim,” she assured.  “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Five minutes is all it takes for things to go Amityville around here,” he said.  “But you do what you got to do.  If I could get my ass out of here, I would, but seeing as that isn’t an option, I’d rather be here with Kevin Costner than anybody else.”

Frank growled.

“Okay,” Angela said.  “If I’m not back in ten minutes…well, I would say call the police, but I guess the only thing you can do is start praying.”

Angela left the room and went to get what she needed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Tim lit up as many candles as he could find.  It was obvious that power cuts were regular because every room in the house was well-stocked with candles, but Tim knew this particular power cut had nothing to do with the National Grid.

He had a sickening feeling that by the time the electricity finally did return, more people would probably be dead.

Just hope I’m not one of them.

Tim took a hard look at Frank.  The strong man now seemed weak, standing over Sammie with almost fatherly concern.  Of all the tragedies that had befallen the house, they had clearly hurt Frank worst.  It was obvious the man had loved Jessica, and most probably her late husband, too. Sammie’s safety was now the only concern the man had left – and even that was a lost cause as far as Tim was concerned.

Tim went over to check on Frank.  “How you holding up?”

Frank looked up at Tim and offered a thin smile.  “Still can’t say I trust either one of you, but I’m not going to kid myself any longer by saying things weren’t already bad before you got here.  I’ve failed to protect Joseph’s family, so I think it’s time somebody else took over.  I just hope that whatever Angela is planning does some good.  I’ve seen enough death to last me a thousand lifetimes – my days in the army were bad enough – but I can honestly take no more.”

“You were a soldier?” Tim asked.  “That figures.”

“What figures?”

“Why you’re so bloody intimidating.  You’ve killed men, haven’t you?  That type of thing clings to a man – colours his soul.  Not everyone can sense it, but I can; you reek of death.”

Frank seemed far off for a moment as if his mind was someplace else.  Then he scowled at Tim.  “You’re right, I’ve killed men – but never once have I killed a man that wouldn’t have killed me first.  I was a soldier.  It was my job.”

“Still,” said Tim.  “Job or no job, it’s never easy to know people are dead because of you.”

“What would you know about it,” Frank snapped.

Tim sighed.  “More than you’d think.  At least when you took lives you were a hero and not a coward.”

Frank softened for a moment, but then shook his head and resumed his anger.  “If you’re looking for a therapist I can recommend one, but please spare me your catharsis.”

Tim put his hands up.  “Fair enough.  Guess I was just trying to pass the time.  I blabber when I’m nervous, and right now I’m so nervous I could shit my pants.”

“Well, I hope you can restrain yourself,” said Frank.

“So,” Tim said, deciding to change the subject. “What really happened to you on the road?  You were gone a long time, hombre.”

Frank sighed and rolled his eyes.  “To be honest with you, I don’t know what happened on the road, but I do know one thing: something wanted me dead, and it used Joseph’s memory to try and make it happen.”

“And let me guess,” said Tim.  “That was a BIG mistake?”

Frank sneered, but it wasn’t aimed at Tim.  “The biggest.”

Tim ran his hand over the top of a nearby candle and let the kiss of heat against his palm remind him that he was awake, not dreaming.  Then he scratched at the ginger stubble on his chin and whispered something to Frank so that Sammie could not hear.  “What are you going to do when all this is over?”

Frank shrugged.  Tim didn’t think the guy really cared about what happened to him, but he’d asked the question now, so he waited.

“I don’t know,” Frank said eventually.  “I expect I’ll be arrested.”

“Probably,” said Tim.  “But don’t worry, Angela and I will tell the police what happened.  You were just saving Sammie’s life from the crazy mamajama who had just killed his mother.  You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I doubt they’ll take much pity on me.  Britain’s richest woman is dead and her son is now an orphan.  They’ll want to send someone down for it, and a dead killer won’t be enough for them.  Someone will need to suffer to appease their sense of justice.”

Tim had a thought.  “Hey, do you know who Sammie’s real father is?”

Frank shook his head.  “No.  Jessica confided in me once that Joseph wasn’t Sammie’s biological father, but that was after her husband’s death.  She felt guilty and wanted to confess, I think.”

“Makes you wonder, though” said Tim.  “Maybe his real father was more than just some stranger.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” said Frank.  “But let’s not discuss a dead man’s family.  It’s disrespectful.”

Tim understood and decided to leave it.  The more he learned about Frank, the more he realised the guy was just another confused victim.  There wasn’t anything he was hiding.

At least nothing that’s any of my business.

Tim went and took a seat at Sammie’s drawing desk then swivelled around so that he was directly facing the boy in his bed.  The last thing Tim was willing to do was sit with his back to Sammie.  Angela seemed to have faith she could save the kid from whatever ancient demon Chamuel represented – if that was in fact the dealio - but Tim wasn’t expecting things to end well.  Regardless of whether or not Sammie was possessed, one thing was for the sure:

That kid is dangerous.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Angela had lied when she’d said she needed to get some things.  She had all the things she needed: her Bible, her faith, and the ceremonial dagger to be used in the blood ritual.  The real reason she had left the two men alone with Sammie was that she needed a few moments to prefer herself mentally.  After all the death and bloodshed, Angela’s resolve had wavered.  She was ashamed to say it, but she was afraid.  She didn’t know if God’s protection could penetrate the malevolence that had afflicted the Raymeady family.  She felt like she was in the lion’s den about to be eaten.

When Angela had left Sammie’s room she’d headed back down the grand staircase.  She now stood in the piano lounge, trying to ignore the stench of blood.  Jessica lay on the floor, her body twisted, her face staring blankly up at the ceiling.  Angela reached down and dragged the woman’s legs so that they both pointed straight.  Then she positioned Jessica’s arms over her chest and closed the dead woman’s eyes.

Angela knelt beside the body and closed her own eyes, clasped her hands together in prayer.

“May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

The old Gaelic blessing that Angela had learned as a child was not the typical way to bless a soul’s passing, but it seemed like something Jessica would have liked.  It made Angela feel better knowing that something had been said to mark the woman's passing.

Now I just need to say a prayer for myself.

She thought that Bon Jovi had said it best:

We’ve got to hold on ready or not.

You live for the fight when it’s all that you’ve got.

Angela sung the next line out loud like a war cry, “Wooah, living on a prayer,” and then went to leave the room.  She was ready, she was pumped, but once she’d taken a few steps, she stopped.

Mike lay face up on the ground where they had left him.  Angela looked down at him and wondered what had led him down the path he’d chosen.  Mike had killed Jessica, yes, but he had seemed afraid, panicked.  Whatever his sins, he was a human being that obviously had his own reasons for what he’d done.  Angela knelt down beside him.

“I am the resurrection and the life.  He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; says the Lord.”

Mike’s eyes snapped open.  “Angela!”

Angela fell backwards onto her hands.  A jolt of agony shot up her wrist.  Mike lifted his crooked face and glared at her.  He was alive.

No.  No, he’s dead.

Mike’s swollen eyes were rolled back in his head, showing only the bloodshot whites.  His ruined mouth worked silently as if it were being operated by gears and cogs.  Looking closely at the man, Angela knew without a doubt that he was indeed dead as she knew he had to be.  Yet he was sat up and looking at her now.

In a raspy voice Mike spoke to her.  “Time is running out.  Hisss power is growing.  You must ssslay the beassst.”

Angela stared at Mike’s body, shocked to see his human flesh being manipulated like a puppet.  “The beast?  How do I slay the beast?”

Mike’s eye sockets began to bleed and his lips twitched and contorted.  “You musssst separate the beasssst…from the pure one.”

Angela nodded.  “I know.  I’m going to perform an exorcism right now.”  She couldn’t believe she was having a conversation with a dead man.  “But who are you?”

Mike’s teeth began to fall from his mouth, one at a time, plinking on the tiles like notes on a xylophone.  His entire face was gradually crumbling to pieces.  “You mussst…ssslay the beast.  Exorcisssm…not enough…”

Mike’s lower jaw hung down low and then dislocated from his head.  It fell to the floor with a clunk!  Then Mike’s body collapsed, face down, on the floor.

Angela sighed.  Guess that’s the end of that conversation.

What exactly had the message meant, and who had given it to her?  Was it Sammie, Chamuel, or somebody else?

The conversation had given Angela more questions than answers, but one part of it gave her cause for concern: Exorcism…not enough.  Whatever that meant, it indicated that there were more trials ahead of her than she’d expected.  She would still go ahead as planned, though, for she had no other plan.  The only thing she had been told to do was: separate the beast from the innocent, and that sounded like an exorcism as far as she was concerned.  So that was what she was going to do.

Angela clutched the ceremonial dagger beneath her cassock and dragged herself up off the floor.

CHAPTER FORTY

Tim jumped out of his skin when Angela arrived back at Sammie’s room.  It wasn’t because she had opened the door so forcefully; it was more because his nerves had become so taut that a fly on a windowpane would have been enough to make him flinch.  It was the effect of being around Sammie; the impossibility of feeling anything close to calm, safe, or in control.

“Everything been okay in here?” Angela asked as she walked into the room.

“Yeah, nobody died, if that’s what you mean?” Tim didn’t mean it humorously.

Angela gave him a reassuring smile and it actually succeeded in putting his mind a little at ease.  Something about Angela’s current manner gave Tim hope that things might just work out okay.  Perhaps it was because she always seemed so sure that things would be okay.  As much as Tim expected the worst, Angela expected the best.

“Did you get everything you needed?” Tim asked her.

“I’ve got everything I need.  We should begin.”

Tim swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded.  “Ready when you are.  Just let me know what you need.”

“I just need you to be vigilant,” she said.  “Do not touch Sammie, do not speak to Sammie, and whatever happens you must not interfere.”  She looked at Frank specifically when she’d given the last order.

Frank sighed, but gave a nod of compliance.

“Okay, then.  Let’s begin.  I’ll start by talking to Sammie.  I need to try and learn as much about the entity inside of him as I can.  Knowledge will be power if a battle of wills ensues.”

Tim wanted to get himself into the habit of remaining silent so he made no reply.  He simply smiled; a gesture of solidarity for Angela that he was there if she needed him.  Frank was standing beside Tim and gave no such gesture himself, but it seemed that he was at least onboard for the time being.

Angela pulled the chair away from the drawing desk and dragged it up beside Sammie’s bed.  She plonked herself down on it and leant forward.  “Sammie,” she said quietly.  “What is your favourite thing?”

Sammie looked at her, grinned, and immediately said, “South Park.”

“Why?  Why do you like South Park?”

“Because it shows me what the world is like.”

Angela frowned.  “I don’t think so.  South Park is a cartoon.  It’s not real life.”

“I disagree.  It is more like real life than you realise.  Prejudice, sex, drugs, violence; it is all happening behind every closed door, yet I am stuck here unable to experience anything of life.”

“Does that make you angry, Sammie?  That you don’t get to leave the house?”

“No, not angry.  My time will come.  Until then, it appears that I am not the only one who cannot leave this house.”

“Is it you that’s keeping us trapped inside, Sammie?”

“No.”

Tim shook his head in the background.  Lying, little shit.

Angela nodded thoughtfully.  “Okay, then.  You know, if we could get out of here, we could go get help.  Your mother has been hurt.”

“My mother had been killed,” Sammie corrected her bluntly.

“How do you feel about that?”

“Sad, of course.  She was my mummy.  I loved her.”

Tim couldn’t believe how much the boy’s voice lacked conviction.  It was as if he were reading the words from a script.  How To Behave Like A Ten Year Old Boy 101.

Tim forgot his promise not to say anything.  He couldn’t help himself and  shouted out,  “What do you want Sammie, or Chamuel, or whoever I’m speaking to?  Everyone around you is dead, and to me it sounds like you don’t even care.  What is it you’re trying to achieve?”

Sammie giggled at Tim.  “I’m just trying to grow up.”

Angela shot a scowl at Tim before returning her focus back to Sammie.  “Why do you want to grow up, Sammie?  You’re just a boy.”

“But I’m going to be so much more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

Sammie shrugged his bony shoulders.  “Haven’t you heard?  I now control Black Remedy Corporation.  I even own the house you’re standing in.”

Tim couldn’t help himself again.  “Sammie, you mother isn’t even cold yet and you’re talking about your inheritance.”

Angela shot him another scornful look but he didn’t care.  He was tired of acting like the kid in front of him wasn’t responsible for everything that had happened – all of the death.

Sammie looked pitiful.  “Why are you so angry with me, Tim?”  Then his expression transformed into one of contempt.  “Is it because you’re a coward and taking out your rage on a young boy is all you’re capable of?”

“You know nothing about me.”  Tim felt himself spit the words.  “Nothing”

“We’ll see,” said Sammie.  “I’m sure there’ll be another opportunity to prove your lack of courage.”

Tim took a step forward, but Frank placed a hand against his chest.  A moment later, Tim was glad of it because he wasn’t sure what he would have done anyway.

“Enough of this,” Angela scolded.  “I told you to be quiet, Tim.”

Sammie grinned.  “Yes, Tim.  Do as the lesbian tells you.”

Tim bit his lip.  He was doing exactly what he meant not to do: he was letting Sammie get to him – inside his head.

Take a breath.  Calm down.  Keep your eye on the ball.

Tim stepped backwards until his back was against the wall.  He leaned against it and folded his arms.  “Just get on with it,” he said to Angela.  “I’m starting to get bored.”

Angela sighed and turned back to the boy in his bed.  “Sammie?  I’m going to ask you something and you’re not going to like it, but if you agree to it then everything will be a lot safer for everybody.”

Sammie raised an eyebrow and actually seemed concerned.  “What?”

“I want to tie you down to the bed.  It will be for your own good.”

“No.”

“Sammie…”

“I said no.  Nobody is touching me.”

Angela looked at Frank who was staring right back at her.  Tim could see that the man did not approve.  “What are you playing at?” he asked.

“I need to make sure Sammie is secure before I get started.  It may get very physical and I don’t want him hurting himself, or us.”

“Nobody is touching me,” Sammie said again more loudly than before.

“Frank, we need to do this.  I can’t do it without your help.”

Frank shook his head and rubbed at his eyes with his palms.  “Okay,” he said.  “Hold him down.”

Angela looked at Tim and he knew what she was asking of him.  He shook his head and cursed under his breath.  “Okay, hell, let’s get it over with.”

Tim took the left side of Sammie’s bed while Angela took the right side.  In unison they grabbed each of Sammie’s arms.  The boy screamed, thrashing back and forth like a beached shark.  His bruised legs kicked out at them viciously.

“Keep hold of him,” said Frank, who had rushed over to the room’s bay window.  He was reaching for the ties that kept the curtains open.

“Hurry up,” Tim huffed.  “This kid is stronger than he looks.”

Sammie screeched louder. Thick wads of spittle flew from his gnashing teeth.  Tim struggled to hold onto his sweat-drenched arm.  It seemed like Angela, too, was close to letting go.

Frank came running over with the curtains ties and quickly wrapped one around the arm that Angela was wrestling with.  He managed to yank Sammie’s left arm towards the bed post and tie a double knot in the thick curtain cord.  Just as he managed to get the one arm secured, though, Tim’s grip finally gave out and Sammie broke free.

Sammie twisted his body towards Tim and lashed out with his teeth.  His jaws clamped down on Tim’s hand.

“Fuck!  Get him off me!”  The crushing force on Tim’s hand was like a tightening vice.  He felt the bones threaten to crack and splinter beneath his tearing flesh.  The pain was so intense that it flittered rapidly between numbness and full blown agony as his nervous system tried to cope.

Frank leapt up onto the bed and straddled Sammie’s waist.  He clutched at the boy’s shoulder and tried to pull him away from Tim, but his teeth held tight and the agony in Tim’s hand continued.

“He’s like a bloody pitbull.  Jesus Christ!”

Sammie opened his mouth and spat blood into Tim’s face.  “Blasphemer!”

Frank took advantage of the opportunity and quickly got the remaining curtain tie around Sammie’s right wrist.  Tim joined in by holding the boy’s wrist down towards the bed post.  Between them they eventually got Sammie secured to the bed, albeit with his untethered legs kicking and thrusting like pistons.

Tim staggered backwards clutching his hand.  The skin was shorn from his knuckles and blood dripped on the carpet like the ticking of a clock.  The gash was deep and the bones in his hand ached – but he would be okay.  The wound was superficial.

Sammie glowered at Frank, who had climbed down off the bed.  Blood coated the boy’s teeth and shone in the darkness, making his lips shimmer with dull red.  He struggled against his bonds, but it did no good.  The curtain ties held him tight.

Sammie shook his head and his eyes suddenly seemed innocent and tender.  “How could you, Frank?  My father trusted you.  You’re supposed to look after me.  That’s your job.”

Frank was panting.  “It’s more than just my job, Sammie, and it’s exactly what I am doing.  I’m trying to help you.  You’re a sick boy.”

“The only sicko around here is you.  How long have you been fucking my mother?  Was my father still fresh in the ground?”

Frank looked pained.  “I loved your father, Sammie, and I loved your mother, too.  I never did anything but look out for the both of them.”

Sammie cackled.  “Good job.”

The comment seemed to be all Frank could take and he turned away.  Tim knew how he felt.  Sammie had a knack of getting to people’s nerves.  Somehow, hearing your truths laid out bare by a child was worse than admitting them yourself.

Angela tried to resume control.  “Sammie, it’s important that you listen to me until this is over, okay?”

“Choke and die, cunt!” he spat at her.  The thick, brown wad shimmered against the jet fabric of her cassock.

“Nobody else is dying,” Angela told him forcefully, ignoring the phlegm on her clothing.  “The evil in this house is impotent.  Nobody else in this house will be harmed.  Do you understand me?”

Sammie cackled again.  “You fools.  You weak, pathetic fools. All will die tonight at my merest whim.  You will suffer last, priest, so that you can see what you have reaped upon these souls.  The blood of this house will be on your hands.  My rebirth will be christened by your flesh.  Your guts will spill, your soul will bur-”

“Quiet!” Angela demanded.  To Tim’s surprise, Sammie did just that.  He stopped talking and just glared at her with his oil-slick eyes. Satisfied, Angela continued: “I demand you leave this child immediately, or suffer the consequences.”

Sammie’s voice dropped several octaves.  It boomed at them like a broken subwoofer.  “I mock your consequences.  I shall be judged by no one, for I am above judgment.  You will cower, all of you.  You will obey.  You will kneel.  Or you will die.  Those are your consequences, priest.”

“I do not fear you,” Angela said.  “You are weak.  I pity your weakness in the shadow of my almighty Lord.  It is you who shall kneel before Him.”

Sammie laughed; a great, booming laugh.

Angela chose the moment to slip something out from under her cassock.  Tim saw it glint in the candle-light as it appeared.  It was the ceremonial dagger, long and slender like a stiletto.  Sammie’s eyes went wide at the sight of it.

“Whoa!” Tim said, wishing he’d asked more questions earlier.  “Is it really a good time to get all knifey?”

Angela didn’t look at Tim but answered his question.  “We must draw blood.  It is the only way to weaken the hold the evil has on the boy.”

Tim didn’t like the tone of her voice.  It was flat and emotionless, as if she had cleared her mind of all compassion in order to do what was necessary.

“I can’t allow that,” said Frank.  “It’s…it’s not right.”

“This has to happen, Frank.  We go all the way, or we lose.”

Frank seemed in two minds.  “Well, what do you plan on doing?”

“She should shove it up her twat!”  Sammie hollered from the bed, still struggling to get free.  It was then that Tim realised the boy was urinating on his sheets, letting loose a steady stream that mushroomed through the fabric.

Angela held the dagger out in front of her.   “For the boy’s soul to be cleansed, he must suffer the wounds of Christ.  His suffering will bring him closer to God, to a place where evil cannot follow.  His mind will return to us, free of the corruption that has been threatening to destroy it.”

“We could go to prison for this,” said Tim.  He was thinking more and more about retrying the front door to the house.  He wanted out of there bad, before things went too far.

“We’re probably already on our way there,” said Frank.  “God help me!  Just do it.”

Tim was shocked.  Something in Frank had snapped.  He clearly now believed in what Angela was doing and lacked the rational will to see the dangers of what they were doing.  Tim thought the notion of cutting a ten year old boy with an antique dagger was insane. What he couldn’t decide on for sure, though, was if he truly did have reservations, or if he was just afraid.

I can’t think clearly.  Things are just too crazy.

As it turned out, Angela didn’t wait for anybody’s permission anyway.  She approached Sammie with the knife.

“Get away from me, dyke!” Sammie bellowed.

Angela hopped up onto the bed and straddled Sammie’s waist in the same way Frank had earlier.  She held the dagger above her head as if she were about to plunge it deep into the boy’s chest.  Tim held his breath as he wondered if that was exactly what was about to happen.  Sammie bucked and twisted beneath Angela’s weight, trying to escape her.

“The Lord demands you repent your sins,” she screamed.  “Demon, do you repent?”

“Fuck you!”  Sammie spat what looked like two bloody molars at her face.  Mucus shot forth from his lips and spattered her chest.  It did not deter her.

Angela plunged the knife and drew it across Sammie’s forehead with a vicious flick of her wrist.  The blood flowed quickly.  It descended upon Sammie’s face in a gushing wave until he was completely covered by a crimson mask.

“Do you repent?” Angela repeated.  “Demon, do you repent?”

Sammie’s dark eyes scowled at her through the veil of blood.  “I…repent…nothing.”

“Then you will suffer.”

Angela drove the dagger down into Sammie’s left hand, plunging all the way through and out the other side.  The boy’s screams were animalistic, inhuman, and also that of a ten year old boy.  The noise was sickening.

“Stop!” Tim shouted, unable to take any more.

Angela ignored his pleas and also those of the screaming child beneath her.  She pulled free the dagger from Sammie’s hand, blood spitting into the air, and drove it down again.  This time the blade pierced Sammie’s right hand.

Tim had seen enough.  He rushed forward and grabbed Angela around the waist, and then threw her off the bed to the floor.  She looked up at him in anger and surprise.  The bloody dagger dripped in her hand.

“This has to stop!” Tim shouted.

Before Angela could get up, he grabbed one of Sammie’s wrists and quickly untied the bond.  He was about to reach over and untie the other one, but Frank grabbed him first.

“Calm down!”

“Calm down?  Calm down?  This is insane.”

“How can you deny what you’ve seen?” Angela asked Tim as she dusted herself off.  “Have you forgotten the pain in your hand where he bit into you like an animal?  Have you forgotten the death and destruction you have seen in this house?”

Tim huffed.  “Mike and Jessica were both killed by other people.  There was no evil involved.”

“So you deny that there is anything happening here?” Angela’s expression was one of disbelief.

Tim grabbed a clump of his own hair and cursed at the ceiling.  “Shitballs, motherfucking dogpiss.  I know there is something going on here.  Christ, of course I know that.  I just don’t think this is right at all.  Whatever is going on, Sammie is still just a child.  We can’t…we can’t torture him like an animal.  Hell, I don’t even believe you can torture an animal like this.”

Something moved in the shadows.

Sammie leapt from his bed and ploughed into Angela, who fell backwards into Frank.  The two of them hit the floor in with a thump! as Tim stood there stunned.  Sammie was crouched on the floor like a feral beast, glaring up at him with baleful eyes.  The wounds on his hands and forehead were no longer bleeding, yet puckered like the sliced flesh of frozen poultry.

“You should have stuck me like a pig while you had the chance.”  Sammie was sneering at them all.  “Now you die instead.”

Sammie struck out at Tim, tearing a thick sliver of skin from his cheek.  Then the boy sprinted away, yanking open the door and disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.

Sammie, and whatever was inside of him, was loose inside the maze of the house.  Tim couldn’t help but feel like a lab rat, involved in something far bigger than he could comprehend.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

“Sammie, you come back here!” Frank shouted into the darkness of the hallway.

Angela placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.  The last thing she wanted was for Frank to disappear into the shadows of the house too.  “He’s not going to come back on his own,” she said.  “We need to go find him.”

“Yeah,” said Tim.  “Before he finds us.”

Angela sighed.  She liked Tim – even trusted him – but she was beginning to see that he was no good under pressure.  Some people saw problems while others saw solutions.  Tim was the former and it made him difficult to rely on.

You’d think a professional ghost hunter would be a little braver.

“So what’s the plan?” Frank asked.

“We go after him.  But we stay together.  Sammie is more dangerous now than ever.”

“Probably has something to do with the fact that you keep wanting to stab him,” Tim commented.

Angela faced him down.  “It is because the blood exorcism is almost complete.  Whatever is inside of Sammie now has nothing to lose.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed.  “Almost complete?  What else is left?”

“There are two more stigmata to perform, two more wounds of Christ to bestow upon Sammie’s body.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed even more.  “You need to pierce his feet?”

Angela nodded.

“And then…what, no way.  You’re insane.  You plan on stabbing Sammie in his side?”

Angela shook her head.  “No.  Piercing the feet should be enough to ward off the demon.  The final stigmata, if performed, would banish any spirit to Limbo for all eternity.  Just the threat of it should be enough to drive Chamuel out.”

“And if it’s not enough?”

“Then we have to decide what we’re up against, and if sacrificing Sammie is something we should do for the greater good.”  Angela couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth, but she was without any doubt.

Ever since the death and destruction she witnessed in Jersey at the hands of Charles Crippley, Angela knew the importance of defeating evil before it had time to blossom.  If the entity inside of Sammie was true evil, then she knew the value of one boy’s life was not enough to prevent what needed to be done.

“We’re not killing a kid,” Tim objected.  “Frank, you’re with me, aren’t you?”

To Angela dismay, Frank agreed with Tim.  He had seemed on her side up until that point.  “I have to draw the line somewhere, Angela.”

Her opinion was outnumbered. She just hoped they would see sense when the situation required them to change their minds.

“Okay,” she said, not wanting to waste any more time talking.  “Let’s just find Sammie.  We can figure things out later.”

Tim folded his arms.  “Fine.”

“Frank, you lead the way.  You know the house better than we do.”

Frank nodded and took the lead.  They filed out into the hallway and padded down the corridor silently like weary commandos.  Every inch of the house was bathed in darkness.  Even though the many windows let in moonlight to see by, every unlit corner could still be hiding a wealth of unseen horrors.  Sammie could be watching them right now.

Frank opened up a door on the left and stuck his head inside, then closed it again.  “It’s just a storage room,” he said. “No sign of him.  There’s a bathroom over there.  Go check it out.”

Angela nodded and headed over to the next nearest door.  Sure enough there was a bathroom inside.  The white and black tiles that probably shone bright in the daylight were now dank and dreary.  The smell of bleach hung heavy in the air.  The room was empty. It was easy to see as the room lacked anywhere to hide.

Except for one place.

There was a freestanding bathtub in the far corner.  It was a modern affair with a wraparound shower curtain from end to end.  It would have been very easy for a ten-year-old child to hide inside it.

Angela moved slowly, the sound of her feet hitting tiles after previously being on carpet seemed inordinately loud.  If Sammie was hiding in the bathtub, he would have heard her coming.  She thought about calling out, but told herself it would be a useless act as Sammie was unlikely to respond even if he was there.

She closed the final few steps, stood within arm’s reach of the shower curtain.

Here goes.

Angela placed her fingers against the plastic sheet and found the seam.  Slowly, inch by inch, she pulled the curtain aside.

She let out a breath.

The bathtub was empty.

Somebody grabbed Angela from behind.  She spun around, ready to scream.

“Any sign?” Frank asked her calmly.

“Bloody hell, Frank.  You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” he said earnestly.  “Tim said he heard something down below.  I didn’t hear anything myself, but I lost twenty-per cent of my hearing during my days in the forces.”

Angela nodded.  “Okay, let’s go check it out then.  You shouldn’t have left Tim alone.  It’s not safe.”

“He insisted.  Said he’d be fine.”

“I hope so.”

When they went back out into the hallway, Tim was gone.

Frank looked left and right.  “Where did he go?”

“He’s afraid,” said Angela, understanding what had happened.  “I imagine he’s trying to find a way out.”

Frank’s nostrils flared and he snorted like a bull.  “Coward.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it now.  If Tim wants out of here then he’ll be no use to us anyway.  We need to find Sammie.  Do you think Tim was at least telling the truth about hearing a noise downstairs?”

Frank shrugged.  “Probably not.  In fact, I doubt it entirely.  Perhaps we should work from the top down.  Go to the penthouse first?”

Angela nodded.  “Sounds like a plan.  You still got that gun?”

“Huh?  Yes, it’s tucked under my shirt.  Why?”

“No reason.  Just nice to know you have it.”

As they walked, Angela decided to fill the time with some questions.  “So now that Jessica has…passed on, what will happen to the family’s shares in Black Remedy?  Will they really all belong to Sammie?”

“Yes, but they’ll be overseen by his legal guardian until he’s eighteen.”

“Who’s his guardian?”

Frank shook his head.  “I’m not sure.  Vincent Black was the boy’s godfather, so perhaps him.”

Angela stopped walking.  “Isn’t he the other owner of the company?”

“Forty-nine per cent, yes.  The Black family provided most of the funding that the Raymeady family required to build the company.”

“Mike was obviously working against the Raymeady’s.  Do you think he was working for the Black family?  Are they trying to take control of the company?”

“I’d imagine so,” Frank said, sounding surprisingly resigned to the fact.  “With Sammie so young, the Blacks will likely raise him as their own.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?  Jessica, Joseph, they could be dead because of some greedy American businessman.”

“Of course it bothers me, but what would you have me do?  My job was to protect this family, and I’ve failed.  Time for me to move on.”

“Move on?”  Angela couldn’t believe what she was hearing.  “You can’t just move on.  You’re right, you failed this family.  You owe them.  You owe Sammie.”

Frank sighed.  “It’s already too late.  Sammie is obviously under some sort of spell.  If the Black family is behind it then they have already achieved everything they wanted.”

“It’s not over yet, Frank.  You’re going to do everything you can to protect that boy once this is over.  You promise me that, Frank.  Do you hear me?”

Frank sighed.  “Yes.  Yes, I hear you.”

“Then come on.  Let’s go make this right.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Tim hated himself (even more than he usually did).  It didn’t matter how hard he tried, he could never bring himself to jeopardise his own safety for anyone else.  He was a natural coward, and it made him sick, but that was just who he was.

It was Angela’s sick God that made me this way.

The house made Tim so anxious that his spine was in a constant state of rigour. He tiptoed stiffly across the thick marble floor in the foyer and felt as if his joints were about to seize up at any minute.

Trying to get the front door open would be a fool’s errand, but Tim didn’t know what else to do.  He was getting out of this house one way or the other.   With Sammie on the loose, like a rabid little beastie, Tim didn’t plan on waiting around to be butchered.

What the hell was I thinking setting the kid free?

The thick, wooden front doors loomed over Tim as he approached them.  It almost felt as if they were in on the whole conspiracy to keep him trapped.  Perhaps they were possessed, too, like Sammie (if he were to let himself believe that was why the boy was so ill).  He still felt like the victim of some elaborate hoax, but that didn’t change the fact that he was also totally freaked out by now, and becoming more and more open to the possibility of it being something else.  Something far worse.  Tim had read many articles about a house being inhabited by spirits and poltergeists.

He couldn’t deny that such things existed; he had seen them.  Perhaps there were entities inside this house.  Several.

A goddamn cauldron of evil.

Tim placed a hand around the door knob and took a deep breath.  Then he twisted his wrist and yanked.

Tim almost choked. The handle turned freely, the door was unlocked.  His surprise was so much that his hand slipped back down to his side and he stood silently staring at the door.  He didn’t waste too much time, though, and quickly placed his fingers back around the door handle, turning once again.

The door swung open.

Tim yanked it so hard that it almost smashed against his foot.  He had to hop backwards out of the way just in time, and found himself staring out at the inviting expanse of the driveway.  There was nothing to see but a velvet sheet of background, but Tim knew that freedom was waiting for him out there.  He could smell it.  The air outside was different: fresh and pure.

Tim stepped forwards.

“So I guess this is goodbye?”

Tim froze on the spot.  There was no confusion in his mind as to who was currently standing right behind him.  In front of Tim was the exhilarating freedom of the English countryside, but behind him was the cold evil of a ten-year-old boy.

“I have no issue with you,” Sammie said, seemingly content to speak to Tim’s back.  “You are…insignificant.”

Something about the word irritated Tim.  He turned around.  “What is all this?  What’s it all about?”

“What is anything about in this decaying crust of existence?  It is about power; the power to remould the world.”

“And what exactly do you want to remould it into?”

Sammie opened his arms wide as if he were surveying the world.  “An existence without fear or suffering; a world of order and consistency.”

Tim backed away towards the open door.  “That sounds very much like a world without free will to me.  Sounds like you plan on enslaving humanity or something.”

Sammie grinned, wide and feline.  “Semantics.  The only thing you need to realise is that God’s world is a failed experiment.  It is time for new management.”

“You’re the fucking Devil,” Tim spat.  “Angela will stop you.”

Sammie sighed.  “I am not the Devil.  The Devil is a weak being, perverted by too much time amongst the human filth.  I am beyond God, beyond the Devil.  I am the wolf amongst the lambs.  Your cleric will kneel before me and her death will be sublime.”

Tim took another step backwards.  “You say I am insignificant.  So what do you want with Angela?  Why did you summon her here?”

“I did not summon her here.”

“Then who did?” Tim demanded.  “Who scribbled her name in your sketch pad?”

Sammie took in a deep, whistling breath and let it out again in a gust which stunk up the air like festering meat.  “There are more forces at work in this house than you realise.  There is another.  He is the one who shares history with your priest, not me.  Regardless, her presence defiles this place and I will take exquisite pleasure in ripping her soul apart.”

“You won’t-”

“ENOUGH!”  Sammie’s voice was like a hive full of wasps.  It buzzed inside Tim’s head and made his eyes water.  “Leave this place.  Leave before I change my mind and this house becomes your tomb.  The door is open.  I suggest that you take it.  My clemency is not infinite.”

Tim turned around and faced the door.  The darkness outside beckoned him.  It offered safety and the chance of living out the rest of his life.

Tim cleared his throat, sighed, and stepped towards the door.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

After checking the penthouse floor and finding it empty, Angela and Frank were now checking out the third floor.  It, too, seemed deserted.  She wondered what Sammie was planning.  Would he jump out at them any moment, or was he planning to flee the house?  She still didn’t understand what was happening, but she was confident about one thing: the blood exorcism was the solution – if it wasn’t then Sammie (or whoever was in control of him) would not have fled.  Sammie was afraid of her.

Just need to drive the dagger through his feet and all this could be over.

Angela shook her head at the thought of what she had already done, and what she still needed to do.  Once she had been a servant of the Lord, and it was true that she had eventually lost her way, but she now felt closer to God now than ever.  Her renewed faith would allow her to do the grizzly deeds ahead of her.

Frank returned from one of the bedrooms he’d been checking.  Angela smiled at him as he approached.  “Find anything?”

“No, empty like all the rest.  The next room is yours.  Did you want to check it out?”

Angela nodded.  She headed up to the door on the left which led to the room in which she herself had been staying.  Inside, things were just the way she’d left them.  Her suitcase lay on the floor next to the bed, its contents spilling out.  The bed was unmade – and inviting.  Tiredness pulsed through her head and licked at the back of her eyelids.  She looked at her watch and saw that it was now almost four in the afternoon.

Yet the moon was still out like it was midnight.

A man can no more diminish God's glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word, 'darkness' on the walls of his cell.

The C.S. Lewis quote had popped into Angela’s head, unbidden, as she turned a full circle of the room, scrutinising every nook and cranny.  She even knelt down to inspect beneath the bed.  All was clear; no little boys hiding, no evil lurking.  The last thing that caught Angela’s eye was the painting above her bed of the two cherubs fighting.  She didn’t know why the picture kept catching her eye, but she was convinced she was missing something.

Or maybe I just think it’s ugly.

Angela exited the room.  When she re-entered the hallway, Frank was not where she had left him, and was further along the corridor, over by the grand staircase.

“Frank, are you okay?”

Frank remained silent, but he heard her.  He raised one hand beside his head that made it clear he’d acknowledged her but wanted to remain silent.

Angela hurried forward, her stomach full of dread.  It took more than a dozen steps to traverse the long corridor and catch up to Frank and, once she did, it became clear what had rooted the man to the spot.

Sammie was slowly climbing the stairs below.  He took each step leisurely, ascending like a spirit en route to Heaven.  There was a smile on his face so great that it contorted his other features completely and pushed them out of the way.

Angela moved beside Frank and whispered to him.  “What is he doing?  Do you think Tim is okay?”

“Tim made his own bed,” said Frank.

Angela watched the boy continue up the stairs. She couldn’t help but shout out to him.  “Sammie?  Sammie what are you doing?”

Sammie did not acknowledge her.  He continued his slow, gliding ascent of the staircase.  His smile seemed to grow wider, crooked teeth taking up more of his face.

“Sammie?  Where is Tim?”

Sammie finally glanced up and acknowledged her.  “Tim has abandoned you, Priest.  His heart was meek.”

“So we were right,” said Frank.  “Tim did run out on us.  Coward.”

Angela raised a hand.  “You cannot blame a man for being frightened.  None of us have any power over bravery.  Courage chooses us only when it is needed.  Tim isn’t important.”

Sammie had reached the top of the stairs now and was only six feet away from Angela and Frank.  He stood before them, calmly, as if their previous altercations, one where Angela had driven a dagger through his palms, had not happened.  Angela saw now that the wounds had blackened and dried.

“I need to finish this, Frank,” Angela whispered.

Frank nodded.  “Sammie, are you willing to come back to your room?”

Sammie laughed.  “What do you think, fool?”

Frank sighed.  “Hard way it is then.”  He made a snatch for the boy but was nowhere quick enough.  Sammie leapt up onto the balcony’s bannister, his bare feet gripping the wood like a vulture’s talons (his filthy toenails were just as long).  Angela took over from Frank and made her own grab for the boy.

Sammie kicked her in the face from his elevated perch and sent her reeling backwards into the wall.  Angela tasted blood at the back of her nose.  Sammie glared down at her with sunken eyes.  The boy seemed more beast-like than human – some twisted mix of species.  The smell coming off of him was foul.

Frank made another grab for Sammie, but again the boy was too quick for him.  He sprung off the banister and cleared Frank’s head by several feet, landing behind him in a crouch and hissing like a feral cat.

“He’s not even human,” said Frank, steadying himself against the railing.  “More like an animal.”

Angela used the back of her hand to wipe away the blood that was filling up her nostrils.  “The evil has twisted him, Frank, activated his primal instincts.  We need to finish this now or Sammie will be lost forever.”

Her words seemed to spur Frank on and he bellowed in defiance as he made a lunging tackle towards Sammie.  His arms connected with the boy’s legs and brought them both to the ground.  Sammie squealed with childish laughter, unconcerned by his capture.

“I need you to hold his legs,” Angela said.  “I must pierce his feet together.  Then it will be done, it will be over.”

Frank managed to straddle Sammie and begun wrestling to get the boy’s ankles together.  Sammie kicked his legs and giggled as if it were some kind of game.

“Give it up, Frank,” Sammie said.  “You’re never going to be the hero.  You couldn’t save my parents and you never saved Conway, Nichols, or Albright.  They died on your watch, Sergeant!  Right after you shot a pregnant woman in the stomach.  So much death at your hands.  You’ll never wash the stink off.”

Frank reacted as if he’d been kicked in the ribs.  His grip on Sammie loosened.  The boy shuffled free.

Angela spoke loudly, trying to be the only voice that Frank heard.  “Frank, don’t listen to him.  Whatever he is talking about doesn’t matter.  We all have pasts.  It is what we do right now that matters.”

“Tell that to those men’s families,” Sammie said.  “Tell that to Conway’s son.  Tell him how you sent his father into a village you said was friendly.  Tell him how you left him to die in Sierra Leone.  I thought the Parachute Regiment never left a man behind.  Well, you left three behind to save your own ass.”

Frank staggered to his feet and backed away from Sammie.  “They…they were pinned down, wounded.  The whole village was armed – even the pregnant woman.  If I stayed behind we would all have died.  I needed to bring in support before the rebels dug in somewhere else, killed more soldiers.  Someone needed to get back alive.”

Angela shouted.  “Frank!  Frank, it doesn’t matter.  He’s just trying to break you.  You need to get a hold of him so we can finish this.”

Frank shook his head.  “Things were finished for me a long time ago.  Protecting this family was supposed to be my salvation, but instead it’s my last condemnation.”  He spun around and grabbed Angela; shoved her against the balcony railing and winded her.  “I’m sorry,” he said as he snatched the ceremonial dagger from her fingertips and rushed towards Sammie with it.

Sammie swatted Frank aside like a measly fly.  The force was inhumane and sent the large ex-soldier clean off his feet and reeling backwards into Angela.  The sudden impact of Frank’s body took Angela by surprise and her legs twisted beneath her.  Arms pinwheeling, she tumbled into the balcony railing and, as her hip struck hard against the wood, the momentum carried her over.  Suddenly she was upside down and falling.

Angela felt the floor disappear from beneath her feet and knew that she was falling to her death.  A two story drop would be coming up to meet her.

Something grabbed her wrist.

She flipped in the air, legs dangling painfully from her overstretched joints.  She hung by her left arm, the pain in her shoulder immense, and was rising slowly back towards the balcony railing.  Somebody had saved her at the last second.

Thank God.  I owe you one, Frank.

“You ought to be more careful,” said a voice that was not Frank’s.

Angela looked up and saw that it was Sammie who held her by the wrist.  He lifted her smoothly, as if she weighed no more than a bag of sugar.  The look on his face was like that of a cat toying with a mouse.  Angela knew Sammie’s intention was not to save her; it was only to prolong his own amusement.  The look on his face was one of pure hatred and spite.

Once Sammie had raised her up enough that they were face to face and she could feel his fetid breath on her cheeks, he stopped and held her there.  It was then that Angela saw Frank writhing on the floor behind Sammie, with the ceremonial dagger jutting up from his thigh muscle.  He must have fallen on it when Sammie flung him across the balcony.  There was no chance of him saving her now.  She was helpless, doomed.

“Where is your God now?” Sammie purred.  “Has he abandoned you?”

“Let her go,” someone demanded from the shadows.  The person stepped forward enough to be seen.

Sammie actually seemed surprised by who he was seeing.  “I thought you’d left.  How very stupid of you not to have.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed and he seemed resolute.  “I said let her go.”

“Yes, I heard you,” Sammie said.  “But considering her current predicament, I don’t really think that is wise.  Do you?”

Tim stepped forward.  “Pull her up and then let her go.”

Sammie smiled at him.   Angela felt the boy’s icy fingers squeeze tighter around her wrist.  For a moment she thought he might actually lift her over.  “How about I just let the bitch fall and then I come over there and twist your head off like a wart from a pig.  I could even send you to join your brother.  All that guilt inside of you; I could end it all so easily, you poor man.  Let me help you, Tim.  Let me make it all go away.”

Tim’s confidence seemed to waver.  Angela could even see him shaking.  Despite that, Tim reissued his demands.  “Pull her back up now.  Things don’t have to end like this.”

“Oh come on, Tim.  I thought you were the smart one; the only one that actually realised how ineffectual you all are.  You were right in wanting to leave so badly.  Your only mistake was coming back.”

Tim took another step forward.

Sammie let Angela drop.

She screamed.

But he still held her.  He’d just let her drop a few inches. It was all it took to make her cry out in despair.

Tim stopped moving and put his hands up in front of him.  “Take it easy, Sammie.  I just want to take Angela and get out of here.  Leave, just like you said.”

Sammie shook his head.  “Oh, she isn’t going anywhere, I’m afraid.  I’ll tell you what though: let’s see if you can make it over here before I have time to let her fall and then come rip your throat out with my teeth.  Or…”  Sammie grinned.  “I give you one last chance to leave.  Your choice: do you want to live or die?”

Angela saw the fear in Tim’s eyes.  She saw that coming back to help her was just a small blip in his cowardice.  The man only cared about himself, and right now he was terrified.  Angela looked down at the hard marble floor thirty-feet below her and knew it was going to be her grave.

Any minute now.  Any minute now I’ll fall.  There’ll be butterflies in my stomach for a second and then…nothing.

Angela watched with weary resignation as Tim turned away and stepped towards the staircase.  He was leaving.

Sammie turned to Angela and chuckled.  His face contorted like a nightmarish piece of art.  “Do you see, Priest?  Do you see what this world is made of?  Cowardice and fear.  Selfishness and hatred.  Mankind is a cesspool.”

Angela strained, tried to pull herself up.  “Who….Who are you?  Chamuel?”

Sammie looked at her with pity.  “You really don’t understand a thing, do you?  I am the new beginning.  I am what comes next.  Unfortunately, you will not live long enough to witness it.”

Angela closed her eyes and prepared to die.

“I think it’s about time someone grounded your skinny little ass.”

Suddenly there was second hand on Angela’ wrist and Sammie’s grip fell away.  She dropped, several inches, as the new grip struggled to keep a hold of her.  She looked up, surprised by what she saw.

Tim squinted down at her, the effort of sustaining her weight bringing out great beads of sweat from his wrinkled brow.  “How about a little help here,” he groaned as a vein pulsed in his forehead.

With the final dregs of strength she had left in her aching back and shoulders, Angela pulled herself upwards.  There was a ripping pain in her sides where rarely-used muscles awakened.  At the same time, Tim’s wiry arms hoisted to the point that it looked like his biceps might detach from the bone.  Yet, somehow, Angela started to rise.

Her free hand reached the banister, her fingertips clawed at the wooden surface. She swung her body sideways, trying to gain a purchase with her leg.  With one last effort, Tim yanked and she came sprawling up and over the railing.  She landed hard on top of Tim, both of them winded.

There was no time to recuperate, though.  The job was not yet done.

“Get up,” she said.

Tim listened and staggered to his feet.

“You came back,” Angela commented.

Tim shrugged.  “Guess I’d rather die with a clear conscious than live with any more guilt.”

“Nobody else is dying tonight,” Angela promised him.  She was determined to make sure it was true.  She checked out her surroundings quickly, looking for Sammie and also for one other thing: the ceremonial dagger was still jutting out from Frank’s leg.  She hurried over to him.

Frank was doing better, now that the initial shock had worn off.  He was sat up and alert, staring down at the long blade sticking up from his thigh muscle.  He was breathing heavily and looked deathly pale in the moonlight.

“Are you okay?” she asked him, thinking the question was pretty stupid.

Frank looked at her knowingly.  “You need the dagger.”

Angela nodded.  She knew ripping the blade free could nick an artery and unplug the wound.  Frank knew it too.  The sensible thing would be to keep it in place and get help, but that wasn’t an option.

“Just take it,” Frank said. His voice was quick and nervous.

Angela thanked him silently with her eyes and wrapped her fingers around the dagger.  She needed to get it out with one pull – quick and clean. Failing to do so would result in more damage to Frank’s leg.

She yanked.

The blade came free with a grim sucking sound.  Frank hissed in agony.  A jet of blood spurted into the air. Thankfully it didn’t persist.  The dagger had missed the major blood vessels.

Angela held the dagger in front of her and frowned at the blood on its shaft.  The sight of it turned her stomach.

A cry of pain behind her called her back into action.  Sammie had reappeared and was hanging off Tim’s neck as if he were just a normal ten-year-old boy wanting a piggyback ride.  Tim wailed and screeched as Sammie bit at his neck, tearing away strips of rubbery flesh.  Angela raced forward to help him.

Sammie’s eyes caught sight of her sprinting towards him with the dagger in her hand.  He released Tim from his clutches and hopped away.  Tim staggered forward, clutching his bleeding neck.  “Jesus Christ, that hurts.”

Angela put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a quick shake.  His wounds looked sore, but they weren’t going to kill him.  There was no time to indulge their aching bodies and torn flesh, not yet.  There was still evil at work, and Angela was going to banish it to Hell.

She pointed the dagger at Sammie, who snarled at her defiantly.  “It’s time to end this,” she said.  “I’m tired and I haven’t had a drink in hours.”

Sammie scuttled across the carpet like a spider and somehow scurried up the wall.  He sprung sideways towards Angela and caught her by surprise.  She staggered backwards, once again hitting against the balcony’s railings.  Sammie was right on her, rushing her with his arms out in front of him, ready to tackle her right over the ledge.

Looks like I have a date with the marble floor after all.

Tim shoved Angela aside and met Sammie head on.  The boy’s unnatural strength presented itself again and sent Tim crashing clear through the railing.  The ancient, wooden bannisters broke apart, splintered like termite-infected balsawood.

Angela had fallen to the floor, helpless as Tim disappeared from the balcony.  She got to her feet as quickly as she could and raced over to the splintered railing.  What she saw below hurt her soul.

Two floors below, Tim’s body sprawled across the marble floor like a pretzel. He was unmoving and one leg had twisted around at a sickening angle.  The fall had crushed him.

God bless you, my friend.  May Heaven welcome you with open arms.

Angela turned around just in time to see Sammie launch another attack.  He leapt at her with the obvious intention of sending her right after Tim, but she was able to dodge aside and avoid the blow.  She hurried away from the balcony, determined not to meet her end on the marble floor below.  Sammie rushed her again, this time too quickly to avoid.  Angela tumbled to the floor from the blow but quickly oriented herself onto her rump, hoping to face down any follow-up attack.  Sure enough, Sammie swung a claw-like foot toward her face. She barely dodged it by rolling sideways onto her front.

The next kick caught her square in the ribs.  Something broke inside of her and all of a sudden she could not breathe.  Sammie strolled toward her, giggling with childish glee.  Angela clawed at the carpet, tried to drag herself away from him, but the hot coals inside her lungs made it impossible to move.  Remarkably, she still held the ceremonial dagger in her hand, but it would do her no good now.

Sammie stood over her, staring down.  His eyes swirled with malevolent darkness.  “I’m bored of you now,” he said.  “I think you should die.”

Sammie raised a foot as if to stomp her skull to pulp, but his ankle returned to the floor as if attached to elastic.  He tried lifting his foot again, but it became clear that something was impeding his movement.  Angela rolled onto her stomach and lifted her head to see.

Frank lay on the floor behind Sammie.  His arms were wrapped around the boy’s shins and he was forcing them together.

“You need to pierce the feet, right?”  Frank struggled and managed to get Sammie’s feet side by side.  “So do it already.”

Angela nodded, seeing stars but clear in what she needed to do.

Frank squeezed Sammie’s legs even tighter so that his feet overlapped.  Angela took a breath and raised the dagger in her hand.  Its tip pointed downwards and she thrust it downwards with ever last ounce of energy she had left.  The dagger plunged through the small bones and pliant flesh of Sammie’s feet, so forcefully that the tip embedded itself in the floorboards.

Sammie bellowed, shaking the floor and walls around him with the might of his voice.  For a brief second Angela thought the volume would reduce her brain to mush.  Black smoke came off of Sammie fetid skin in great, swirling wafts.  It looked like Sammie’s entire body was made of ash and a hurricane had come to displace it.

From the floor, Angela watched in awe as the ceremonial dagger began to shift upwards, sliding out of the boy’s wound like pus from a zit.  Eventually it popped out of Sammie’s feet completely and cluttered to the floor.  The wound disappeared.

With one last, final bellow, Sammie flew backwards through the air and hit the floor with a resounding thud!  His tiny body went still.

Angela shook and was unable to take a full breath.  Her vision blurred, spotted with stars. She wondered if she was going to pass out.  When she was sure she was not going to, Angela slowly climbed up onto her knees, and then her feet.

Frank, too, had managed to get himself standing, although he was favouring his left leg which was obviously burning with pain.  He limped towards her, looking up at one of the house’s many windows.  “Look,” he said, pointing.  “It’s getting light again.”

Angela looked outside. The moon was retreating and the sun rolled up to replace it.  It was like being caught in some bizarre time-lapse nature documentary.  Before they knew it, the day had finally arrived and the endless night was defeated.  The house felt different, too.  The malignant veil which had seemed to hang over everything had lifted.

Angela got herself together and hurried over to Sammie.  His tiny body had been through a great deal and she wasn’t certain if he would survive fully intact.  She knelt down beside him and saw immediately that things were different.  The boy’s pallid skin was already beginning to fill with colour.  His crooked teeth were straighter. His dark, sunken eyes were now a pleasant green.  The boy had been cleansed; his body was once more his own.

Frank came up beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder.  “Is he…?”

“He’s alive,” she quickly assured him, pointing to the steady rising and falling of his chest.  “The blood exorcism worked.  The demon retreated.  Sammie is going to be alright.”

“Thank God,” said Frank, tears in his eyes.

“Yes,” Angela agreed, smiling, with a warmth in her chest that had been absent for far too long.  “Thank God indeed.”

Epilogue

Angela lay, tucked-up, in the luxurious four-poster bed of her room. For the first time since she’d arrived, she was actually managing to enjoy being at Raymeady Manor, if only for a brief moment while resting.

Angela had decided to stay behind for a few days to help Frank put everything in order.  There was a heavy police investigation going on and both Angela and Frank had a lot of explaining to do.  That was beyond her concern, though.  She knew now that God had never stopped watching over her and whatever was meant to be would be.

The best news to have come out of the last couple of days at the house was that Tim was going to make it.  Apparently his awkward landing had taken the biggest toll on his right leg, snapping it like kindling, but his other injuries were far less severe: a couple of broken ribs and a nasty concussion.  He was going to live, albeit with a life-long need of a walking stick. It was still a good result as far as she was concerned.  Tim’s body may have been injured, but she knew that his bravery in saving her had done a massive amount to repair his damaged soul.  He would have no regrets.

Sammie was doing well, too.  It turned out that he was actually a very shy boy at heart with a kind, playful personality.  He’d stopped talking like an adult and now exercised the type of vocabulary one would expect from a ten-year-old boy.  He was looking a lot healthier, too.

Sammie was now at least a stone heavier.  His rosy skin had filled out and was now smooth and plump.  His near-nakedness had ceased and adequate clothing had resumed.  All in all, Samuel Raymeady seemed like quite a normal little boy. Considering what he’d been through, and that both his parents were dead, that was a miracle.

Frank had confided to her that he intended to fight for custody of the boy and raise him as best he could.  Angela intended to help him with that cause in any way she could.  There was also a part of her mind that was thinking of rejoining the clergy, but that was something which would require more thought.

For now, all I plan on doing is relaxing for a few days.  I feel like my bones are made of soup.

Despite it being early evening, Angela had decided she would turn in for the night.  Frank was looking after Sammie and now there was little to worry about.  She got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, wanting to brush her teeth before having a long sleep.  When she entered it was steamy.  The shower in the en suite was turned on.

Funny.  I swear I turned it off last time I used it.  Hope I’m not around when the water bill arrives.

Angela padded over to the shower and reached inside to turn the knob.  The water stopped with a splutter.  She turned back around.

“Oh, my Lord!”

The sudden fright sent Angela reeling back, landing ass first in the wet shower.  The steam in the room was swirling, collecting around the contours of a human form.  There was an entity in the room with her and it was quickly taking shape.

“Who-who are you?”

The steam swirled around the curves of a round, humanoid head.  The sound of the figure’s voice was like dry leaves crumbling.  “I helped you once before.  Now you have helped me.”

“What?  Who are you?”

“Chamuel.  I am Chamuel.  It was my power that helped you expel the demon inside Charles Crippley.  I was there that day.  I helped you.  Now you have helped me.”

“What?  How did I help you?”

“You freed me.  I tried to cleanse the boy, to save his soul from evil, but once inside him I found no soul to save.  I became trapped in the void where the boy’s soul should have been.  It was a dark place, an endless abyss devoid of hope and joy.  It was a place of pure evil.  The child made me his servant, abused my power for wicked purposes.  I tried to rot him from the inside, but he only used my influence to grow stronger.”

Angela’s eyes went wide.  She thought about the painting of the cherubs above her bed and the statue outside of Sammie’s door.  Suddenly she remembered what she had been trying to recall for the last several days.  “Chamuel!  You’re the angel that expelled Adam from the Garden of Eden.  One of the seven Archangels?”

“I am the Loving One; Archangel of Love and leader of the Cherubim.  You freed me from Hell and returned me to Heaven, but your work is not yet done.”

Angela understood.  “Sammie?  He’s…he’s evil?”

The steam wisped and curled around Chamuel’s spirit.  “He is the purest kind of evil.  He is the Devil’s spawn.  He is the great pretender; damnation incarnate.”

“God help me,” said Angela, not wanting to believe it.  “He’s the antichrist.”

“His nature was unknown to me until it was too late.  I was imprisoned and helpless.  Now I am free but still unable to act.  You must finish what you started.  Finish the Blood Exorcism.”

“But I already did finish it.”

“No.”

Angel thought about it and then said, “The final stigmata.  I still need to pierce Sammie’s side, kill him.”

There was no answer from Chamuel.  The steam was once again just steam.  Angela dragged herself up from the shower’s floor and sprinted into the bedroom.  She reached into her luggage and pulled out the cloth bundle that contained the blood-soaked ceremonial dagger.  But when she opened the bundle, she saw that the dagger was gone and that just a dried bloodstain remained.

“No, no, no.”  She shuffled her feet into her shoes and crossed the room in three urgent strides.  She ran down the hall, heading for the stairs, needing to warn Frank before it was too late.

She thanked the Lord when she found him on the floor below.  He was taping up the gap in the railing where Tim had smashed through and fallen to the floor below.  He smiled when he saw her coming.

“Hey,” he said.  “Just trying to make this place safe again.  Last thing we need is Sammie taking a fall after all we’ve been through to keep him away from harm.”

Angela ignored his words; they were just noise in her head.  “Frank!  Sammie wasn’t possessed – I mean, he was, but not in the way we thought.  It was an angel inside him, trying to help.  The evil came from Sammie.  He has no soul.  No soul whatsoever”

Frank stood up and looked at her with concern.  “Whoa, whoa, what are you talking about?”

“Sammie is…God, I can hardly say it.  Sammie is the antichrist.  It all makes sense.  If he takes over Black Remedy one day he will be powerful enough to rule the world.  All the signs were there, I just missed them.”

Frank laughed.  “Are you saying that Sammie is the Devil?”

Angela nodded enthusiastically.  “Yes, yes, he is.”

“But he’s been fine since the exorcism.  Everything worked out.”

Angela shook her head in frustration.  “The Devil deceives.  He’s pretending.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“We need to find the dagger and kill him, but the dagger is gone.  I think Sammie has done something with it.”

“Sammie hasn’t done anything with the dagger,” Frank said matter-of-factly.

“Frank, you’re not listening to me.”

“I hear you well enough,” he said, and then produced the dagger from beneath his jacket.  He drove it deep into her chest.  “I know Sammie didn’t take the dagger, because I did.”  Then he pushed her already dying body through the gap in the railing and watched her hit the marble below.

The last thing Angela saw before her vision went permanently black was the sight of Frank leaning over the balcony two floors above and mouthing the words, “I’m sorry.”

***

Frank headed for Sammie’s room feeling sick at what he’d done.  It was unfortunate that Angela had insisted on staying behind to support him.  It was only going to be a matter of time before she figured it all out.  She was smart.  It only made Frank even more aware of his own stupidity.  It was insane to think that he hadn’t seen what was right in front of his face.

Sammie had confessed his true nature the evening after the exorcism and Frank had been stunned – and a little incredulous at first – but somewhere deep in his heart he knew that Samuel Raymeady was the Devil.  Yet, when he had tried to contemplate killing the boy and putting an end to his wicked intentions, he found himself unable.  He loved the Raymeady family and he loved Sammie.  He had failed the boy so much already and there was nothing else that mattered to him anymore but keeping him safe – he had made a promise to Jessica.  Besides, there was already Hell on Earth; he’d seen that from his days in the army and pretty much every day since.  Frank’s eyes had been opened years ago and he was not against the changes that Sammie’s existence might bring.  Surely things could not be any worse.

When Sammie had asked for Frank to look after him, to be his protector until he was old enough to take the reins of the vehicle that would steer him to world domination – Black Remedy Corporation – Frank had hesitantly agreed.  He knew it would be an unsavoury job with lots of questionable responsibilities (killing Angela had just proved it), but he had made his decision.  Protecting Samuel Raymeady would be the last job he ever took, and he was going to see it through to the end.

Frank entered the boy’s room.  Sammie was watching South Park, but pressed pause when he saw Frank coming.  He knew now why the boy loved that particular show so much – it highlighted all of the darker parts of humanity, all of their weaknesses – the parts that the boy would one day take full advantage of.

“Everything okay, Frank?”

Frank nodded.  “There was a little bit of an issue, but I…dealt with it.”

Sammie smiled and nodded.  “Shame, I’ll surely miss her.  Still, there will be little need for priests in time.  The world will have a new God to worship.”

Frank swallowed a lump in his throat and sat down on a chair beside the boy who would soon become his adopted son, head of the world’s largest corporation, and the future prince of demons.  The world wasn’t going to know what hit it.

FANGS FOR DINNER

Annabelle couldn’t wait.  The hairs on the back of her neck stood rigid like platoons of tiny soldiers.

He’ll be here any minute.  I’ve waited so long, and finally he’s about to arrive.

Annabelle had met the one who called himself Masters about a month ago; albeit it via Internet chats only.  It had seemed that out of nowhere her life had suddenly become consumed by her new and mysterious friend.  They chatted every day and most of the night.  They exchanged pictures, some safe for work while others definitely not.

She met Masters on the dating website she had joined: Children Of The Night.  It was an online meeting place for the lonely and broken; for those looking to connect with other damaged souls such as themselves.  Annabelle didn’t necessarily have a damaged soul, but she was indeed lonely.  Sometimes she felt like she was the only one alive; some sort of different species, different from everyone else.  Her job at the supermarket was unfulfilling and anti-social with the fact that she worked throughout the night.  She never managed to meet anyone.

That was until she found Children Of The Night.

The website had spoken to her, had whispered in her ear that she was not alone and that there were people out in the world ready to love her and accept her; fetishes and all.

The website catered to the ‘alternative’ lifestyle and that certainly described Annabelle.  Whilst all outward appearances may have labelled her as simply odd, her dark desires would have sent most people running.  Whips and chains were her comfort blankets, leather and plastic her norm.  Most of all, she liked to bit and to be bitten.

That’s why when she had seen Masters’ online dating profile he had seemed the perfect match.  Because Masters stated himself to be a Vampire.

Annabelle had made contact immediately, asking questions and spilling fantasies.  Her relationship with him had begun without boundaries and it was not long before she yearned to see him.  To be bitten by him as he had promised her countless times.

Annabelle poured two glasses of red wine in anticipation.  The Chianti was thick and slippery and she could not wait to taste it.  But she must wait.  Once Masters arrived they would sip wine together and indulge in their darkest fantasies.

The leather bodice bit at her curves, squeezing her ample bosom forward.  She imagined Masters’ teeth sinking into them, tugging at the nipples and drawing blood.  She could not wait.

The doorbell rang.  Annabelle tried to draw a breath but couldn’t.

He’s here.  Thank Satan he’s here.

Annabelle clomped across her apartment towards her front door.  There had been only a single knock, but she knew Masters was standing just the other side of the wood.

Annabelle placed a slender hand around the door knob.  It seemed to vibrate with electricity.  She turned it.  Opened the door.

Standing before her was a thing of beauty.   A being of both feminine and masculine perfection.

“Annabelle?” the stranger asked in a hissing whisper.

Annabelle smiled.  “Please, just call me Anna.  Are you Masters?”

“Indeed I am, my sweet.”  He ginned a wide, toothy smile and Annabelle immediately saw his fangs glinting either side of his mouth.  “May I come in?  You must invite me, my dear.”

Annabelle stood aside and opened the door wider.  “Please, be my guest.”

Masters cross the threshold to her apartment.  “Thank you.”

Annabelle looked her guest up and down.  He wore a heavy, black overcoat with a plain, red t-shirt beneath.  His dark trousers led down to an immaculately-shined pair of loafers.

“Please, sit down,” she said.  “I have a glass of wine waiting for you.”

Masters spoke with an accented lisp.  “Excellent.  I hope that it is red.”

“Of course.”

Annabelle led her guest over to the dining room table and seated him at one of the chairs.  She went and brought over their wine and placed herself down opposite him.  Then she gazed at him.

His eyes were the colour of wasps; flecks of yellow battling against black.  His skin was the same shade of grey as old bone.

Masters’ eyes narrowed as he looked back at her.  “Are you taking me in, my dear?  What is it, you are thinking?”

Annabelle shrugged shyly.  “I’m not sure yet.  Guess I’m wondering if you’re the real deal.  Are you really a Vampire.”

“But of course, my dear.  How may I convince you?”

“Do you have a reflection?”

Masters huffed.  “Yes.  Such nonsense is the realm of movies and books.  All things have a reflection.  It is nature and I am just another part of it.  I am just as tied to this world as you are, my dear.”

Annabelle was disappointed.  “Okay,” she said.  “So I take it you can’t turn into a bat?”

Masters smiled.  “Alas, no.  Now, what feast do you have for me this evening, my sweet?”

Annabelle stood up.  “I hope you like roast pork?”

Masters licked his lips, his tongue darting like a serpent’s.  “Swine flesh.  My favourite; nothing is quite so succulent…almost nothing.”

Annabelle grinned.  “I’ll go check on it now.”

She stepped through into the kitchen with a smile on her face but deep inside she was unsure about her visitor.  Masters was a sexy, dark featured man – a Vampire – but there was just something about him that was so…

Cliché.

Inside the oven, the pork was done.  Annabelle placed on an oven meat and pulled out the roasting tray.  The vegetables had already been plated up, so she quickly got to work carving the pork and placing the strips of cooked flesh onto the plate.  She finished it all off with lashing of hot, mint gravy.

Masters had taken off his overcoat by the time Annabelle re-entered the dining room.  His pasty arms were heavily tattooed with symbols of the occult: inverted crosses mingling with Celtic runes and Tibetan charms.  Annabelle recognised them all, yet she had never desired a tattoo of her own; didn’t see the point.

She placed down Masters’ plate in front of him and retook her seat opposite.  The two of them began eating.  Masters had finished his wine so she topped him up with the wine on the table.

“So, my dear,” Masters said between mouthfuls of pork.  “Are you prepared to submit yourself to me for the rest of this evening?”

Annabelle nodded.  “Yes.  I want you to show me what you are.  I want to see your teeth against my flesh.”

Masters grinned like a well-fed cat.  “Excellent.  I must insist that you give yourself to me entirely.  Anything I ask, you must provide.”

Annabelle bit at her bottom lip and tasted a fleck of blood in her mouth.  “Okay,” she said.  “Did you want to get started?”

Masters shook his head, chewing on another mouthful of pork.  “Be not so eager.  The night is ours and we must enjoy it.  First we eat, then we drink, then we indulge in the sins of the flesh.”

Masters went back to eating.  Annabelle watched him as he shovelled helpings into his mouth and guzzled wine.  He seemed uninterested in her right now; an animal with a fresh carcass.

When there was no more pork on his plate, Masters asked for more.  Annabelle obliged and went back into the kitchen.  She carved another serving from the roast and went to take the plate back out, but she paused first.  Something still wasn’t right about Masters.  She wanted him to be what he said he was, but she had to be sure.  She reached into the cupboard and pulled out the garlic.

A few minutes later she re-emerged into the dining room and set down Masters’ plate.  Her own meal was only half-eaten so she made a start on finishing it.

“This is excellent,” Masters commented.  “But it tastes different now.  Have you added something?”

Annabelle nodded.  “Can’t you tell what?”

Masters shook his head.  “Games do not interest me, my dear.  What is it I am eating?  Tell me?”

“Garlic.”

Masters’ eyes went wide and he spat out a mouthful of pork onto the table.  He coughed, choked, and spluttered.  “W-what game are you playing, harlot?”

“I’m not the one playing games,” Annabelle said defiantly.  “You are.”

Masters wiped spittle from his chin.  “What are you talking about?”

“You’re no Vampire.  You’re a fake.  You didn’t even react to the garlic until I told you about it.”

Masters looked confused.  When he spoke, his accent was plain.  “Well, of course I’m a fake.  You didn’t actually think I was a Vampire did you?  They don’t exist?”

Annabelle shook her head.  “Then why pretend to be one.  Why talk to me on the Children Of The Night website?”

“It’s fantasy.  Everybody on there is just playing a role.  You don’t actually want some guy to come and bite you do you?  I thought we were just going to have sex, do a little roleplaying.”

Annabelle sighed.  “I can’t believe I even wasted my time on you.  You’re not even convincing.  You’re just here to eat my food and get your end away.”

“Oh, come on, love.  I made the effort.  What’s wrong with me?  I think I’m pretty convincing.”

“You’re not,” said Annabelle.  “Not at all.”

Masters sighed, seemed a little grumpy.  “Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, garlic hurting Vampires is just a myth.  You were acting like a fool when you started choking on it.  But that’s not why I knew you were a fake.  I knew before then.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” said Annabelle, looking down at the meat on her plate and feeling like she might cry.  She was so alone.  “Real Vampires you see, they don’t have fangs like the silly plastic ones like you’re wearing.”

Masters was smiling now, as if the whole conversation was utterly amusing.   He reached into his mouth and pulled free the plastic incisors he was wearing.  Clumps of pork strands hung from them.  “So, tell me, Anna – Mrs Expert – what are a Vampire’s teeth really like.”

Annabelle looked up at him.  “Well, for one thing, their fangs are at the bottom.”  She opened her mouth wide, revealing the dagger like teeth jutting up from her lower jaws.  Masters’ eyes went wide with panic but he was too stunned to do anything as she leapt across the table and devoured him in the same rabid fashion that he had devoured her pork roast.

When she was done, she began to weep.  Her search for a mate would have to continue.

BLEEDING ON THE RUG

By Ryan C. Thomas

“He’s bleeding on the rug, on the rug on the rug…”

Two days of lifting heavy boxes for the move to the new house had sucked the ever-loving life out of Dane. He should have been able to sleep through an elephant stampede. But the sound of Matti’s frantic whispering shocked him out of his dream like a hooked fish yanked from a pond. There was something about his wife’s voice that had the power to weave through his fatigues and mental blocks and grasp him.

“…bleeding on the rug on the rug…”

Sleeptalking was not uncommon for Matti; it was in fact a trait of hers Dane found endearing. On several occasions over the years he’d listened with a smile as she conversed with the denizens of her dream worlds. Sometimes a conversation with him, sometimes a chat with friends, sometimes just pure nonsense that made him giggle. But from the sound of her voice now, she was engaged in a nightmare. He decided he would give her a reassuring squeeze and tell her she was just dreaming.

“…on the rug, on the rug…”

“Roll over.” He rubbed her side

Shadows hung heavy in front of him as his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of the bedroom. The clock beside the bed threw sanguine light onto the nightstand in the form of digital numbers. One rule Dane had while sleeping was to never look at the time; counting the hours until work always gave him anxiety.

Too late. He saw it was 3:45 and compulsively did the math until he had to get up.

“Matti,” he grumbled again.

“...bleeding on the rug on the rug on the rug…”

His wife lay on her back, auburn hair in waves across her face, not a typical sleeping position for her. She was a fetal sleeper, often cradling one of the many teddy bears Dane had given her on birthdays and anniversaries. This position looked too rigid, almost forced, like she’d been tied to a board. And there was something about the way she was repeating the words that didn’t feel right. Her voice was hushed, the words fast and sharp, like she was trying to say it as many times as she could in under a minute.

“Honey, wake up, you’re dreaming.” He grabbed her upper arm and gave it a little shake. Usually, this method resulted in angry instructions not to wake her up for no good reason. He’d recount the episode to her in the morning, like he always did, and she’d tell him he was crazy and out to sabotage her sleep. Such was their little joke.

But she didn’t stir as he touched her, just kept on repeating the sentence, which was beginning to creep Dane out. Who in her dream was bleeding on the rug?

“Honey, you’re having a nightmare. C’mon, roll over.”

“He’s bleeding on the rug bleeding on the rug…”

He shook her again, this time harder, hoping some subliminal part of her mind would sense it and she’d at least roll over angrily.

Still, Matti didn’t respond to his commanding nudge, which shook the hair from her face.

With his mind inherently doing math problems—three hours until I get up, I’ll never get back to sleep at this rate—Dane gave it a second while his eyes adjusted. Finally, her face swam into view.

He gasped.

Her eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. Her skin, pasty white, shined with sweat.

The muscles in his body snapped to attention and he sat upright, a reserve of energy suddenly powering him. What the…?

Her mouth moved quickly as she spoke, like a mouse chewing on a bread crumb: “He’s bleeding on the rug, on the rug on the rug…”

“Matti, what’s going on? Talk to me. Matti? Matti?”

Letting her go for a moment, he leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp. The room jumped to life, the shadows retreating in the wake of navy blue curtains, a pale green comforter, lilac walls, and boxes of clothes and accessories that sat in piles near the closet, ready for the morning’s move. She did not respond to the light, remaining consistent in her rapid decree that someone was bleeding on the rug.

Urgency welled up in his chest; he grabbed her head and shook it, said, “You’re freaking me out. Wake up! Baby, c’mon!”

“He’s bleeding on the rug on the rug on the rug…” Eyes still open. Staring through Dane as if he were made of glass.

A cold, crippling sense of helplessness rendered him immobile. What the hell was going on? Was it a seizure? Did she need medical attention? Oh God, please don’t let something be wrong, he thought. Not his wife. He’d have to be committed if something happened to her. The depth of his co-dependence came from left field and hit him hard. It was more than the feeling one gets when they lose something they never knew they had. He knew what he had in Matti; he just never figured he could lose it. Now he was flooded with doubt, and the frailty of life and love and marriage became something tangible, something breakable. Despite the fights and bickering, he loved her on a level too complicated to explain. She was simply a part that completed him, and here she was in a state of duress, scaring the living shit out of him.

Your wife is having a breakdown, Dane. She’s non-responsive.  Just pick up the phone and dial 911. Yes, he thought, that’s something he could do, that was a plan, a way to break the iron grip of fear that now held him.

There was a phone on the small desk near the wardrobe. Throwing the covers off of his feet, he rushed to it and dialed 911. When he realized the only sound he could hear was the persistent voice of his wife, he figured he’d misdialed. He hung up and tried again. This time, he could tell the phone wasn’t working. The phone company was set to turn off service in two days; had they jumped the gun?  But 911 was supposed to be accessible regardless of account status. He slammed the headset back in the carriage and swore.

“He’s bleeding on the rug on the rug….” Matti was still on her back, still looking up at something only she could see.

Try the phone in the kitchen, he told himself. Hurry.

The hallway was dark and crowded with packing materials but he didn’t waste time with the lights; he knew this house by heart. Knew that just yesterday he and Matti had made love on the top stair to break the stress of boxing up their belongings. A pang of sentimentality hit him as he descended the steps and maneuvered between the boxes at the bottom, realizing he’d be leaving this place come morning. He and Matti had lived here since before they were married, had even held their intimate reception in the backyard. How inappropriate that he should be thinking of this as she lay upstairs in some type of mental breakdown. Was it a survival instinct, he wondered, a way for his brain to keep him focused on something?

He rounded the corner into the kitchen, saw the phone as a black shadow on the wall near the cabinets, and grabbed it. Apparently the dead line upstairs wasn’t an isolated incident; either the phone lines were down or someone had cut the wires outside the house. But then, that couldn’t be right, because there was a noise coming from the phone after all. A hissing static, faint but definitely there. And beyond it, at the edge of audibility, a woman’s voice saying, “help me, he’s bleeding on the rug, he’s bleeding on the rug…”

“Hello?”

The faint voice came again through the phone, came from somewhere far away, urgent and fast: “help me, he’s bleeding on the rug…”

The phone dropped from his hand, swung on the tangled cord and banged into the wall, swishing back and forth like his own senility. Out of the earpiece continued the now familiar susurration, growing louder: “He’s bleeding on the rug…”

Matti’s voice drifted down the stairs and oozed into the shadows, providing a complementary backing vocal to the refrain: “…bleeding on the rug…”

It was confusion that he felt first, not terror. An innate need to rationalize what he was experiencing. And so he stood in the darkness of the kitchen, more boxes around him, listening to both voices chant about the blood on the rug, asking himself just what in the hell was going on? There’s always a logical explanation for strange events, he knew. Looking around, though, all he could see was a nearly-empty kitchen. There weren’t any answers jumping out at him. Figure it out later. Right now you need to call for help.

Cell phone, he thought, where was his cell phone? He’d been packing up books in the living room before going to bed and was pretty sure it was in his jacket on the table. Was it still charged, he wondered, or should he just cut across the lawn to his neighbor’s house and wake them up, tell them to call an ambulance and maybe even some men in white coats?

No, he couldn’t leave Matti, not yet anyway. He could feel that in his gut, that need to protect her, that need to make sure she was okay. For her sake, of course, but also for his. Because if anything were to happen to her…

As he passed the front door, moving through the foyer that separated the kitchen from the living room, he saw the Dust Buster sitting on a taped-up box and picked it up. He didn’t know why exactly, it just felt right. Having some kind of weapon in his hand gave him a sense of advantage, even if it was a false one, and led him to believe he could still keep control of the situation.

That is, until he stepped into the living room and saw the figure standing near the sofa, bleeding on the rug.

Dane froze, his heart kicking into overdrive as his body went slick with sweat and his tongue dried up into cardboard.

The lanky figure was shrouded by shadows, its shoulders hunched forward with poor posture, its hair wispy and short. Judging by the lack of effeminate curves, it was a man. Whoever he was he was holding a hand to his head, his body swaying ever so slightly, as if a light breeze might blow him over. There was something decrepit about him, but at the same time…strangely formidable.

He’s here to hurt Matti, Dane thought. Have to protect Matti.

The table in question was off to his right, equal distance from both him and the other man. His jacket lay in a heap on top of it, his cell phone in the front pocket. If he tried to run for it, and the man lunged after him, they’d meet at the same time. Dane hadn’t been in a fight since high school, wasn’t even sure he remembered how to defend himself? Still, he knew he’d fight for Matti, come what may.

Using the Dust Buster to mimic a gun, his heart now trying to rip through his chest, he said, “Whatever you want, you won’t get it. I’ve called the cops. They’re on their way right now. And I’m holding a gun here. So I’m giving you five seconds to get out of my house and never come back. Got me?”

Calling Dane’s bluff, the man staggered forward on stick legs, still holding his head, forcing Dane to backpedal toward the kitchen, the vacuum thrust out in front of him like a pistol.

“I said get out!”

The man ignored the warning and kept advancing, walking with the forced gait of someone severely arthritic, moving into a small patch of moonlight that spilled through a gap in the curtains. The pale blue light swam up his frame until he was solidly illuminated.

Tall. Elderly. Decrepit. Bloody.

Hurt.

Gunshot, Dane realized. Dear God, the old man had been shot in the head, was gushing blood like a ruptured water main through the gnarled fingers he held there. As the blood pooled on the carpet, it hit the shadows and spread out like oil rising from the earth.

Similarly, the Dust Buster hit the floor, shattered, and bounced away.

Dane’s back found the wall behind him and stopped him short, his mouth open in a scream that could not find its voice. He didn’t know what scared him more, that the man was in his home, or that he was still alive somehow. He’d heard stories of people taking a bullet to the head and living, but this wound looked too severe for such a miracle.

From upstairs, Matti continued to whisper, “He’s bleeding on the rug on the rug…”

The wounded man drew closer, leaving a trail of gore behind him, until finally he loomed over Dane. His eyes were cloudy and dry, his skin cracked and flaky and sallow, his teeth angled all wrong as if he’d shoved them into his own gums without regard to symmetry. A sad smile spread across his face, denoting a pathos Dane couldn’t place.

And that was the curious bit. Judging by the slight smile and aged frame, there was nothing actually malicious about him, not that Dane could tell anyway. If anything, the man looked…content. Not content with the gunshot wound, but…somehow…content with his role as a victim. As if he’d accepted it with a que sera attitude. He looked the way Dane’s grandpa looked when he would sit alone in a lawn chair at the family get-togethers while everyone else played horseshoes and went swimming. Content to be forgotten, and occasionally patronized, because inside he was truly just happy to be watching his legacy, just happy to be there as a part of it all.

The bleeding man before Dane registered such contentment behind the gore. The sad eyes, the friendly smile, the non-threatening physique.

Dane swallowed hard and asked, “Are you okay? You’re bleeding. I…my wife…I need to call an ambulance.”

With some care, the figure took his hand away from the hole in his head, blood rushing to freedom, and pointed at a photo on the ground to Dane’s right. It was leaning against the wall, along with some others, waiting to be packed up. Without looking, Dane knew which one it was, having placed it there not long ago. It showed him and Matti standing in the living room—this very room where I stand cornered by a dying man, he realized—wearing matching San Diego Chargers sweatshirts. Matti’s mother had taken it during last year’s playoffs.

“Who…who shot you? Let me help you. My phone is—”

Dane headed to the table but the old man moved in front of him, blocking his path. A burst of adrenaline rushed through Dane, but again, the man did not come off as threatening, just insistent.

“My phone…”

Shaking his head but still smiling, the man pointed to another of the photos, this one resting on the ground near Dane’s foot, where Matti had left it while packing. Dane looked at it, made out what it was even in the darkness.

“What? The photo? It’s…it’s Matti and me at Christmas. I don’t understand and I don’t have time—”

As emphatically as the hurt man could muster, he pointed to the photo again, blood running off his hand onto the carpet, urging Dane to take another look.

“Okay.” Dane bent down and picked up the photo. Even in the dim moonlight, the picture was as he remembered it, a jovial snapshot of the two of them holding up pairs of socks, taken with the timer setting on the camera. As he stared at it, remembering the day fondly, a sallow-skinned finger dotted with blood tapped the glass frame.

Dane ignored it. “I need my phone.”

Again, the finger tapped the glass, tapped it in the same spot repeatedly, leaving a coppery fingerprint. Looking at the bloodied man, Dane shook his head to show his confusion.

Still smiling contentedly, the man wiped the blood off the picture’s glass covering and tapped it again.

The fingerprint appeared again in the same spot.

The man pushed the picture closer to Dane’s face, as if to say, look harder.

“This is crazy.” Confused and scared, Dane tore the back off the frame and pulled the photo out, careful not to rip it. It was a good memory and he wanted to keep it safe, especially in light of the memories he’d be losing a day from now as he handed the house keys over to the new owners. He remembered that Christmas morning well, the way the tree looked in the living room, the way both he and Matti felt that the house was really beginning to feel like home. He remembered pulling out the socks and remarking how much they both needed them, laughing that they were officially grownups now for thinking that way.

Where the bloody fingerprint had been on the glass, there was a lensflare in the photo.

The finger tapped it.

“That? The camera…it’s old, it does that—”

The bloody finger rose to the first photo again, the one with Dane and Matti in football sweatshirts, and pressed against it.

Dane bent and picked up the photo. Again, he found the familiar lens flare that was common in many of their photos. He’d meant to buy a new camera, but had never found the time. He put the photo back. Another photo near it, taken in the kitchen on Thanksgiving, also had the lens flare.

But the one under it did not. It was taken at Disneyland with the same camera, and was flawless.

Intent to prove whatever point he was out to prove, the man pointed toward the foyer. A multi-picture frame still hung near the front door, Dane knew, containing similar photos; it hadn’t been packed yet. It had been due to get boxed up when their need to feel each other had gotten the better of them, drawing them to the stairs where they made love.

“I have to help my wife, I can’t—”

The old man shook his head no and pointed to the foyer again.

Hastily, Dane went to the frame in the foyer and looked at it. Even in the darkness of the room, he could see the man reflected in the glass behind him, his face still a mass of red, pointing to one of the photos in the upper corner. It was taken in the kitchen as well, a picture of Dane drinking a Budweiser.

Lens flare.

Beneath it, a photo taken outside a nightclub.

No flare

Picture in the bedroom.

Lens flare.

From upstairs, Matti’s voice filled the foyer, quick as ever and still hushed. “He’s bleeding on the rug on the rug on the rug.” Then, without breaking tempo, the refrain changed, causing Dane to spin and look up the stairs. “I shot him. I didn’t mean to, the gun just went off. Please hurry, I love him. He’s bleeding on the rug…”

The timbre was clearly Matti, but it sounded as if she were trying to mimic someone. She was good at mimicking people. She did it at parties sometimes. She could do Holly Go lightly like it was nobody’s business. But this was not a game. This was something else.

What spread through Dane next was not terror, or fear, or panic, or even more confusion, as he would have expected, but disbelief. The sum of all the parts was falling into place, painting a picture he found hard to digest. After all, he did not believe in ghosts

The gun-shot man, seeing Dane’s wheels spinning, began to nod approvingly. He closed his eyes as his smile perked up at the sides, his blood now hitting the hardwood floor of the foyer. And with the sadness in his eyes suddenly making sense to Dane, he put a hand to Dane’s shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly.

The touch was very faint, Dane noticed, like someone rubbing a feather on the spot. But it was frigidly cold, almost to the point of burning.

The old man followed this with a wave, a telltale wave that said, it’s been a pleasure. And with that, turned and headed through the entryway into the living room.

The squeeze, the wave, the turn…it was an unmistakable universal gesture.

Saying goodbye, Dane realized. He’s saying goodbye.

The lights flickered once and came on. Dane rushed into the living room, but the man was gone, just like that, taking the bloodstains with him. The carpet was as clean as it had been before he’d gone to bed.

Everything was silent.

Nothing was out of place. The boxes, the trash bags, the stacks of items waiting to be packed, all were exactly as they’d left them. He sat on a box of books he’d packed just a few hours earlier, full of Matti’s horror novels, and looked around him for answers. Did all that really just happen? He felt light headed, a little dizzy. Was what he’d just seen real, or was he imagining things?

He touched the box, thinking of the contents inside, and what he’d just experienced. Horror. The supernatural. Ghosts. Such bullshit. Matti joked that she read them for insurance—Ed Lee and Jack Ketchum and a bunch of other names that meant nothing to him—read them so she’d know what to do if she ever found herself staring down a demon. She once remarked she might be psychic. Said she was like a character in one of those books. Nonsense, he’d replied, that crap is warping your brain. Psychics are just frauds looking for money. It ain’t real.

Right?

“Dane? Where are you?”

Oh God, he realized, Matti’s awake!

He took the stairs two at a time, this time knocking over a box of knick knacks, and rushed into the bedroom. Matti was sitting up, rubbing her eyes, feeling the empty spot in the bed next to her. She was all right, her complexion back to normal.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “It’s almost four in the damn morning. I told you we’ll finish packing tomorrow. The truck isn’t coming till noon. Stop freaking out about it.”

“Yeah, baby,” he said, kissing her head and rubbing her hair, feeling how much she was a necessary part of his life. “It’s just...um…you were talking in your sleep.”

“Oh please, not that again. What’d I say this time?”

“Um…well…nothing. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“Good. I’m exhausted.” Matti rolled over and curled up in a fetal position, finding one of the small bears that kept residence around her pillow and pulling it toward her. “Come cuddle me,” she said.

“Hey, baby?” Dane put his arm around her and drew her into him, spooning.

Matti grunted.

“We never did get the history of this house before we moved in, did we?”

Another grunt.

“I love this house, you know. I always felt comfortable here for some reason. I mean, nothing ever went wrong here. Everything always worked, I always felt safe, I never really felt…alone here. You ever feel that?”

“Mmmm.”

A minute passed, Dane lightly rubbing his hand down is wife’s warm back, rethinking his attitude toward the unknown. As her breathing shifted to the even rhythm of sleep, he asked quietly, as much for himself as for Matti or anyone else listening, “You ever think there are people in this world who are just happy to be around other people? Content to watch silently as things go on around them? Just staying out of the way. You think they get sad when people leave them?”

Matti managed a final comment before she began to snore. “I dunno, Dane. I’m tired. Does it matter?”

He let her drift into her dreams before answering: “Kinda. I think I just met one.”

Downstairs, the kitchen phone began to buzz as the line came back to life.

Looking at the clock, he thought, two hours until I have to get up.

The Flesh of Fallen Angels

(A Gibson Blount Novella)

By

R. Thomas Riley and Roy C. Booth

The town of Jacob's Bluff was covered in a black putrid haze.  Yet, it was more than that.  It was more like the dismal cloud inhabited the town as Gibson and Sarah topped the overlooking hill. Finger thin shafts, mingled with log-sized tendrils, criss
crossed the town as if it were a familiar lover.

Gibson held his tongue, waiting for his wife to scream out because of the abnormal presence engulfing their town, but she sat placidly beside him, humming a church hymn, quite oblivious to the black cloud and the oncoming storm still far off in the distance. Thoughts of cancer, blight and rot rushed into Gibson’s mind, nearly overwhelming his senses at the sight.

Reflexively, Gibson tightened his grip on the reins, leaning in as he did so.  The horses snorted against the pressure, coming to a halt.  Something was at the apex of the black, swirling cloud.  Just a hint, huge, its features obscured.  Fading in and out, a tenebrous shape, twice the size of the entire town, hovered inchoate and nascent.  The black, inky, oil-like haze emanated from there, like an airborne disease.

Gibson looked on in horror, now envisioning the entire town engulfed in flames, obliterated to ash right before his eyes.  Dark winged figures were traveling down from the vague shape obscured in the black miasma.  Mere hints, but enough for Gibson to realize he was thankful they were shrouded in the swirling mist.  To see more directly would mean madness, he sensed.

“Darling?”

His wife’s perplexed intonation and gentle hand on his shoulder invaded his consciousness, startling him -- the entire illusion dissipated.  Not all at once, like a feverish hallucination might, but gradually, like watching time unravel and flow backwards.  Now the anomalous, swirling mist was all that remained. Lingering, hovering.

“Don’t you see that?” he said with a ragged breath, hoping she indeed did not see anything.

She leaned forward, peering down at the town. “See what, silly goat?”

“Nothing, love,” he replied after a few beats, forcing a smile.  “Just feeling a bit queer is all, I reckon. I must be more tuckered out than I thought.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll feel much better once we get into town, dear.”

“I reckon so, my love, I reckon so.”

He knew that to be a lie.

Gibson was not an overtly religious man, but what he’d just witnessed couldn’t be described in any other terms, no matter how much he tried to apply simple logic and reason to the situation.  What he had seen was pure, malicious evil, silently lying in wait for his town.

He shuddered again, stifling a cough to mask his enhancing sense of dread, his mind racing, trying to make sense of it all, still trying to logically sort out some kind of solution to what he had seen and experienced that day.

At wit's end he concluded there was only one logical person in town who might be able to help him with an explanation for what he was witnessing.

His friend, Nathan, the priest of Jacob’s Bluff.

NOW

“Hey there, handsome, want some company?”

Blount glanced up slowly, fully taking in the speaker posing before him.  Black scuffed boots below a pair of dingy white crinoline, horsehair trousers, up to a preposterously tight red silken corset, her breasts straining above the restrictive leather and lace device every time she took breath, ready to pop out at any moment.

“Well, now.”

Finally, his eyes came to rest on her face, painted up white, red lips standing out so starkly against the pale canvas it pained his eyes.  The makeup gave her the appearance of a fresh corpse, although beneath the trowel-slathered makeup he could still tell there was a rather pretty girl hidden somewhere.

“Hurm.”  Blount poured himself another and slammed it.

She moved in, sliding up to him, now close enough that he could feel her sweet-scented breath on his cheek.

“What’s your name, girl?” he asked between a few more shots.

“Name’s whatever you want it to be, dumplin’,” she cooed, playfully pawing at his jacket.  “I saw you sitting over here drinkin’ with a purpose all by your lonesome.  I haven’t seen you in here before.”

“No, no, I reckon not.” Blount shifted in closer to her, now making eye contact. Something didn't seem quite right, not in a dangerous or threatening sense, but it made Blount mighty curious all the same.

“Good, I’m always partial to new company.”

“I see.” He checked to see who else was watching. No one. “What’s your name?”  he repeated.

“Name’s Petty,” she revealed, giving off a slight giggle.

“Ah,” was his only reply. He leaned back, putting some distance between them. Names held power and now that he had hers, it was time to sit back for a bit and try to analyze what he had just gleaned, now allowing himself to relax and look around some more.

“You’re a strange one, mister.”

He gave an affirmative grunt. “So I’ve been told, so I have been told,” Blount chuckled, though there wasn’t any humor in it at all.

“May I?” she asked, motioning to his side.

“Yes, I would enjoy your company.  Sit.”

Petty grabbed a chair and dragged it noisily over next to Blount, plopping herself down as if they were long time friends.  “Mind if I have a drink?”

“Suit yourself,” grunted Blount, motioning to the bottle.

He watched as she grabbed the almost-empty bottle, tipping it back in one fluid motion.  Blount gauged her age to be around twenty, no more than twenty-five, but it was hard to be sure with the illusory hue the heavy makeup added.

Blount saw Bartender Bill motion to him: did he want another bottle? Blount declined.

“People venture you’re an outlaw,” she blurted, wiping her mouth.

“And who might those people be, Petty?” smiled Blount, slouching forward.  “I’ve yet to be in this town two hours and already I’m a no-good account fierce outlaw?”

“I see the guns you’ve got strapped to you,” Petty said, shrugging, a droplet of whiskey stubbornly clinging to her lower chin.  “When a man has one gun, usually means he sees the occasional trouble.  When he has two, he expects trouble,” she finished matter-of-factly.

“You’re quite keen,” Blount allowed.

“Why, thank you,” responded Petty, flashing Blount a knowing smile.

“I think I shall indeed indulge on that offer of company, miss.”

After securing a room from Bartender Bill, Blount took Petty straight to his bed.  No matter how hard he tried, he kept seeing Sarah’s face as he savagely thrusted.

THEN

Gibson slowly pulled to a halt in front of the general store, waving absently to the flock of smiling children that erupted from the doors, each laughing and clutching hard onto a stick of rock candy.  He clicked softly to the startled horses.

“You run along, Sarah,” he suggested.  “I’ve got some business over yonder to discuss with Father Nathan before we head off over to Carson's for a bite of lunch.”

Sarah gave her head a slight tilt, and then replied, “Well, all right. Remember, Carson should have fresh cucumbers in by now. And I know how much you adore a good cucumber and bacon sandwich.”

“Only if the olio is fresh. I’ll be along shortly, don't you fret none.”

He blew a kiss to his wife as she turned to glance back at him.  Her face was troubled, but as soon as Gibson blew the invisible kiss, her face lit up.  She made as if to grab the kiss, pretending to pocket it for later for safekeeping, quiet laughter drifting up.

He clicked to the horse and the wagon lurched away.

Gibson glanced up as he neared the middle of town.  The hovering dark shape he’d glimpsed from afar was directly above Jacob's Bluff, blotting out the sun, casting a graveyard-like shadow across the town.  However, no one else in town seemed to notice the dread phenomena.  For a brief moment, he did question his precious sanity; but he knew he wasn’t crazy . . . yet.

He watched as two small girls jump-roped nearby, oblivious to their bare feet splashing in a puddle of thick dark blood.  Splotches clung to their bare legs.  One of the girls carelessly pushed a hand through her long blond tresses, staining the locks a dusty red.  As he rolled past, the girl casually glanced his way.  Half of her face was gone.  A ragged hole leered at him, filled with maggots and bits of stringy flesh.  He gasped, closing his eyes in horror.  When he reopened them, the girl was normal again, still looking at him, smiling.  She giggled and called to the horses.

Then he saw it.

Movement caught his eye from the rooftop to his left.  He saw the first one.  It was hunched, clothed in fire, bat-like leathery wings wrapped around its hairy apish muscular frame. A disturbing amber glow obscured most of the creature’s features, but its eyes were what struck fear in Gibson’s heart: large, l vacuous wells of sheer malevolence.  The massive lupine head swiveled his direction.

The creature looked right at him and grinned.