Ghostly Writes Anthology 2016 Read online

Ghostly Writes 2016

  Presented by

  Plaisted Publishing House Ltd

  By

  Indie Authors Worldwide

  Plaisted Publishing House Ltd

  New Zealand

  Copyright 2016 Plaisted Publishing House

  All Rights Reserved

  Each and every author included in this book has personal copyright of their short story. In no way are these stories to be copied at any stage without their written consent.

  The short stories are from Authors worldwide, please note that there will be different English spelling and Grammar throughout this Anthology – British, American, Australian & Canadian

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Acknowledgements

  Book Cover

  Karen Hansen

  Claudia Plaisted

  www.ceejay-designs.weebly.com

  Editing

  Elizabeth Horton Newton

  Amanda Ghattas

  Jessica Wren

  Teasers & Videos

  Ashley Uzzell

  Adam Mitchell

  Jennifer Deese

  Elizabeth Horton Newton

  Claire Plaisted

  Jennifer Roche

  Michael J Elliott

  Claudia Plaisted

  Contents

  Demonic Revelry – A Poem

  A Dying Scream - J G Clay

  Cabins - J B Taylor

  Caedes - Adam Mitchell

  Canvas - Sara Mosier

  Chaconne - Neil Newton

  Death has a Sound - Rocky Rochford

  Embers of Webber Street - Karen J Mossman

  Eternally Connected – JLC Roche

  Ghost in the Machine - Eve Merrick-Williams

  Ghost of a Chance - Wendy Steele

  Haunted House Arrest - Jennifer Deese

  Hello Dear - Stewart Bint

  Luella - Kyrena Lynch

  Mother Called Today - Mike Elliott

  Natatorium-Adele Marie Park

  Play Time – Amy Budd

  Ruby Kisses - Jessica Wren

  Sitting on a Cloud - C A Keith

  Soul Man – Claire Plaisted

  Spools of Thread - Ashley Uzzell

  The Beneficiaries of Secret Cottage - Jane Risdon

  The Curse of Havencrest – Cayleigh Stickler

  The Ghost of Rose Cottage - Marjorie Hembroff

  The House on the Hill – Jim Adams

  The Layovers – Ricky Allen Jr

  The Lost Soul – Audrina Lane

  The Thin Place - Elizabeth H Newton

  Return to Light – A Poem

  Author Links

  Demonic Revelry

  Behold the Autumnal shades with fright

  as spirits whisper ‘Save us.’

  The moon shines bright on this All Hallow’s Night

  and demons dance while the humans sin in revelry.

  Ghosts of monsters, nightmares past

  and grinning the devil bows;

  it is his night to dance in moonlight as the unwary lose their souls.

  By Kyrena Lynch

  Copyright - September 2016

  A Dying Scream That Makes No Sound…

  J G Clay

  Red was his name.

  He required no other. His birth name, along with the last vestiges of his former, would soon be consigned to a crypt of the past, sealed away forever more. He felt no sense of loss, of mourning. The life previous would not be missed. The ‘real’ world was a sham, a construct glued together by Miley Cyrus, reality television and badly brewed lager. The Order of the Nine promised an existence more tangible, more meaningful than the cycle of birth, marriage, mortgage and mortality.

  If he survived the night, that was. Pushing away the worm of doubt, he stretched his long limbs as best as he could within the warm confines of the Jaguar.

  “Ready?”

  Driver sounded concerned. The large African American rarely displayed emotion in front of Prospects, Reapers and Psychopomps alike. He drove, as his name suggested. Whether the bullet headed behemoth performed other roles within the Order was unknown. If he did, Red would find out sooner or later. “You done well from what I’ve been hearin’.” His Southern drawl elongated his speech, ‘I’ve’ becoming ‘aah’ve’. Red smiled briefly, the solemnity of the occasion forgotten for a brief moment.

  “It’s time, my boy.”

  Red nodded. Words were unnecessary. A Reaper was sparing in thought, in action. That lesson had been drummed into him, into all of those who had studied the Way with him.

  “Goodbye, Red. Hope to see you on the other side.”

  Wordless, his face impassive, Red opened the door and stepped into the cool night.

  He did not look back. There was no point. The Trial began.

  Ghosts were real.

  Their existence was debated, ignored, mocked even. But they existed, in the periphery of vision, at the edge of nightmare, in the cold harsh light of insanity. The Normal – the everyday people – denied the dead vociferously for one reason only. They did not want to see the end. They wanted the cold comfort of the church, the mosque, the temple. They needed the litany of stories, regaling them with tales of milk, honey, virgins and wine. They looked away from the shadows left by the passing of their fellows. The man on the street did not want to be confronted by the harsh brutal reality of the end.

  Red had known otherwise. The towering figure, clothed in the robes of a holy man had revealed the truth to him so long ago. The twins – the monk’s cohorts, tied to him by bonds of pain of suffering – had befriended him, not out of pity or camaraderie, but out of a need to placate the demonic presence. The suffering he had known in those short months had marked him, not physically but psychically. Monarch’s stain became a beacon, drawing the dead, the demonic, the other-worldly to him. He had tried to function, to ignore the distorted figures, the hunched shapes in the corners of darkened rooms, beseeching him, mocking him, cursing him.

  Eventually, the strain had become too much. Even drugs and alcohol had not been enough to silence the incorporeal monsters dogging his every moment, waking or otherwise. A failed suicide attempt had brought the correct attention to him. ‘The Order of The Nine,’ recognising his unique gifts, took him into their fold, nurturing him, strengthening his knowledge, his soul, his gift. But for a price.

  Tonight, the price would be paid one way or another.

  Spying the gothic bulky shape of his destination, he squared his shoulders.

  The Old Red House beckoned to him.

  They should not have been there, not in this time or place. Red slowed his pace to a saunter, weighing up the opposition. At this distance, it was difficult to tell if they were alive or dead. Alive would not be a problem. He was trained in the art of the fight. From the size and the shape of them, the battle would be brief. Dead, however would be another problem altogether. Gifted though he was, the art of defence against psychic attack was taxing on mind and spirit. An ill-conceived show of power could deplete his reserves, not by much but enough should he require use of every trick he knew.

  There was only one thing for it. Changing his stance, his walk became flat footed, the soles of his shoes hitting the ground with a wet slapping sound. The boys reacted, jumping from the park bench as one and fanning across the path. Red smiled, relieved. They were living. They displayed none of the classics signs o
utlined in Tobin’s Spirit Guide. Lumpen though they were, the youths still moved with the litheness and grace of the living. The dead – recent or otherwise – were stiff, awkward, ungainly, as if death robbed them of the ability to move as a normal being would. Hands in pockets, hoods up, they waited, dancing on the balls of their feet.

  Suspending all thought, Red charged forward, lunging for the tallest one. His fist connected with the boy’s blunt chin, the meaty sound of flesh on flesh deafening in the still night. The boy crumpled, his legs boneless. Red spun, lifting his right leg as the smaller one of the trio weighed in. He yelped as the bridge of Red’s foot cut him down, smashing into the side of his hooded head. Red spun, grace and poise in the motion. The remaining youth held his hands up.

  “Don’t want no trouble, mate. Honest.”

  Breathing heavily, Red glared at him, seeking any sign of attack. The boy seemed earnest enough, his hands still held up, his face a picture of contrition.

  “Bit of advice,” said Red. “Go home. This is no place for kids.”

  The boy nodded enthusiastically, his companions adding their pained groans to the discussion.

  Satisfied that his point had been made, Red left the trio and the path, cutting across the path towards the solitary edifice at the far left of the park.

  The boy watched the dark swallow the strange bald man, crossing himself for reasons he never fathomed out.

  The shadow had no face.

  Red had been aware of its presence since he had squeezed through the gap in the wire mesh fence. Wary, he pushed through the overgrown grass and weeds, eventually coming to a clearing. The remains of a rusted climbing frame tilted to one side, its weight bearing down into the soggy earth.

  The shadow leant against it. Startled by his sudden approach, the figure flinched back, its unanchored tongue flopping from side to side as the figure danced from one foot to another clearly agitated. Its wounds were fresh, still glistening under its own luminescence and that of the moon. Blood coated its quilted coat, congealing to a crimson and black paste in places. One eye stared out from the morass of chewed flesh, unblinking. Without features, it was hard to gauge the thing’s mood. Red held his right hand up, the Omniversally recognised sign of peace.

  “Pax, Departed. I mean you no harm.”

  The faceless one considered his greeting before stiffly returning it. Red sensed no threat from this being, despite its appearance.

  “What brings you here, Departed?”

  The faceless one whispered to him, the voice strained and full of agony. His speech was intelligible. The dead did not require a full jaw or even a voicebox. Such obstacles were surmounted with ease.

  “Refuge, Reaper. We are hunted and there are too few of your kind to ease our passing.”

  Red nodded, sympathetic to the plight of this wraith. Not all ghosts were angry, vengeful beings. Some were merely lost, frightened or confused. It was part of the Reaper’s mission to guide these lonely souls to a better Realm or even a safe haven on Earth. The Reapers however were dying. The nature of their occupation was dangerous enough. Some whispered of a hunt, a slaughter by enemies unknown. Human souls were valuable in some Realms, prized for their energy, their entertainment and other less savoury practices.

  “I may be able to offer you the refuge you seek, Departed.” If I pass the Trial. Red left that part unspoken. This wraith oozed desperation and fear. He had no wish to shatter its illusions. “Wait here. I’ll call for you shortly when my work is complete.”

  The maimed wraith nodded, his anchorless tongue flapping.

  “Good luck, Reaper,” it whispered.

 

  A lingering whisper of chip fat, grease and ready-made curry paste coated the air of the kitchen as Red silently pushed his way in through the broken door. Expertly weaving his way through the debris of abandonment, he paused by a work surface, closing his eyes and muttering in a long forgotten tongue. Power surged through him, a deep primal energy surging from the earth beneath him. He gasped at the intensity, the thrill as it powered through his veins, warming cells and flesh in its wake. In his minds eyes, he traced the hard white light, wreathed in a golden aura, diverting and directing it to where it was needed. His eyes tingled as the magicks bathed his optic nerves, reconfiguring the delicate twists of fibre and neuron.

  Cease!

  Abruptly, the surge faded, draining away. Red opened his eyes, smiling. The night no longer existed. He saw his surroundings clearly, bathed in a golden glow similar to a summer’s day. It had worked. Sister Cano would be proud. Her patience had paid off. Looking around in wonder, he spied a book on the worktop, curled at the edges from damp. Curious, he picked up, his wan smile growing at the cover and the memories it invoked. A face, grimacing and evil, leered out at him from a wooden background

  The Manitou. Not read that in years.

  A memory blind-sided him, his mood evaporating.

  A face pushing its way through the wood of the closet door, its mouth open, screaming obscenities at him…

  The sharp smack of the book hitting the ground brought Red out of the recollection. Impulsively, he kicked it into a corner. Breath slobbered from him, his eyes wide as the remembered terror shocked his system, squirting adrenaline into his blood. He reached for the cold centre of calm within, willing his heart to slow. It was only a memory, a half remembered dream. Soon it would be confronted and destroyed. Red leant forward, gripping the edge of the worktop for support, closing his eyes and focusing. Something brushed his hand. His eyes snapped open in an instant. A photograph lay on the top of his right hand, having fallen there. Or had it been placed? His heart resumed its gallop as the detail of the photo became clearer.

  A young boy favoured him with a gappy smile, one of his front teeth missing.

  I lost that the day Kyra… or was it Myra? Does it matter which one?

  With a trembling hand, Red grabbed the picture. He screamed, blisters forming on the pads of his fingers. The photo was white hot to the touch. Gripping his injured hand, Red watched, dumbstruck as the picture changed. The boy’s face began to stretch like warmed tallow, his skull elongating. His eyes rolled over white, the corners filling with red, a deep venous red that spilled down the bridge of nose. The smile became a grimace, filled with agony and venom.

  A booming laugh shook the floor beneath him.

  Red froze in terror.

  His gut tightening, becoming taut. His testicles shrivelled, ascending up into his torso, the hair all over his body standing to attention. Red’s teeth chattered and his eyes widened as the laughter began to seep through the floor and the walls, surrounding him.

  The photo bucked and twitched as if it were trying to hold his attention. The younger version of himself within reached out, coated in a thin layer of blood, empty ragged eye sockets twitching and fluttering before imploding in on himself, sucked into nothingness with a thin cracking of bone.

  Words formed on the now blank picture; fiery, red and familiar.

  A DYING SCREAM THAT MAKES NO SOUND…

  Consigns the dying to an eternity of wandering. A Law. One of the first ones learnt. Reapers were taught to be taciturn and reserved in all aspects of life save one. At the moment of death, the Reaper was instructed to scream as loudly as possible. A good scream dislodged the soul – the animus, the atma – severing all times with this plane of existence. The Wandering and the Lost were often souls who had died silently.

  The photo curled and shrivelled, disintegrating into a pile of blue ash and scattering before an unseen breeze. Swallowing, Red turned away, his blood pounding through a head that felt too large for his shoulders. He walked through an open doorway, not daring to look back for fear of what he would see.

  Something sighed contentedly, enjoying the game. There was more to come.

  Red’s leaned back against a crumbling wall, waiting for his heart to slow and his legs to stop trembling. He resisted the urge to use a magick. Bodily reactions were things to be conqu
ered from within.

  “Besides, I’m gonna need all the magick I have judging by that gutless performance back there.”

  Frustrated and disgusted, he swung a clenched fist backwards, smacking the wall behind. A shower of plaster and wallpaper tumbled to the floor. Another avalanche of plaster tumbled to the dirty tiled floor as he back-punched the wall once more, relishing the pain as a shard pierced the meat of his fist. The pain focused him, forcing him back into the moment.

  Red straightened, brushing his hands clean.

  Whispers came at him from the dark, jumbled and nonsensical. He ignored them, recognising the tactic for what it was; a way of interfering with concentration and also to unnerve the living. It had worked on him once when he had been a raw recruit.

  The entities at Woodfield Manor had exploited this rawness. Had it not been for Black, Red would have lost his mind, possibly his life. Experience had hardened him against the tricks of the dead. From Stull Cemetery to the ruins of Bhanagarh, he had observed, practised against and fought entities of varying power. There was not much that could take him unawares.

  Except the Monarch of The Old Red House.

  Red jumped.

  Pulling himself away from the wall, he spun into the centre of the rubble strewn corridor, his enhanced vision sweeping around for signs of the whisperer. A child’s giggle emanated from nearby, joined by another, then another. Red looked around, spinning around in a circle. The tittering became a chorus, innocent high pitched voices singing simple rhymes:-

  I see you

  Do you see me?

  Monarch will make you history

  He’ll squeeze your heart until it bursts

  With your blood, he’ll quench his thirst.

  Red froze.

  Rhymes.

  Rhymes were a portent and protection, so Black had once said. Ghosts spoke in rhyme to ward off demons. Something to do with a demon’s mind being unable to grasp the syntax and meaning of rhymes. The angelic chorus dissolved into laughter before repeating the rhyme again, this time louder.

  I see you

  Do you see me?

  Monarch will make you history

  He’ll squeeze your heart until it bursts

  With your blood, he’ll quench his thirst.

  Red leapt backwards, danger jabbing at his senses. A huge chunk of masonry crashed down where he had stood, coating him in a choking mist. The dust stung his eyes and his nose. He coughed violently, his chest hitching as his lungs struggled to cope. Over the sound of his own wracked breathing, the children sang once more, more spiteful.

  Monarch is great

  You are dull

  We’ll all dance around your skull

  Your flesh will rot, your flesh will smell

  Monarch will send you straight to Hell.

  Red stumbled forward, blinded from the dust but guided by an internal compass rusted from years of disuse. Behind him, disembodied voices screamed obscenities, curses and threats. He staggered on, ignoring the bullying choir, hoping that he was headed in the right direction.

  A loud thump shook the building, stopping Red in his tracks. The voices stopped abruptly for a moment. The momentary silence terrified the half-blind Red more than anything. He could not see. Anything could be out there, stalking him silently. He was in no position to defend himself at the moment. Stretching his hearing to its limits, he listened for creaking floorboards, a swish of fabric, a stealthy tread.

  Nothing.

  Not even the scratching of a rodent.

  Red focused harder.

  A howl, a hurricane of screaming voices blasted him from behind. He clapped his hands to his ears, trying to muffle the soundtrack of suffering. His own flesh was no barrier. The screaming penetrated through the thickness of his palms, smashing through his eardrums and into his brain. He felt his own mouth open, a roar loosening from his throat, threatening to tear his vocal chords. The scream became a word, drawn out and tortured.

  “Stooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooop!”

  Abruptly, the bawling ceased once more.

  Another chuckle boomed from above him.

  Monarch had won another round.

  Shakily, his eyes red, his ears ringing, Red staggered forward into another room.

  “Ah, my dear boy, how are you?”

  He had been washing his eyes out with a bottle of tonic water. The bottle flew from his hands, shattering against the cold stone floor. Quickly, Red rubbed the flat tonic water and greasy dust from his eyes before turning around. He frowned.

  This is a new one.

  The lounge had been well appointed once, when the pub had been at its pomp. Time had robbed the leather bench seats of their shine and supple finish. A chandelier lay in pieces across a half shattered table, surrounded by smashed chairs and tables. Scraps of cloth, shards of glass and newspaper littered the floor. Red stepped away from the bar, the crunch of bone underfoot ignored. The skeleton was too small and fragile to be human. Rodent or pet, he surmised. It was unimportant. The glowing man before him held far more interest than the mouldering remains of a small animal.

  The man smiled, his immaculate moustache twitching. The smile did not reach his eyes. They were as hard as flint, devoid of any real warmth. His gaunt face – long and sharp featured – radiated a mixture of superiority and contempt. Dressed in Edwardian evening wear, black bow tie hanging limply from his throat, the man presented an incongruous figure against the brass and wood finish of the lounge. He would have been more at home in an officer’s club, sipping a peg of whiskey. The cruel smile widened.

  “My thoughts must be wide open. This one’s long time dead.”

  The man smoothed down his black jacket, propping his luminous arms on the table. Red noted that his elbows did not pass through the table. There was some solidity to this wraith. Interesting.

  “I am, as are you, old chap.” His tone was clipped and as cold as his eyes and the blue aura that wreathed him.

  “What?”

  The man clucked his teeth.in annoyance. “Interesting, dear boy, interesting. That’s always the problem with you babus. Listening skills. Or lack of them, should I say?”

  The heat of anger warmed Red’s cheeks. Fighting to keep his tone civil, he replied.

  “Why are you here? I don’t remember-.”

  “Remember me? No, you wouldn’t. I made this place my refuge long after your father sold. Haunting old officers club is not as amusing as it once was. Particularly half demolished ones. A shame, really. I do miss Poona.” The Edwardian laughed. “I miss my England too. What has my dear motherland become, eh?”

  Red fought the retort on his lips. Arguing with a relic of the past would not help. Information was information, even if it did come from a racist ghost.

  “How have you avoided the other Realms?”

  The Edwardian scoffed. “Avoid? Hardly, babu. One can go where one pleases. A handful of us have recognised this obscure fact. Used it to our advantage. Even in death, there is superiority. Besides, the other Realms do not possess…they do not possess the piquancy, the flavour, of our Universe. There’s much more fun to be had here.”

  The Edwardian favoured Red with another cruel grin. Red eyed the ghost warily, aware that this one could touch after a fashion. If he could touch, he could harm. He began to prepare himself, distracting the Edwardian by talking to him.

  “What about Hell?”

  The Edwardian raised a pencil thin eyebrow, scoffing. “Limited appeal and little hope of escape. I have had word that there’s unrest brewing in the Abode of the Damned however. That could entice me. I enjoyed putting down the natives when they became restless. Certainly in India.”

  Red flinched, aware that the barb was aimed at him. The Edwardian was trying to anger him, throw him off balance by attacking his heritage.

  “Those were the days. I could snap my fingers and make blood rain from the heavens.”

  Growing tired of the conversation, Red backed away. The
Edwardian’s face became stony. “Where do you think you’re going, babu? I did not give you permission to leave.”

  “You’re not important. I have business here. I’ve wasted enough time with you.”

  “No one leaves here without my permission. And without some sort of recompense.” He waggled an eyebrow suggestively. “You are a bit older than normal. But you’ll do. In any case, a scream is a scream whether the throat is old or young. I’m going to have you then kill you.”

  Red fixed the Edwardian with a glare. His anger now at boiling point, he pointed at the flickering wraith.

  “You won’t kill me. And you certainly won’t rape me either, you limp dicked excuse for a prick. I’m out of here. I suggest you leave too. If I find you here on my way out, there won’t be a God or Demon who’ll save you.”

  The Edwardian leapt from his chair, roaring his displeasure. As he stood, he gripped the edge of the heavy table, picking it up as if it were made of feathers. Red remained motionless, his body tense. Hefting the table over his head, the Edwardian hurled it at the younger man. Red raised his right hand, palm facing outwards. The table veered sharply to the left, crashing into the wall, gouging a trail along it before coming to rest on the floor. Shocked, the Edwardian clicked his fingers. A gurgling from above made Red look up. The ceiling ebbed and flow, a tidal wave of motion.

  It was not water. The fluid moved too sluggishly. The metallic tang gave it away. Reaching deep within, he extracted another magick as blood began to rain from above.

  “I told you, Babu. Did I not tell you, you stinking monkey? I make blood rain from the heavens.”

  Red nodded curtly.

  You do, Colonel Blimp. But check out what I can do.

  The Edwardian’s rant stopped, his mouth still agape, his eyes trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The rain of blood had stopped mid-flow, the fat droplets hovering midway between the ceiling and the floor. Spluttering, the Edwardian glared at a now smiling Red.

  “Stop that. Whatever you are doing, stop that right now!”

  Red’s grin twisted. The fear radiated from the Edwardian. He relished it, enjoying the feelings of helplessness and terror pulsing from the pompous bully.

  “I said stop, babu. Don’t you niggers understand English?”

  The smile vanished. The Edwardian gulped, a gesture that would have been comical in any other circumstance. Fury, cold and clinical, seized Red.

  “I’ve got all this power. Let’s use it.”

  A small voice, rational and pleading begged him not to. There were curbs set on magicks for a reason, lines not to be crossed. Red’s anger, at the Edwardian, at the world, at himself, silenced the voice. Reaching into a deep dark corner of himself, he pulled up a secret magick, one that he had learned surreptitiously. Had Sister Cano known of this, she would have killed him there and then.

  The Edwardian cowered as Red strode towards him, hands outstretched. Ebony lightning crackled at his fingertips.

  “Don’t touch me! Please. I beg you.”

  Sneering at the man’s cowardice, Red placed his hands on either side of the Edwardian’s incorporeal head. He began to mutter in a language older than the Universe he inhabited. The dark power snaked form his fingertips, tendrils of it forcing its way into the Edwardian through his nose and ears. The wraith’s skin began to wrinkle and crack as Red sucked his essence from him, stealing his energy, gorging on it. The Edwardian’s cries became feeble, his body twisting on itself as Red sucked him dry.

  All of it. I want it all.

  Red cackled as the pompous ghost shrivelled into nothingness, his blue glow fading into darkness.

  “Who makes blood rain from the sky now, eh?”

  “I do. I was never weak. Just too afraid.”

  Insight struck him. The purpose of the Trial was laid bare. Power lay in the hands of those strong enough to use it. The Reapers taught restraint, control and reserve. Laudable qualities, all of them but ultimately useless. Pleased with his new knowledge, Red stretched, cracking his fingers. His nerves sang, his mind crystal clear.

  It was time to end Monarch. Once he had finished the task, The Reapers would be next. The Order needed rebuilding.

  One task at a time. Multi-tasking was never my thing.

  And there they are.

  The twins stood at the end of the corridor, still dressed exactly the same as they had been all those years ago; blue dresses with matching white bibs at the chest. Their coppery hair- plaited and pig-tailed - hung limp from the sides of their small heads. Identical in feature and expression, the girls stepped forward in unison.

  Red grinned, alert for any tricks, feints and glamours.

  The twins –Kyra and Myra – had never displayed any powers during his brief time with them. They had only shown kindness and friendship at a time when he had needed it. The boy in the photograph had been painfully shy, relentlessly bullied and unmercifully mocked. Friendship, even that offered by beings not seen by anyone else, was a mercy, gratefully received and graciously returned by the boy Red had been. The souring of that friendship, made even more painful by the twins delivery of him to Monarch had scarred his psyche far more than any physical beating. Healing this scar was his true trial. Dealing with Monarch was a sideshow.

  The girl on the left – Kyra – smiled. She had a tooth missing as did her sister; the same tooth he lacked in the boyhood picture. Unbidden, a memory rose like foul swap gas, bursting open, ejecting its foul content into the tired atmosphere of his mind.

  “It’s the mark, Ridwan. Monarch’s mark. Once you’re marked, you’ll be one of us.” The boy – Ridwan – eyed the pliers, his bottom lip trembling a little. Kyra smiled, the gap at the front looming large in his thoughts and vision. Myra, the smaller of the two, stroked his arm. He barely felt it. It was more of a light breeze than a physical touch. Yet, the heavy pliers looked as if they were in a solid grip. Ridwan knew better than to ask how Kyra did that. The black look she had given him when he asked whether she could walk through walls had chilled him to the core. He did not want to upset them. The girls were all he had. And the mysterious Monarch. The girls had assured him that he would meet Monarch soon. First, he had to prove his loyalty. The tests had been small, at first, more mischief making than harmful. The stealing of morsels of food and drink, bringing strands of hair, hats and sweatbands, anything that contained sweat, cells, even blood. All of these had been delivered to the twins, who took them away.

  Lately, the tests had become larger, more strenuous, more frightening. Monarch now demanded larger offerings, still living. Newts and frogs from the scum-laden ponds eventually gave way to rats, rabbits, even a stray cat. Although, Ridwan never saw the end result, he knew in his heart that the creatures would not come out of the small coal attic door alive. One day, after offering the stray cat, he had pressed his ear to the warm wooden door. In the ten seconds before his father came upon him, dragging him away and swatting him with a large hand, Ridwan had heard the sounds of sucking, gulping and chewing.

  The nightmares that followed lasted for weeks.

  This sacrifice would be easy.

  Nodding his consent wearily, Ridwan pulled his small delicate top lip back, exposing his baby teeth. Myra stifled a giggle beneath her tiny hands as he winced. Even through his tooth, the pliers felt bone cold.

  “It only hurts for a moment”, said Kyra before squeezing the pliers and pulling…

  “You were wrong. The pain never stopped.”

  “Pain is to something to be borne, and to be borne well, my son. Did you learn nothing from your time with me?”

  Monarch’s voice seeped from the walls. “Maybe if you had taken the correct path, you would have lived well in the dark. Now, you struggle in the blinding light.” A wistful almost sad note came into the disembodied voice. The twins adopted similar expressions, their elfin faces altering from glee to deep sadness. Their black eyes remained gleefully malicious. Red stared at the ghostly twins, noticing for the first
time that they were not standing on the stained vinyl floor. Kyra and Myra hovered a few inches above it, their bare feet dangling. He would soon fix that. The recollection of his lost tooth fed his anger stoking it. He stopped in front Kyra, his look contemptuous.

  “Welcome home, Ridwan.” Icy breath, stinking of tombs puffed into his face. He grimaced with disgust.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this.”

  Kyra’s smile wavered becoming a look of uncertainty as she gazed into Red’s eyes. He opened himself up to the power within, letting its questing fingers hooked the dead girl’s eyes. Kyra screamed as her eyeballs exploded from their sockets, followed by gossamer clouds of energy. Red gasped as his body absorbed the ghost’s essence quickly. Within moments, she was gone.

  He turned his head to Myra.

  “Your turn.”

  The attic was bare, save a few broken pieces of furniture and some very old looking books stowed in a far corner. Gossamer thin cobwebs laced the solid looking wooden beams holding the edifice up. A single solitary bulb, suspended in the middle of the cavernous space, buzzed as it tried to illuminate the pitch dark

  “Time certainly has not been kind to you. To either of us.”

  The utterance came from the far wall. Red swore, his dry throat convulsing, as he gazed at the genesis of his fears.

  Monarch loomed large, impossibly tall. A faint green corona of energy clung to his blocky substantial form, draped in an ebon monk’s habit, the hood drawn up. His hands were tucked into opposing sleeves, the pale talon tipped fingers invisible.

  “Look at me, boy.”

  Red shook his head, enjoying the pleading note in his former tormentor voice. Monarch must have sensed the Soul Death – The Mors Animus – of the Edwardian and the twins.

  “Look at me. Please, Ridwan.”

  Red snarled.

  “The name’s Red. Soon to be Reaper Red.”

  Monarch chuckled, the sound sad. “You came here to become a Reaper. Instead, you have become something far worse. Your hatred of me has twisted you.”

  Red sneered looking up at the face that had terrified him for so long.

  A bare skull, warped by a terrible heat stared back at him with misshapen oval eye sockets. His teeth, elongated and joined together to form a grill, were yellowed and stained. There had once been malevolence and power in that fleshless countenance. Now the tables had turned.

  Monarch was terrified. Red could taste his fear.

  “What will you do?”

  “What I came to do. To end you. This is my Trial.”

  Monarch laughed again. “Your Trial? Your Trial was never about me, the twins, the scars we left. Your Trial was about you. The darkness in you.”

  Red frowned, not understanding. His brief had been clear. Face the past in the place of most fear and conquer it. He had, or at least he was about too? How could he fail?

  “You really do not understand? In that case, do what you will, Ridwan. But I warn you. You may be rid of me but you will never know peace. Now matters have become worse for you. I submit myself to your mercy.”

  As easy as that?

  Monarch bent down on one knee.

  Red’s head began to spin. This was his chance now. So why the doubt? The small voice spoke once more. The dark almost has you. You used forbidden magicks. They’re addictive, powerfully so. If you do this, you are lost.

  Memories came on the heels of conscience, silencing his conscience once more, perhaps for good.

  …Monarch whispering to him in the dark, eagerly telling him of past atrocities; the hooded figure towering at the edge of the bed, whispering, speaking of murder, of his family and the few friends he had. Screaming into his ear in the depths of sleep. Poking, prodding ambushing him right up to the last day, when he and his parents had packed up and left the Old Red House behind…

  Red screamed, opening himself fully to the darkness.

  Monarch did not scream as he died eternally and finally.

  Red was free.

  The first tentative fingers of dawn uncurled, over the four gothic spires of the Old Red House. Red sighed, fragrant blue smoke billowing from his mouth. The cigarettes were old but still smokable. He had found them whilst rummaging around for any mementos of his childhood there. There was not much; just a packet of Embassy Number 1s and a half empty bottle of Captain’s Morgan’s rum, stashed away in a small cupboard. They had been his father’s favourites. Finding them was not pure luck. In his experience, there was no such things. Only guidance from a world realer than the one he inhabited. Taking a swig from the bottle, he sighed once more, enjoying the heady mix of booze and the dark magick fizzing in his blood

  A familiar voice came from behind him.

  “You survived the night,” Black said, seemingly surprised. “Mother Mara reports success. She detects no presence of Monarch.”

  And she never detected me? Brilliant. Destroying the Order of the Nine is going to be easy.

  A hand – large, brown and strong –gripped his shoulder. Red did not turn. He did not want Black to see his smile or his eyes, once brown but now black marbles. He also wanted to imprint this place on his mind before he burned it to the ground. One day, this would become a place of pilgrimage, a temple to the Red One, vanquisher of the Dead. He smirked once more.

  “Come now, Reaper Red. You must be tired. Let’s go. There’s lots to be done.”

  Red lit up another cigarette. “I’ll make my own way back.”

  Black murmured appreciatively. “Another lesson learnt. All Reapers, Preachers, Psychopomps; even the Nine Unknown; all make their own journeys back alone. That is the way of the Nine Unknown Men. Long may it remain so. Goodbye, Reaper First Class. I’ll be in touch.”

  The crunch of gravel underfoot was followed by the slamming of a car door and an engine roaring away. Red was alone once more.

  Cigarette finished, he dropped the butt to the floor and stashed the bottle in the voluminous folds of his jacket. The police did not take kindly to public drinking, especially in the ambrosial hours of the morning.

  Red laughed to himself. He could have killed Black there and then. But there was no point. He needed to cut the man’s vocal chords, prevent him from screaming out, ensuring that Black, and the other Reapers would become restless ghosts, a source of energy for him.

  He closed his eyes, images of slaughter playing out in his mind.

  The dawn unfolded pushing the dark away for a time.

  The End

  Cabins

  J B Taylor