The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear And Other Stories of Chilling Modern Horror Fantasy is a collection of ten short stories written by me and is available to buy on Amazon here. Below is an extract from one of the featured stories Thou Shalt Not Suffer.
Thou Shalt Not Suffer
‘I can’t do this anymore.’ There is a room in darkness; the only light the blazing flicker of a TV screen, HD colours reaching out from beyond the liquid crystal display. There is an armchair in the room drawn up close to the TV. There is a cat and a terrarium with a big warty toad crouched on a smooth stone, regal as a dragon. There is a woman. She strokes the cat, her eyes glued to the TV. She is smiling a rictus grin.
*
‘This was a mistake.’ She can smell the gas. Her wrists and ankles are strapped. There is a strap across her chest and banding her forehead. She cannot move. The ceiling is very white like an operating theatre. The walls are clear ceiling to floor Plexi-glass. The gas is coming from vents in the ceiling. There are other holes in the floor. She cannot see them because she is strapped to a stretcher in the middle of the room but she knows they are there. The flames will come from the vents in the floor. Tears leak, steady as a tap, down her face. They tickle as they wriggle past her earlobes. She is numb with terror. Panic mounts. She thinks she could pull loose of her body and float like a helium balloon to the ceiling. She wishes that she would.
She cannot turn her head but movement flickers in her peripheral vision. Beyond the windows people are taking seats in the auditorium outside the tiny glass room. The prosecuting lawyers. The Pontiff’s representative. The witchhunters. Keith’s family.
How many people are out there? How many people are going to watch her burn?
Her sobs are muffled by the thick leather mask covering her lower face. The metal grill allows her to breathe and makes her look like Hannibal Lector. They put a sack over her head when they wheeled her in through the baying crowds outside but the witchhunters removed it when they installed her in the room. They want her to see the gas ripple in the air. They want her to see when the room explodes in flame.
My short story One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth is featured in Haunt anthology from Dragon Soul Press available on Amazon. Below is an extract from One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile teeth.
One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth
They say that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. But you say bollocks to that, don’t you Cheryl? You’ve never had much time for kings. Nor men, for that matter. And seeing? Well, the blind don’t know how lucky they are.
Your problem’s always been the same. You’ve always seen too much. You see it all. The twisted bodies of the sprites that jump from tree branch to tree branch in a storm. The faces in the wind and the shadows at the periphery of the brightest day. You see the darkness and the darkness sees you.
But you managed. For years, you managed. You were nimble, you were tough; you saw it all and you asked no questions. Monkey sees, but Monkey don’t talk. You survived. You thrived. You were the one-eyed queen in the dark.
You cleaned house for the monsters, learning the lesson of every soul that’s ever been weak amid the strong and the mean; when you can’t fight and you can’t run, be useful. And you were. When wicked old Mr. Watkins guilt came for him, you were there, wiping the tiny finger trails off the windowpanes and ignoring the way the condensation ran like tears.
You spritzed and you squirted, you wiped it all away, but the fingers lingered, scraping invisible patterns over the pane as you turned your back.
When the shadows in the room sniffled and pawed at the smudgy walls, when the reek of ammonia and terror clogged your nose, you whipped out the polish until the room smelled like an orange grove in Andalucía. You scrubbed the walls until they shone like ivory. You swept trapped sobs from between the slats of the Venetian blinds and let them drift as dust to the carpet before you got the Dyson out.
When the cupboard doors rattled in the toy maker’s workshop, you kept your head down and never opened the doors. You never looked into the weeping eyes of all those little wind-up boys and girls with their too life-like faces. ‘Cuz you knew what you’d see. But nothing gets the stink of evil out of the air, does it, Cheryl? Nor stops fear from leaking into the floorboards or terror from rising up the walls like black rot.
Though you surely tried, didn’t you?
If you would like to read more of my work you can find my horror-fantasy short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear on Amazon.
My short story Sweet Summer Swimming is featured in the writers co-op latest anthology, The Rabbit Hole Vol. 5, now available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble in ebook and print. Below is an extract from Sweet Summer Swimming, a tale of murderous jellyfish on the hunt!
****
There is no purpose, no will. No mind. The jellies float. They beach. They burn and they flounder. They feed and they sink back into the surf. They wait to be called home again. Some have fallen, some have multiplied. It matters not. They are jellyfish. There is no will. No mind. No wonder why.
There is only the tide, the spasm of sensation. The hook and the cry and the flail and the catch. There is the pulse and the propulsion, the sudden arrest, the split and the shatter. The sink and the swim.
They are come, they are go, they know not which. They are the jellies and they are here and they are gone. Time is immaterial when there is only the float.
The tide comes in and the jellies rise to meet it.
****
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
For more information on all the authors and stories featured in The Rabbit Hole 5 check out fellow featured author Joseph Carrabis’s site which has a featured interviews on several authors!
You know what your problem is? My sister Stella asked me the other day. You’re a loser, she says. You never try. All you do is complain. And like that was rich coming from her. All she does is complain about me.
Anyway, she’s still banging on. She’s like, look at this place, and waving her hands around like some manic orchestra conductor. And she has this really shrill voice that gets all nasally when she’s angry –and she’s angry a lot, my sister. Mushrooms, Livvy, she shrills. You got mushrooms growing in your bathroom. You’re a slob. A disgrace. I’m sick of cleaning up after you, she tells me, like I’m this huge terrible burden she’s been lumbered with.
Well, no one’s making you, I shout back, don’t I? ‘Cuz I don’t have to take that, do I? No, I don’t. It’s my life, I yell ‘cuz she’s always judging me and I’m sick of it. I’ll screw up if I want to, I tell her. You can’t tell me what to do!
I’m crying at this point, which is just typical. I hate that I’m a crier, ‘cuz it makes Stella go all superior, acting like I’m just crying for attention or ‘cuz I’m a whiny baby. I mean, it’s not my fault. It’s like I got all the most pathetic traits at birth and none of the good ones. Not like Stella.
Sometimes I really hate Stella. My got-it-all-together sister. Goody-goody two-shoes, perfect first-born, straight-A Stella with her perfect hair and perfect teeth and perfect barbie-doll corporate drone wife. She don’t understand how hard it is to be me.
Anyway, what was I saying? Right, about the other day. Stella gives me this look, alright? Like I’m something nasty stuck to her shoe –not that anything nasty would dare stick to Stella’s shoes. Grow up Liv, she says, looking all serious and haughty. You’re thirty-two, not a teenager. Do something with your life.
I tell her to go to hell. She leaves. And then I’m alone, right? Stuck in my crappy flat with the mouldy floors and mushrooms growing up alongside the bath. I mean, you don’t have to worry, I cleaned up before you arrived so it’s not that bad now. But anyway. Mum and Dad pay the rent on this place ‘cuz I’m still looking for work. It’s not like I’m lazy, mind. People just have it in for me.
They can’t deal with my realness, see. I got self-respect, I’m not picking up after other people who can’t use a stupid bin. I don’t care what it says in my job contract. I know I was born for great things; it’s just that no one will give me a chance. I haven’t found my niche yet, you see. That thing that I’m super good at that no one else can do. Circumstances are against me. The whole world wants too much from me while I’m still trying to find myself. No one can see that I’m special. Different. Sensitive and stuff.
It’s like all them suffering artists from the past, yeah? Did anyone tell Van Gogh, Oi mate, you can’t go ‘round cutting off your ears like that, you got to sign on. No, they didn’t. They just let him get on painting his sunflowers and self-mutilating ‘cuz they recognised he was special, didn’t they? Old Van Gogh even had a brother who took care of him, not like me and Stella.
But you know, Van Gogh had to deal with idiots who didn’t understand him too. He was painting his Starry Night and people were like whose that ginger weirdo with the one ear? We should lock him up.
That’s life though, ain’t it?
Special, sensitive, tortured people suffer. They get no appreciation until they die and then everyone is like, wow, look at them Sunflowers, that’s genius. Let’s write sad, hippy songs about how no one appreciates artists ‘til they’re dead. It’s like, a cosmic rule or something.
And like I know I’m one of them tortured artist people. I got to be right? ‘Cuz I’m living in a crappy housing estate full of winos and druggies. And that weird pale guy on the top floor with the widow’s peak who’s probably a serial killer ‘cuz he only goes out at night.
But like, I’ve been working on a novel right? About a girl who fights against the whole stupid world that only sees her loser outer shell. ‘Cuz the world’s shallow and judgy and wouldn’t know greatness if it slapped ‘em silly with a giant sturgeon, would it? No, it wouldn’t.
It’s gonna be a best-seller, my book. I mean, I’ve only written, like, four thousand words in four years, but you can’t rush the creative process. Genius takes time to sprout.
Anyway, I started a Kickstarter to drum up funds but people were all like, well what’s the outline? What’s the plot about? When’s it gonna be done? What’s the genre? And I’m like, don’t distract me with all these questions. My book’s not like other books. It don’t need things like plot or character or whatever. I’ve got tortured genius, don’t I?
So yeah, I read about Mandragora online, that’s how I found about your offer. I was doing one of those “what sort of vegetable are you” quizzes. I’m an aubergine, by the way. Did you know the aubergine is part of the nightshade family? Yeah, like related to deadly nightshade? I thought that was pretty cool. Anyway, I saw your ad saying you were looking for people who wanted to cultivate a new version of themselves, and I was like, that’s me, that is. I’m all about cultivating myself.
By the way, just got to say, your hair is awesome. It’s all bright green and springy like moss. What brand of dye is that? ‘Cuz my friend Oona –well, Beth actually, but she’s been Oona since she went Goth at, like twenty-three–Anyway, she tried to dye her hair green and it came out like a cat wee’d on some straw or something.
But your hair’s nothing like that. It’s awesome. I mean that green lipstick is awesome too. What’s the shade?
It’s natural?
Is that some kind of genetic condition? Err, you don’t have to answer that if it’s personal or anything. Forget I asked.
Mandragora did that? Um, is that supposed to happen, ‘cuz the ad didn’t mention any side-effects.
No way! That’s what you used to look like? Seriously? This picture isn’t photoshopped or nothing? Oh my god. That’s amazing. You look completely different. Way thinner and your skin is, like, flawless now.
I will definitely take green hair and weird lips if it means I get to look like you. Err, you know what I mean right? I’m not trying to come on to you or anything.
Wow, your eyes are so shiny. It’s like they suck in all the light, but they’re so dark and mysterious too. Is that a mandragora thing as well? ‘Cuz in your picture your eyes are blue.
Yeah, I’ve got a credit card. I mean I’m kinda paying off the overdraft, but like, you have an instalment plan, right? You don’t? Oh wow. Err, I’m really sorry but I’m not sure I can pay…free trial? Are you serious? Wow, that’s wonderful.
I’m really glad you think I’m a good candidate for cultivation. It makes me feel better about your company that you care so much about your clients. Y’know, you got to be careful about these internet ads, ‘cuz a lot of them are scams. Not that I’m implying anything about Mandragora, but like, it’s too good to be true, isn’t it?
A glass of water, uh, okay. That’s like your third glass since you got here. Are you sure I can’t get you a coffee? Just water. Okay. I guess hydration is good for the skin and that, right?
I got to ask, your fingers? They’re kind of green. I mean not just the nails, which are like, lethal long, but your skin is like, cauliflower pale, you know? So white it’s sort of greenish? Sorry. That was super rude. I shouldn’t have said anything.
Oh, that’s mandragora as well?
Is there a pamphlet or something that explains all the side-effects? ‘Cuz I don’t know, I might be allergic to going green. I’m allergic to gluten, you know? And strawberries. And cheap silver jewellery. I had silver earrings once and my ear got infected and it was like –Boom –puss and blood everywhere.
Mandragora uses my blood? That’s, um, are you sure this is legal?
Oh, I see. I guess that makes sense. So I just plant this seed thingy in this sack and what, bleed on the soil? ‘Cuz I got to tell you that sack looks like a body bag. Oh, I have to lie in the sack. And what? Put dirt all over me? Isn’t that a bit weird?
Yes, I have heard of mudbaths, but isn’t the mud usually wet and like, don’t you have to sit in a spa bath and put cucumber on your eyeballs?
Okay, no cucumber. No other vegetation. No contaminants. Got it. You know, you were a bit intense then. You might want to chill a bit, ‘cuz it was a bit off-putting. Just saying, for future customers.
Oh, I know, I know. Sales is awful. There was this one time I was working at a call centre, right? Worst forty-five minutes of my life. I walked out. Had too. Those places are like a living death. Soul-destroying, you know?
Well, I guess when you put it that way, sleeping in a sack of dirt with a giant seed thingy on my chest isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done. And like dirt is good for you, right? Therapeutic and all that?
A pint? I have to pour a pint of blood into the dirt? That’s like, a lot, isn’t it? I mean won’t I get anaemic or something?
Well, yeah I guess that’s alright if it’s the same as giving blood. I mean, you are trained to draw blood, aren’t you? ‘Cuz, I don’t want you missing the vein so I end up haemorrhaging under my skin or something.
Wow, you just carry around needles and blood bags? You must be real confident you’ll make a sale.
The questionnaire? I mean, I remember filling it out and it was super long, like those personality profile quizzes. Wait, so you only do home visits of people pre-approved for cultivation? The questionnaire is that good at weeding out bad clients? Huh, I think this is the first time I’ve ever been pre-approved for anything.
You know what, go ahead. Stick that needle in me. I’ve got a good feeling about this.
Talk to the seed?
What like Prince Charles talks to plants? That actually works? And like, what is this cultivation process anyway? What sort of changes should I see after doing this? How often do I repeat the treatment?
I have to say, I don’t think I want to do the whole bleeding into a bag thing all that often.
Look, I get that the “Whole New You” thing is, like, Mandragoras catchphrase or whatever– but what does it mean, like really? When will I start losing weight? Will my hair change colour gradually or all at once? These are kind of important details and you haven’t told me anything.
Overnight? Seriously? I’ll be like you in less than twenty-four hours?
Is there like a money-back guarantee if it doesn’t work? ‘Cuz I’ve done fad diets and bought like, fat buster products before and they never work as advertised.
Eww, I have to sleep naked in the bloody dirt? Isn’t that like really unhygienic?
Okay, I mean I guess. If the seed needs to be against my heart, but like, there’s still my skin and my ribcage and lungs and stuff in-between? So I don’t see why a nighty is really going to matter that much—
Well, yeah. Of course, I want to blossom as a life-form. Although, just saying, that is a weird way of putting it.
Okay, I mean, this is like a free trial and you’ve already taken my blood, so what the hell? I’ll do it. I should tell you though, I’m still a bit sceptical about all this. I’m not like those gullible people who will jump on any fad or quick-fix. I’m discerning. That’s always been my problem.
Wow, would you look at that? This seed-thingy is super creepy. It looks like it’s got a face. A scary, screamy face.
Do I really have to put this on my chest, seriously?
Alright, so do you have a number or email I can reach you on if this doesn’t work?
Well, aren’t you confident? Maybe your other clients had no complaints but as I said, I’m not like other people. I want a number for your complaints department, or you can take your creepy screaming seed back and leave.
Thank you. Yes, I will do as instructed. I’ll lay out the dirt and pour in the blood soon as you leave. What no, I’m not going to go to sleep immediately. It’s four in the afternoon.
Germination happens when the blood is still warm?
Fine, alright. I’ll do it. But seriously, you need to work on your sales pitch because you are kind of pushy with your weird void-stare and monotone delivery.
Yeah, whatever you say. I’m sure I’ll enjoy my blooming too. What? You’ll be back for the harvest? What harvest? Holy crap. Why is the seed screaming?
Wait, come back—
*******
If you liked In Mandragora We Trust and would like to read more of my work my short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear is available from Amazon.
My short story One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth is featured in Haunt anthology from Dragon Soul Press available on Amazon. Below is an extract from One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile teeth.
One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth
They say that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. But you say bollocks to that, don’t you Cheryl? You’ve never had much time for kings. Nor men, for that matter. And seeing? Well, the blind don’t know how lucky they are.
Your problem’s always been the same. You’ve always seen too much. You see it all. The twisted bodies of the sprites that jump from tree branch to tree branch in a storm. The faces in the wind and the shadows at the periphery of the brightest day. You see the darkness and the darkness sees you.
But you managed. For years, you managed. You were nimble, you were tough; you saw it all and you asked no questions. Monkey sees, but Monkey don’t talk. You survived. You thrived. You were the one-eyed queen in the dark.
You cleaned house for the monsters, learning the lesson of every soul that’s ever been weak amid the strong and the mean; when you can’t fight and you can’t run, be useful. And you were. When wicked old Mr. Watkins guilt came for him, you were there, wiping the tiny finger trails off the windowpanes and ignoring the way the condensation ran like tears.
You spritzed and you squirted, you wiped it all away, but the fingers lingered, scraping invisible patterns over the pane as you turned your back.
When the shadows in the room sniffled and pawed at the smudgy walls, when the reek of ammonia and terror clogged your nose, you whipped out the polish until the room smelled like an orange grove in Andalucía. You scrubbed the walls until they shone like ivory. You swept trapped sobs from between the slats of the Venetian blinds and let them drift as dust to the carpet before you got the Dyson out.
When the cupboard doors rattled in the toy maker’s workshop, you kept your head down and never opened the doors. You never looked into the weeping eyes of all those little wind-up boys and girls with their too life-like faces. ‘Cuz you knew what you’d see. But nothing gets the stink of evil out of the air, does it, Cheryl? Nor stops fear from leaking into the floorboards or terror from rising up the walls like black rot.
Though you surely tried, didn’t you?
If you would like to read more of my work you can find my horror-fantasy short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear on Amazon
The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear and Other Stories of Chilling Modern Horror Fantasy is a collection of ten short stories mixing the urban fantasy and horror genres. It is available to buy on Amazon here
In a dystopian Britain, Lorraine has a severed hand problem. A trip to the woods turns to tragedy for Bethany and a deal with a love-struck demon goes awry for Chris. This is just a taste of the ten short stories of urban fantasy and horror gathered here. Spotlighting a strange and twisted suburban world, where a P.A’s unrequited love for the new girl in the office attracts a nightclub genie, vampires contract with the local cleaning service for discreet stain removal and everything and nothing is as it seems. Each self-contained story provides humour with a bite and chills with a smile focusing on the lives of normal people in an abnormal world where no one is entirely innocent and everyone has something to fear.
My short story Sweet Summer Swimming is featured in the writers co-op latest anthology, The Rabbit Hole Vol. 5, now available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble in ebook and print. Below is an extract from Sweet Summer Swimming, a tale of murderous jellyfish on the hunt!
There is no purpose, no will. No mind. The jellies float. They beach. They burn and they flounder. They feed and they sink back into the surf. They wait to be called home again. Some have fallen, some have multiplied. It matters not. They are jellyfish. There is no will. No mind. No wonder why.
There is only the tide, the spasm of sensation. The hook and the cry and the flail and the catch. There is the pulse and the propulsion, the sudden arrest, the split and the shatter. The sink and the swim.
They are come, they are go, they know not which. They are the jellies and they are here and they are gone. Time is immaterial when there is only the float.
The tide comes in and the jellies rise to meet it.
***
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
For more information on all the authors and stories featured in The Rabbit Hole 5 check out fellow featured author Joseph Carrabis’s site where a new author and story is featured every day!
My short story One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth is featured in Haunt anthology from Dragon Soul Press available on Amazon. Below is an extract from One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile teeth.
One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth
They say that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. But you say bollocks to that, don’t you Cheryl? You’ve never had much time for kings. Nor men, for that matter. And seeing? Well, the blind don’t know how lucky they are.
Your problem’s always been the same. You’ve always seen too much. You see it all. The twisted bodies of the sprites that jump from tree branch to tree branch in a storm. The faces in the wind and the shadows at the periphery of the brightest day. You see the darkness and the darkness sees you.
But you managed. For years, you managed. You were nimble, you were tough; you saw it all and you asked no questions. Monkey sees, but Monkey don’t talk. You survived. You thrived. You were the one-eyed queen in the dark.
You cleaned house for the monsters, learning the lesson of every soul that’s ever been weak amid the strong and the mean; when you can’t fight and you can’t run, be useful. And you were. When wicked old Mr. Watkins guilt came for him, you were there, wiping the tiny finger trails off the windowpanes and ignoring the way the condensation ran like tears.
You spritzed and you squirted, you wiped it all away, but the fingers lingered, scraping invisible patterns over the pane as you turned your back.
When the shadows in the room sniffled and pawed at the smudgy walls, when the reek of ammonia and terror clogged your nose, you whipped out the polish until the room smelled like an orange grove in Andalucía. You scrubbed the walls until they shone like ivory. You swept trapped sobs from between the slats of the Venetian blinds and let them drift as dust to the carpet before you got the Dyson out.
When the cupboard doors rattled in the toy maker’s workshop, you kept your head down and never opened the doors. You never looked into the weeping eyes of all those little wind-up boys and girls with their too life-like faces. ‘Cuz you knew what you’d see. But nothing gets the stink of evil out of the air, does it, Cheryl? Nor stops fear from leaking into the floorboards or terror from rising up the walls like black rot.
Though you surely tried, didn’t you?
If you would like to read more of my work you can find my horror-fantasy short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear on Amazon
My short story Sweet Summer Swimming is featured in the writers co-op latest anthology, The Rabbit Hole Vol. 5, now available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble in ebook and print. Below is an extract from Sweet Summer Swimming, a tale of murderous jellyfish on the hunt!
There is no purpose, no will. No mind. The jellies float. They beach. They burn and they flounder. They feed and they sink back into the surf. They wait to be called home again. Some have fallen, some have multiplied. It matters not. They are jellyfish. There is no will. No mind. No wonder why.
There is only the tide, the spasm of sensation. The hook and the cry and the flail and the catch. There is the pulse and the propulsion, the sudden arrest, the split and the shatter. The sink and the swim.
They are come, they are go, they know not which. They are the jellies and they are here and they are gone. Time is immaterial when there is only the float.
The tide comes in and the jellies rise to meet it.
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
For more information on all the authors and stories featured in The Rabbit Hole 5 check out fellow featured author Joseph Carrabis’s site where a new author and story is featured every day!
Below is one of my urban fantasy-horror stories featured in short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear available on Amazon.
In Our Time of Need
‘Chris, there’s a man outside the house.’ Ruth turned to him, letting the curtain drop closed. She was illuminated by the streetlight right outside the house, limned in an infernal orange glow. Her angled cheekbones were pulled into sharp relief, mouth pulled into a moue of suspicion. The effect was cadaverous as she’d yet to regain the weight she’d lost while Joey was in the hospital.
Chris rose from his side of the bed cautiously and took Ruth’s place at the window. He peeled back the thin fabric. Ruth was right. There was a man outside the house. He stood in the middle of the streetlight’s pool, hands resting on the Adebayo’s gate. Despite being spotlighted by the streetlight Chris could not make out the man’s features. He was draped in indistinct shadow like it was his personal camouflage.
Chris hurriedly turned away. ‘It’s nothing. Just someone waiting for a taxi or something,’ he told his wife.
Ruth had never been a fool. She sat on the bed arms crossed, a frown just visible in the dim light. ‘You should go down there. You know we’ve had weirdos hanging around the house since that thing with the papers.’
‘It’s two in the morning,’ Chris protested. ‘I’m not going down there in my jammies. It’s not like it’s a crime to stand on the street.’
‘What if he’s a paparazzi or something?’ Ruth insisted. ‘He could be trying to break in.’
Chris scoffed. ‘Make up your mind. Either he’s a pap or a burglar, he can’t be both.’
‘Go down there, Chris.’ Ruth’s tone brooked no argument. Chris still tried, opening his mouth to object further. ‘I mean it,’ Ruth cut him off before he could finish drawing breath. ‘I’m worried about Joey. We just got him back, and you know he’s been sleeping funny since getting out of the hospital.
Joey. The papers called him a miracle child. Waking up from a coma when the doctors said he was brain-dead. Walking and talking and acting like the normal, happy kid he’d been before the hit-and-run.
Chris’s shoulders slumped and his spine depressed. It always came down to Joey, didn’t it? He was the cause that kept Chris and Ruth together and the wedge that kept them apart. Joey had supplanted the love the couple had for each other, taking all the love for himself. He was their little miracle, the son granted to them after two courses of IVF, and some bastard in a stolen sports car had almost taken him away from them.
He’d hit his head on the car’s bonnet, the doctors said and then been tossed into the air, hitting his head again on the road when he landed. Massive head trauma. Bleeding on the brain. They’d cracked his skull open to staunch the bleeding and release the pressure –and god bless the NHS – they’d saved his body, but Chris’ beautiful boy had been a vegetable. Dead inside, his spirit already in heaven.
And then, in the eleventh hour, when the doctors were ready to pull the plug, Joey woke up. He looked right at Chris and smiled and said “Dad.”
No wonder the tabloids thought it was a miracle. It should be a miracle. A little whisper of God’s grace in this crappy world. That’s what pastor Evans called it during that first service they took Joey to after his discharge. But it wasn’t a miracle and Chris was the only one who knew that.
Joey’s survival was the result of a bargain and the man outside the house was here to collect on it.
Chris rubbed his mouth, feeling shaky. ‘Alright,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ll just go check on Joey.’ Say goodbye, he meant. Chris didn’t know what would happen. The man was early. He wasn’t supposed to collect for years yet. That was the deal, but Chris could hardly act surprised that a man like him would play dirty.
‘Chris?’ Ruth’s voice stopped him at the threshold of their bedroom.
‘Yeah?’
She had a funny look on her face, the bright glare of the streetlight they’d both become used to over the years, painted half her face in light and the rest in darkness. The wet gleam of her slightly protuberant eyes was very bright. ‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘Just…remember that I love you, alright? I just need to do what’s best for Joey, yeah?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ Chris said confused because Ruth sounded upset. ‘That’s what I want too.’ If Ruth knew what he’d bargained for Joey’s health she’d never doubt that, he thought. But he couldn’t tell her. That had been part of the deal. Tell no one. Not that Chris had been all that eager to tell anyone anyway. They’d ever think he was nuts, the grief sending him over the edge, or they’d believe him and Chris didn’t want to think about what Pastor Evans would do if he knew.
Ruth’s smile was tremulous, the wet gleam of her eyes still off-putting. ‘Good,’ she said shakily. ‘I’m glad you understand.’
Chris didn’t understand but he went anyway because he was a man who paid his debts.
Joey waw sleeping soundly, proof that Ruth worried too much sometimes. His bedside table was cluttered with “Get Well” cards and X-Box vouchers or whatever those things were called. Chris picked his way across his son’s bedroom floor, avoiding the clutter so he could lean down and whisper his name.
‘Joey?’
Joey mumbled something in his sleep and turned over, ironically turning his back on his father. Chris swallowed a nervous chuckle and reached down to brush his hand over his son’s soft short-cropped hair.
‘Love you, Joey,’ he whispered turning and leaving the room as silently as a ghost.
The feeling of being a condemned man continued on his way to the front door; the stairs did not creak underfoot, the cat did not stir in the hallway as he passed. The latch turned smoothly first time as Chris opened the door.
The man –call me Steve, he’d said the first time they’d met in the hospital cafeteria – was waiting for him. ‘Mr Adebayo,’ he nodded deferentially and Chris still wasn’t sure if he should be surprised or not that a demon had manners.
He nodded jerkily back. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’re early. You said I had the rest of my life before—‘
‘Now, now, Mr. Adebayo,’ the demon raised his hand in a graceful negating gesture, wrist rolling smoothly within the cuff of his fancy woollen coat. Chris squinted but he still couldn’t make out the man’s features or even ascertain the colour of his skin. It was like the details wouldn’t stick in his mind, as if his brain refused to take in what his eyes saw, so he caught movement and heard the man’s voice but lost all the nuance and accent. ‘There’s no need to fret. I’m here to offer you the chance to revoke our deal, without penalty.’
Chris wished he’d remembered to put on his dressing gown. He shivered, the cold seeping up from the pavement through the soles of his slippers. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked warily. Scripture and popular folklore were clear on one thing. Demons didn’t offer get-out clauses.
‘I’ve been watching you,’ the demon Steve said. ‘You’re not happy Chris. Are you regretting our barter?’ he asked curiously. ‘Perhaps getting your son back isn’t all you hoped it would be? It hasn’t made things easier with Ruth, has it?’ he pushed, somehow sounding both solicitous in his concern and avaricious in the way each probing question jabbed at the weak spots in Chris’s psyche. ‘I feel that we built quite the rapport, you and I,’ Steve continued, his voice melodious, twinkling and dancing on the still, winter night air. ‘I really did enjoy our little chats in the café.’ Steve said earnestly.
‘You mean when you pretended to be a man with a dying daughter?’ Chris shot back. That’s how it had all begun. The chatty, sympathetic guy with the dying kid, who seemed to understand exactly what Chris was going through because he was going through it too.
‘Chris,’ Steve chided. ‘Be reasonable. I had to lie in the beginning. It’s been my experience that people don’t take it well when I tell them I’m a demon.’
Chris laughed despite himself. ‘Yeah, ‘cuz you’re a demon.’
‘There’s no need to be discriminatory.’ Steve sniffed. ‘Have I ever been anything less than upfront with you since revealing my true nature?’ he asked. ‘Did I not go through our contract point by point before you signed?’
Chris frowned. ‘Yeah, and I remember what the contract said. It was binding. That means no going back.’ He’d had to sign the contract with blood. He’d almost baulked then and there. But Steve had calmed him down, promising him that a single drop was all that was needed.
‘Come on now, Chris. Wouldn’t you open a vein for Joey if all he needed was a transfusion?’ he’d asked. ‘Signing in blood is, I admit, a rather archaic custom, but you know how it is, sometimes you just have to put up with old fashion precedent.’
Now Steve sounded pleased, ‘That’s what I like about you Chris, you’re a thorough and methodical man. I’ve bargained with some people who barely read the contract.’ He clucked his tongue, the little hissing noise he made incredibly sibilant. ‘Those people make my job so distasteful. It’s hardly worth harvesting the souls of people that negligent.’
Chris licked his lips. He was cold all the way through now. His skin broke out in gooseflesh but he didn’t tremble. He was rooted in place, like a rapidly hardening block of ice. Steve had always had that effect. He made Chris forget the world, his physical comfort, everything except the ebb and flow of Steve’s voice. Chris reckoned it was a demon thing. The Devil was supposed to have a silver tongue. It was probably part of demon training to learn the gift of the gab.
‘While it is true that you cannot attempt to renegotiate the terms of our contract, the contract itself does not prevent me from doing so.’ Steve smiled. ‘I really do like you, Chris. Most of the people I meet in this line of work are so dreadfully histrionic and hysterical; it’s quite trying on the nerves. You and Ruth have been so refreshingly restrained in comparison.’
A dart of surprise rocked Chris out of his stupor. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded. ‘Have you been talking to my wife?’
Fear licked through him. What would he do if Ruth found out he’d made a deal with a demon to save their son? They’d both been raised in the Church. What he’d done was worse than a sin; he’d turned his back on God and the church and pledged his soul to the devil when he died. It was unforgivable and yet, he hoped that Ruth would understand why he’d done it. She’d said herself, she’d do anything to protect Joey. All Chris had done was to make sure she didn’t have to.
‘Oh no, no, Chris,’ Steve hurried to reassure him having no trouble reading his fears in his face. ‘Rest assured I haven’t spoken to your wife about our deal. That would be dreadfully unprofessional of me.’
Chris relaxed fractionally, but there was something about what Steve had said that rankled him. Something about the wording…
‘I’m offering to void our contract,’ Steve said. ‘Your soul will no longer be in hock to Hell. Unfortunately, Joey will die, but think about it Chris,’ Steve said quickly, persuasively, ‘he was going to die anyway, before my intervention. This would be restoring the natural balance. And think, you’d be able to see your boy in heaven when you die.’
‘You bastard,’ Chris rocked forward drunkenly, ‘You leave my boy alone.’ He tried to throw a punch but Steve was no longer there. He’d faded away like smoke on a rainy night, materialising a step or so out of reach, nearer to the curb than the fence.
‘I only want you to be happy Chris,’ Steve pleaded, and sickeningly he sounded sincere. ‘I am in earnest when I say that I truly do like you,’ Steve floated across the pavement until he was back to gripping the gate. Wood splintered, flakes tumbling to the ground as the demon’s nails bit deep. ‘I’ve made hundreds of barters just like ours and never have I felt so much as an inkling to void a contract, until you.’ Steve said wretchedly. ‘Is one child worth your life and your soul? You can have others, it is your wife who is all but barren.’
Rage flooded Chris’s system. During their brief association, Steve had been smooth and impartial and easy to talk to, like a good pastor or a really good dentist. The sort who realise they’re in a trade everyone hates and works hard to make you feel less afraid. Now he was seeing the demon’s real conniving nature.
‘You leave my wife and child out of this,’ Chris bellowed, throwing open the gate so he could confront the demon as he danced like mist to the curb. ‘Your deal with me,’ Chris snatched at Steve’s coat, only for his fingers to close on chill air. ‘I won’t let you hurt them!’
Chris swung and swung again. Steve bobbed in the air like some kind of marksman’s paper target, he floated as if strung on a pulley. His form was insubstantial, ghostly, a mirage of Chris’s own making, except for his voice which raised in pitch until it was a near dog-whistle wail of misery.
‘Oh Chris, please won’t you reconsider? I came to you once before, in your time of need and now I am here again. Let me help you now as I helped you then.’
‘You said you wouldn’t come for my soul ‘til I died,’ Chris spat out, breathless and furious. ‘You broke the rules. I’m not dead. I’m not even sick.’
‘Oh Chris,’ Steve sagged like a limp paper bag. ‘Oh, my poor, dear, honourable man. You were so careful to read the small print, you made such a solid deal, I really was very proud of you –but you see, you forgot to ask for an exclusivity clause.’
Chris startled, ‘What are you talking about?’
Steve sighed, his visage deflated, shoulders rounded, he looked like a very unhappy phantom, all greyscale misery in the pall of the streetlight. Chris sensed that his regard was not entirely on him, however. Instead, Steve seemed to be looking up at the window to the master bedroom. Chris spun around, panicked.
In the darkness, bathed in the streetlighting Chris could see only darkness staring back at him from the bedroom window, but he thought he saw the curtains twitch closed as if Ruth had slipped away from the window the instant he turned to look.
‘You leave my wife alone,’ Chris warned the demon, well aware that his threats were entirely impotent, but determined to try and defend his family all the same.
Steve sighed, a long tired exhale, wheezing like a dying man’s final breath. ‘My word to you, Chris. No harm will come to Ruth at my hand or will.’
Chris fidgeted, caught between fight and flight instincts. ‘And Joey?’ he demanded. ‘You won’t put him back in the coma?’
Steve shook his head. ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘While it grieves me to leave the contract intact, I will not void it against your will. You people have free will, you see. I’ve given you a chance – very much against policy, I might add –but I can’t force you to save yourself.’
‘Save me,’ Chris sneered, ‘You’re going to take my soul.’
‘Yes, it does appear that I will.’ Steve seemed to concertina toward the gutter, folding in on himself until the illusion of a man gave way to nothing but a whisper of foul, chill air in the night. His sigh was another drawn-out death rattle. ‘You had best go inside Chris. Your wife is waiting.’
Chris hesitated thoroughly confused and alarmed. ‘That’s it?’ he asked. ‘No more tricks or surprises?’
‘No surprises from me, no.’
Steve dragged himself up, fluttering to full height again like the hollow man pennant flags that flap about in the breeze outside Gary’s used car dealership, the one’s that always look like they’re battering against the wind as it drives them into a frenzy. Steve was not in a frenzy. He looked, instead, as if he was marshalling his strength to deal with something very unpleasant.
It was on the tip of Chris’ tongue to ask, after all, if a demon looked that worried something bad must be about to happen, but then he stopped himself. How did he know what a demon thought was bad? Maybe Steve was upset he hadn’t tricked Chris into betraying his son to save his soul. Maybe that was the demon’s nefarious plan all along? Use his silver tongue to corrupt Chris into the ultimate act of cowardice and damn both him and Joey. Yes, that had to be it. Chris was just too quick for him, too savvy. He’d seen through the demon’s ploy.
Buoyed by this realisation and the satisfaction in knowing that while his soul would eventually go to Hell it would do so honourably, in payment for saving his son, Chris walked back up the path to his house with shoulders back and head held high.
He didn’t see the knife at all. Barely had time to register his wife’s presence, right on the other side of the front door. He rocked back in shock, badly winded, as Ruth drove a punch straight into his abdomen. His shock morphed into something both more profound and uncomprehending as he felt a sudden flush of icy cold rush through his body from head to stomach and looked down to see wetness spreading over his t-shirt.
‘Ruth?’
She came at him and this time he saw the flash of the knife, catch in the light reflected from the ever intrusive light from the street outside. He saw the blade arc down, Ruth’s gaunt face, stretched into a rictus of concentration, her eyes wild and wet. He fell to the hallway floor, a line of fire opening up across his neck and down the side of his face. He smelled coppery blood, felt his skin split, tasted salt on his lips. Dazed he grabbed for the knife, the blade slicing his palms as Ruth wrenched it away. How had she got so strong? Why was she doing this?
‘Ruth!’
The cold from outside had never left him, it seemed because soon he was shivery cold all over. Wet through with his blood. Ruth was an animal; she tore at him, punching holes through his flesh again and again and again until her arms tired and she sagged to the floor beside him, panting.
Chris felt very distant, floating like an untethered balloon. He could hear the thud-dub of his heartbeat in his ears. His body was all fire and brimstone but that he felt less intensely, insulated as he was by the core of chill that spread outward from within, perhaps even from his soul.
‘Why?’ he croaked, lips parched even through the blood spatter.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Ruth sobbed. ‘I had to, I had to save Joey.’
Alarm zinged through Chris, ‘But he’s safe,’ he whispered through numbing lips. ‘I saved him.’
Ruth hiccupped through her torrential tears. ‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, you are saving him, Chris. Joey is going to live a long life because of you.’ She wiped at her eyes, smearing Chris’ blood all over her face. ‘I’m sorry I have to kill you, but see, it had to be one of us. That was the deal.’ She looked wretched. ‘Joey needs his mum, don’t he?’
‘No,’ Chris tried to pull himself up, but his limbs were heavy and wouldn’t listen. ‘No, tell me you didn’t—‘
Behind Chris, the front door opened. Steve shoved his way in, pushing Chris’ body out of the way as he forced open the door. The entranceway was not that wide but somehow Steve contorted to fit into the space, hitching up his trouser legs so he could crouch down in front of Chris and gently stroke his face.
‘My poor Chris,’ he lamented. ‘You made a deal with Hell. Did you think we’d let you live to see three score and ten?’ Steve clucked his tongue, Chris saw the forked tip flicker over his lips. ‘Now we have your soul and your wife’s. A saint and sinner, two birds in the hand.’
The last thing Chris saw in this world was the knife bright shine of Steve’s teeth, smiling as darkness rose to claim him.
ALDLIS CHRONICLES 