The fog paled even more and the overhead lights and the room’s lamps brightened a fraction. The ghosts were losing sway, their own failure somehow diminishing their strength and, as if understanding their weakness, Moker took a step forward, his arms swinging before him so that the closer parts of the mist licked and curled upon themselves. The vision that was my father rejoined the nebulous throng and the serial killer turned in my direction.
But it was Primrose he was interested in.
On my knees, I sagged forward, as if in supplication. I was in deep despair.
The ghosts hadn’t quite finished with Moker though.
The shapes that had become almost indiscernible in what was now a haze began to draw together to form a compact whole. Their shade intensified to a deeper hue, and they grew more substantial, more concentrated, so that once again they gained Moker’s respect. He had already started to move towards Primrose when he paused to watch. His eyes gleamed as though mesmerized.
I was more concerned about Prim’s condition. I was almost overwhelmed by despair when I saw how fast she had deteriorated – her breathing sounded torturous as her small lungs fought to draw in air and the bluish tinge was more apparent. Without much hope I swung towards Andrea again, but now I couldn’t ignore what was happening near the centre of the room.
There was hardly anything left of the floating haze, because much of it had been gathered by the black storm that was forming. This Delphian formation was revolving like a miniature tornado, moving faster and faster so that soon it was spinning.
Moker gaped at it (and with that great black excavation beneath his staring eyes, it really was a gape). The lights dimmed once more as if the brightness was being sucked into the blackness, and the chill inside me intensified, even though there was no ‘inside me’; I felt like a block of ice, coldest at the centre. Moker’s shivering became extreme, a kind of repetitive juddering, each jolt like a sudden seizure. I checked Primrose, afraid now that she might freeze to death, but there were no ice particles in her curly hair, nor were there goosebumps on her bare arms and legs. I wondered if her semi-consciousness was a factor, her psychic energy untapped and, if so, I hoped it would be the same for Andrea, who appeared totally unconscious (please don’t let her be dead, Lord).
The strange fusion of ghosts was about five feet in height, its sides too irregular to measure (widest part roughly three feet, thinnest about two) and looked almost solid as it hovered a few inches above the floor, its spin increasing by the moment. Objects that had flown across the room only minutes ago seemed attracted to its gyration, although they only shifted or twitched where they lay. The carpet, however, went berserk, sections of it lifting (particularly the area directly under the maelstrom) as though a wind had found its way into the house’s airbricks and beneath the floorboards to rise with some pressure through the thin cracks between boards. One corner tore itself off the tack rail and curled towards the centre storm, flapping there like a loose tongue. The carpet’s pile weaved circles like iron filings attracted to a playful magnet, too far away for them to take the leap, but close enough to encourage them to try. Dust specks that no vacuum cleaner could capture rose in circles, tiny whirlpools themselves, competing with the mother one.
And still Moker was gripped by the main phenomenon: transfixed, confused, fearful . . .
. . . Until this primary maelstrom became thinner and sleeker, resolving itself into a curious matt black pillar that was perfectly rounded, quivering with what I could only guess was pure energy. It thrummed as if it were machinery of some kind and the loose things in the lounge became even more agitated. Abruptly, without warning, it shot across the gap between itself and Moker and plunged into the dark pit of his face.
I suppose it was as close to a scream as Moker could raise, and the eruption swelled throughout the room, a frightened screech that had no proper form; it was a prolonged and raw ululation, an animal cry that echoed off the walls. He collapsed onto his hands and knees and howled – a minor sound compared to the attempted scream – as they came in contact with the carpet’s hardened fibres. Now he whimpered, a high-pitched agonized mewling as though the blackness inside was poisoning his system, or had clamped onto vital organs and was squeezing the life from them.
I thought that the battle was nearly over. I thought that Moker would flee from the house, run from his tormentors, and forget about Primrose and Andrea. There was still the problem of Prim’s asthma attack, but at least there would be a reprieve, more time for Andrea to wake up – if she could wake up – and bring the life-saving nebulizing inhaler to our little girl. I thought there was a chance.
But I was wrong. Oh boy, I was so wrong.
The lights began to brighten again. The carpet pile lost its vibrancy and relaxed to its normal state, leaving millions of dust motes swarming in the air like pygmy midges. Fallen stuff became immobile once more. Only a few inconsequential wisps of the haze remained to drift lazily in the air. The room was almost calm . . .
. . . Until Moker gave one shocking, protracted belch and expelled the blackness he had swallowed only moments before.
It had lost its sleek form and billowed out like smoke from an industrial chimney, its curling edges dissipating into the atmosphere. More of it was disgorged as Moker began to retch like a dog that had swallowed too much greasy fat with its meat, and each time he heaved, less and less of the smoky substance spilled. His body shuddered with every expulsion and soon only weak grey trails emerged from the void in his face to join the other fuller drifts. The frost in the serial killer’s hair and raincoat lost its whiteness as it rapidly melted, and I felt the deep coldness within me soften its grip. Somehow I understood that the ghosts had used up all the energy they had been able to filch, their united manifestation losing strength, gradually fading.
Moker, still on his hands and knees, but no longer retching, slowly raised his head. And looked towards Primrose.
Her chest quivered each time she tried to gasp a breath and there was only whiteness like thin slivers of snow between her half-closed eyelids. Her little fists were clenched tight and each time she tried to draw air her chin trembled. She was so pale, her skin looked bleached, making the tell-tale blue tinge even more evident. Soon she might be at the stage where only pure oxygen could save her.
The room was hushed when Moker started to crawl towards us.
For a horrifying moment, I thought Prim had stopped breathing altogether, but she had only paused to regather her strength, her body continuing to work even without conscious imputation. And with her next strained rasping inhalation, the room exploded into life again.
Noises came from everywhere at once – from the walls, the ceiling, the floor – as if the ghosts, unable to possess Moker, had appropriated the house itself. Behind the curtains the windows rattled, the curtains themselves fluttered, and all the fallen objects – the marble candlestick, the ornaments, framed photographs – became agitated once more, dancing where they lay, some rising inches into the air, while others, smaller items such as figurines, an ashtray, the pewter candle snuffer, flew at Moker, who continued to crawl on hands and knees, but this time they fell limply against his head and shoulders. Glass that had cracked in picture frames now shattered completely, shards sprinkling the carpet whose fibres stirred but now failed to come erect. The big-screen TV in the corner behind me switched itself on with a startling blare of voices and a burst of confusing colour, immediately switching itself off again. An avalanche of soot gushed out of the fireplace, its dirt clouds rising and spreading around that end of the room, mingling with the revived mists in which vague shapes struggled to reform. I heard a moaning grow into a muted wailing that told me the ghosts were failing to regain their strength.
They rolled over him, chimney dirt recruited so that he appeared to be moving through a wind-tossed smoke; yet they still had no power against him, they could only pester, harass, but not hinder him.
And Moker knew it. He hardly noticed what was happeni
ng around him, not even the glass splinters that flew from the broken picture glass to glance off his head and the heavy raincoat he wore. The serial killer had only one objective, and she lay struggling for air beside me.
For a short while, the havoc and the wailing increased.
Moker ignored it all.
And maybe because he ignored it – after all, they had invaded his body only to be defeated by the black vileness of his unclean soul (I learned this later), so he already knew their influence was limited – the dwindling of their power quickened.
He drew closer and, seen through the troubled dust and fog that tried to smother him, he resembled some fabulous but repulsive beast of prey, a nightmare creature that deserved a whole page to itself in the Complete Book of Monsters and Demons. Things continued to fall uselessly against him, the dreadful wailing of souls in despair went on, the room was dense with churning clouds, but Moker came on unconcerned.
As if sensing the approach of something evil, something terribly threatening, Prim’s eyes flickered open wide and instantly filled with horror when she saw Moker looming over her. (I realized then that she had not been rendered semi-conscious by the asthma attack, but that she had fallen into a faint when Moker had tried to choke her.) Her mouth opened wide too, but she could not catch her breath to scream.
Frantically, she tried to push herself away from the horror, using elbows and heels of her bare feet, but Moker easily grabbed her ankle and pulled her back to him.
The wailing around us rose to a plaintive howling, but the voices were distant, as if the assembled ghosts had been drawn back unwillingly to their proper place, where humans were only a memory. A new kind of chill flooded through me, one that numbed and debilitated, caused by final despair.
Primrose was shaking with terror, but she gamely kicked out at him, tried to scrabble out from the shadow of his intimidating bulk. Saliva drooled from the gristle-edged opening of his face, tiny bubbles interrupting the long silky stream that pooled on her nightie to dampen her tremulous chest beneath the thin material. He rested one big hand on her slight shoulder to pin her to the floor, then reached inside his raincoat pocket with his other hand and drew out the long sharpened knitting needle.
The mists were thin, depleted, but I could still hear those anguished cries though now they were far, far away as if the ghosts were gone but the portal between worlds was not quite closed. Soot still infested the air and a few tenuous ribbons of vapour floated lazily, but these were just meaningless remnants of what had gone on before.
Moker held the long grey needle at an angle against Prim’s slender body, just below her left ribcage, its point pressing upwards into her nightie, indenting the light material without piercing. Primrose had closed her eyes against the bad dream.
Out of sheer reaction, I threw myself between them, hoping I could deflect the weapon, I guess, but knowing it was hopeless. I fell through them both to sprawl on the floor beside them.
I crouched on my knees, my face low, almost touching Prim’s as if I could whisper comforting words, perhaps something like it would only hurt for a moment and then she would sleep to wake and find herself in a better place, a wonderful place.
Moker’s grip on the long thin needle tightened. His thumb closed over the flat, button end. His knuckle whitened.
He began to push.
I screamed.
And Andrea brought the poker down brutally hard on Moker’s bowed head.
39
The sound that the heavy iron poker made as it caved in the monster’s skull was sickening – but sickeningly good. Sweet and right. Pleasing. Justified. It was the noise a chocolate egg filled with goodies might make when dropped from a great height onto concrete, a kind of heavy, dull cracking thud.
Movement, noise – all quickly faded to nothing.
He seemed paralysed. He bent over Prim, whose eyes stayed closed, her breathing still shallow, strained, the needle poised beneath her ribs. Not a single utterance came from the yawning pit that substituted for Moker’s nose and mouth – no gurgling, no snuffling, neither inhalation nor exhalation. His eyes protruded more than ever; they had become sightless, lacklustre, without shine. Blood began to bubble from the new chasm in his head where the iron poker remained embedded. He was either dead, or as good as. He himself didn’t seem to know which.
There was a total stillness to the room . . .
. . . Until his head jerked as Andrea wrenched the poker free again.
Now blood spurted from the deep wound like a miniature red fountain when the pressure was released. It started to flood over his head, spilling down onto his forehead, masking one eye, trickling into the pit below it.
Andrea struck again, same place, same force (I remembered reading somewhere that on occasions women can produce supernormal strength to protect their child; one woman had lifted a car on her own when her toddler was trapped beneath it), and a faint sigh filtered through from another dimension.
Once more, the poker was pulled free, and still Moker’s body stayed upright, and once more the poker was brought down with a force that drove its blunted end down through his forehead.
This time, Moker toppled over sideways and the poker remained in Andrea’s hand, wrenched free from the smashed egg of his skull. She threw it down so hard it bounced on the carpet.
Even as the dead man sprawled beside Prim, one of his dirty sneakered feet trapping her ankles, Andrea was down on the floor reaching for her daughter with both hands. But she swooned suddenly, one of her hands flattening against the floor to steady herself; full-consciousness was not quite ready for her yet. She closed her eyes, opened them again, took a deep breath through her mouth, frowned at the taste of blood. She leaned over Prim again and lifted her by the shoulders, then held her tight against her own body. Prim’s face buried itself into Andrea’s neck.
I moved closer to them both, an arm passing around Andrea’s shoulders, a hand stroking my little girl’s back. (Yes, I still thought of Primrose as my little girl. Seven years couldn’t be wiped away like chalk from a slate.)
‘Her inhaler, Andrea!’ I yelled. ‘Fetch her inhaler, quick as you can!’
Andrea’s nose was a pulpy mess, blood pouring from it, running copiously over her lips, spilling down her chin, onto her black exercise vest and cardigan, a huge amount of it, which suggested her nose was broken. When she opened her mouth to call Prim’s name I saw that three front teeth were chipped and her gums were bloody. Prim failed to respond and Andrea held her away so that she could examine her face.
Small spittles of blood sprayed on Prim’s cheeks as Andrea gasped, then hugged her tight again. A sudden tortuous intake of breath told us both that Primrose was still alive and, without further ado, Andrea lifted her from the floor and rushed from the lounge with her daughter in her arms, fragments of picture glass crack-ling under her bare feet. She ignored the pain they must have caused, but she wobbled when she reached the lounge door. She took another breath and began climbing the hall stairs.
I followed and within seconds we were in Prim’s small bedroom, so bright and innocently cheerful in daylight, but now menaced by shadows for which the feeble night-light was no match. Andrea quickly remedied that by flicking on the main light switch with her elbow. She hurriedly set Prim on the narrow bed with its cheerful flowery quilt and held her there in a sitting position while a free hand snatched the blue puffer from the bedside cabinet. Maybe it was the lifting and being carried that revived Primrose – or perhaps some inner sense told her she was safe in her mother’s arms – but her eyelids fluttered open and her lips moved between strained gasps for air as she tried to form words. By the time Andrea held the puffer up to her face, her eyes were wider – and looking directly at me.
‘Daddy?’ I heard her whisper.
Andrea appeared not to have noticed. She held the inhaler in front of Prim’s mouth, index finger on the depressor at the top.
‘Open, Baby, open your mouth,’ she implored, a tremor in her voic
e.
Prim’s eyes went to her mother’s and she did as she was told.
Fine droplets of mist sprayed into her mouth and she gulped in air.
‘Again, darling, again,’ her mother urged.
The procedure was repeated several times and gradually Prim’s shoulders ceased their shudders and the rise and fall of her chest began to take on a steady rhythm. Andrea’s tension seemed to ebb away, even though she must still have been very frightened by all that had happened. I think she was putting on a brave face for our daughter’s sake.
As Prim’s breathing calmed, she looked once again over her mother’s shoulder. Disappointment showed in her eyes.
I stared back at her with what I hoped was a loving smile, just in case she might see me again.
She didn’t. Her sweet pale face scrunched up in puzzlement. ‘I saw Daddy, Mummy,’ she said when her breathing allowed.
Andrea held her close, but not close enough to restrict her breathing. ‘Hush, Prim,’ she said softly, soothingly. ‘Everything’s all right now. The bad man has gone away. He can’t hurt you anymore.’ Her voice sounded as if she had a serious head cold.
‘But, Mummy—’
‘I’m sure Daddy was watching over us. I think he was there protecting us.’
Was she merely saying this to comfort Prim, or did Andrea believe her own words? There was no way of knowing, but maybe it was the latter. I like to think so.
It gave me comfort.
As I left them there on the bed, clutching each other, Andrea gently rocking Prim to and fro and making soothing nasal sounds, holding a dozen or so blood-soaked tissues to her nose, a fierce emotion was edging my love for them – yes, my love for them both – aside. The emotion was bitterness. And . . . anger.
I had lost so much on the night of my death and now I’d discovered I’d lost even more: I’d lost something that I’d never truly possessed anyway. The final reality was harsh, overwhelming.