Don't Turn Around (24 page)

Roman letters spelt out a recent tattoo on Sam’s forearm as he stretched in his chair. ‘To thine own self be true.’ Life had dealt him a strange hand, but he was learning to live with himself, and make plans for the future. ‘I’ve been in and out of this place so often, every time I go I say it’s my last.’

The man leaned forward, clasping his hands together as he rested his elbows on the table. ‘And will it be? Your last, that is.’

Sam nodded thoughtfully, rubbing the back of his shaven head. ‘I think it’s different this time, now I’ve made my peace with the world.’

The man’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head to one side. ‘Does that include old friends too?’

‘I’m sorry? I’m not with you.’

‘Have you made peace with old friends, Sammy boy?’ His lip curled in a sneer as his voice changed in tone.

The shock of recognition drew Sam’s words in a stutter. ‘I ... I don’t have any friends.’

The menace in the visitor’s voice demanded attention. ‘Oh, I think you have. In fact, I’m delighted to announce that one of your best friends has paid you a visit today. I told you I’d be back, didn’t I?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Sam said, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

‘I appear different, but you recognise me all right. I can see it in your eyes.’

Sam frowned. ‘What sort of sick joke is this?’

The man gave a fiendish grin as he spoke in a low whisper. ‘It must be dreadful to discover that you’re still in that nightmare you thought you had woken up from. Mr Double Standards, squealing to that little bitch in the station. Remember what you said the last time we were together, over twenty years ago? That you wouldn’t grass on me if it killed you. Remember? Right before you spilled your guts.’

Sam almost forgot to breathe as the nerves in his stomach found legs and tried to crawl up his throat.

The man gave a kindly nod to the guard as he cast an eye in their direction. ‘Don't look so scared. I'm prepared to forgive your misdemeanors. You were young back then, and the time inside has given you an edge. I have plans for you, kid, and I’ve come such a long way. Now wouldn’t you like to live forever?’

Sam was lost for words. The thought of resuming contact with the killer struck him with terror.

‘Frank, is it really you? I’m not a kid anymore. I won’t go back to that life.’

The man tutted. ‘I’m not Frank, I’m the Grim Reaper. You’re either with me or against me, remember?’ he said, staring with dead eyes.

Sam shifted in his chair, disorientated as he tried to accept the situation that was nothing but surreal. Frank was dead. But something evil had detached and been left behind. Something had taken form, a living breathing person. How?

The man’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘How is your poor mother these days? Still visiting?’

Sam grabbed the man’s wrist in a warning, then recoiled at the coldness. He hissed under his breath as he leaned forward, ‘You leave my mother out of this.’

‘Why? She’s having a wonderful time, telling all her prayer group friends how she’s reconciled with you after all these years.’ The man took on a woman’s tone as he rasped, ‘He’s turned to Jesus, praise the lord!’ He sniggered as he raised jazz hands to the air, an act utterly out of place with the persona he presented. ‘It’s a shame I’ve never been properly introduced. If you like, I could show her what she’s been missing. Remember my farewell to Tina?’

The man winked, and Sam drew back in horror. All at once, he was a teenager again, throwing up in his toilet while the room closed in on him. The vision of Tina’s bloated face, and the smell of her blood was more than he could bear.

‘You leave my mother alone, you sick bastard. Just stay away from her, you hear me?’ Sam’s voice grew louder, and the guard approached their table.

‘Everything all right here?’

‘I want to go back to my cell,’ Sam said, stumbling back, his chair crashing to the ground.

The man shrugged innocently. ‘We can speak another time.’

T
he jury echoed
a unanimous verdict of guilty in the packed courtroom, and the disgust on their faces was evident. The admission in interview, his threatening behaviour, and the evidence that linked him to each of the murders ensured Frank Foster was going to jail. Frank’s barrister wished for the tenth time that he had never taken on the case. Against his advice, Frank had changed his plea to not guilty. Without the evidence he had stupidly handed over to the police, Frank may have had a fighting chance with his excuse of police oppression in interview.

S
tanding
in the mahogany panelled pew, Frank remained deadpan as he was sentenced to serve several life sentences, but his insides felt like the inner workings of a faulty clock, wound tightly by anger and terror in equal measures. Standing tall against the backdrop of the sniffles and cries of ‘how could you?’ from the public gallery, he measured his breathing as he wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. The same fleeting thoughts swept through his mind as he gripped the lip of the bench before him. One day he would speak to the reporters in the back gallery and they would get it all straight. After all, the police were allowed to kill people, so why couldn’t he? He should be getting a medal for cleaning up the streets, not being locked away. If it weren’t for him, the drug dealers, pimps and prostitutes would still be roaming the streets. Not to mention the kiddie fiddler he had sent to kingdom come. Killing them had sent a message, and the others had curbed their activities while he was in charge. It was a shame he couldn’t have included crooked police officers in that line up.

Frank glared at the public gallery. They dared label him a monster for enjoying the killings. Those people sitting in judgement had no idea of the real world. His work was part of the natural order, and it was only fitting he take satisfaction from it. If only he had more time to recruit others to carry it on. Now things would go back to the way they had always been, and it was all the fault of the bitch that had put him here. There was one positive aspect that gave him hope. Meeting others just like him. Best of all, he would be serving time with the notorious ‘Demon.’

Frank had first discovered the ‘Demon’ as a starring feature in one of his detective magazines. The man, originally known as Percival Smith, was a legend in his eyes. An unassuming bank clerk, Percival was happily married up until the day of his forty-fifth birthday when he was arrested for the murder of over a dozen people. Impressive, given that his killing spree had begun just six months earlier. Investigations revealed that he was heavily involved in the occult. His wife Cheryl stated in her interview with
Crime
magazine that Percival’s personality had undergone a complete transformation in recent months. Instead of the kind caring man she married, he had become cruel, rough and demanding in the bedroom. Upon entry to prison, he became as much of a recluse as he could in such circumstances. His padded flesh disappeared as he ate only enough food to sustain life. With his balding skin and hollowed eyes, he was a walking skeleton. Percival killed the only man that befriended him by slitting his throat in his sleep. Ten years later, and he was still housed in a solitary cell.

I
t took
a long time for Frank to even get close to him. The Demon fascinated and frightened Frank in equal measure and he seized every opportunity to be near the man on the rare moments he was forced to exit his cell for food and exercise. Then came the day the Demon crooked a bony finger and invited him inside. The small space seemed colder than his own as he sat on the hard chair next to the metal-framed bed. The Demon regarded him with some curiosity and Frank felt his heart pound as his soulless eyes bored into his mind, teasing out his inner thoughts and fears.

‘What brings you to my door?’ His tainted breath was hot on Frank’s face as he leaned over him, his back bent in a bell-shaped curve.

Frank cleared his throat, unprepared for the moment he had waited for. ‘I wanted to meet you.’ You idiot, Frank thought, of all the stupid things to say.

The man made an attempt to laugh but the alien sound came out as a raspy gasp. He tapped a heavy finger on Frank’s shoulder, which he felt all the way down to his toes. ‘You name yourself the Grim Reaper. You are a mere mortal, are you not?’

Frank choked on his words as the Demon stood over him, smelling of corpse and looking no better. Feeling like a trapped animal, he stuttered his words. ‘I … I do what I believe is right. You killed those people for the same reason I did; they were of no value to the world.’

Again the rasping sound. ‘Pay no heed to those scurrilous tales. I killed for no other reason than that it was my enjoyment to do so. But it is only a matter of time until mortality catches up with you, is it not?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Frank’s mouth was dry and he swallowed back the lump in his throat. His feet felt glued to the floor, and he could not have left, even if he had wanted to.

‘Would it please you to carry on your work without fear of reprisal? Such is within my power. But leave me now. You will return tomorrow.’

Frank twisted restlessly in his narrow bunk bed that night. The Demon scared him, but freedom of any kind was tantalising bait. He returned the next day, and every day he was able. The Demon stated that he had been in existence for hundreds of years. He had overcome death and could show Frank how to do the same. The claims were outlandish. Surely it could not be true? A roaming entity, using human bodies upon will? Frank asked the only question he could think of.

‘Why do you choose to spend time rotting away in prison? Why not inhabit the body of someone who is free?’

The Demon stood behind Frank as he faced the window, his words whispering in his ear. ‘I am free to leave whenever I wish. But there is no better place to observe the darker side of human nature, is there?’

Frank shrugged, unsure of the question. He did not always understand the Demon’s use of language, but he had no doubt of the conviction in the words.

Frank’s visits to the Demon became a regular occurrence as he taught him the ways of the occult. The prison guards seemed happy to leave them to it, although Frank would not have wanted to share a cell with the man. He was not someone you turned your back on at night.

A blood moon hung in the sky as Frank entered his cell one night, and there was an energy he had not felt before. His perception of the supernatural had grown, and with it a sense of dark adventure ahead. Even the Demon seemed different, rubbing a hand over his marble-white skull as he inhaled deeply. ‘Can’t you smell it? Feast on the misery. It’s a veritable banquet.’

‘Yes,’ Frank said, staring at the newly drawn occult symbols chalked on the cement floor. He knew better than to question them. He avoided all eye contact with his mentor. The dark hollow wells revealed a glimpse of the Demon’s soul – a thick black treacle cloaked around a skeletal body. The memory of what lay behind those eyes would haunt him forever.

The Demon’s tendons stood out on his neck as he spoke, a visible pulse throbbing with life from his pallid flesh. ‘We must make haste. But heed my words before departing from this earthly plane.’ His words grew hypnotic, and Frank felt as if he was being enveloped in a thick web. Talk of departure from life should have sent warning bells to his brain but they had been numbed by the presence of the Demon as he spoke.

‘You cannot harbour all your memories if you are to inhabit another. Take your most valuable possessions; anger, hate, and lust. When you depart your body and feel your existence carry you, you must first find a host. Houses and buildings are ripe for habitation, but not as satisfying a haunt as people. But taking a human as your steed carries its own risk. To hurt your host is to hurt yourself. You are but a parasite in that state.’

‘Is Percival your host?’ Frank asked, his words feeling like they were coming from another room.

‘Yes. I am one with him. He gave himself freely and I will stay until his body withers and dies. Percival was not the meek husband his wife thought him to be. He developed an interest in the occult through a very dark young lady. She introduced him to the world of ouija boards and that was how he summoned me. I gradually took over every aspect of his life. His wife was quite delicious you know, our time together was most enjoyable.’

Frank felt a flutter of excitement. The Demon really was telling the truth. He had had his doubts at first, but now he could feel the truth of it from the chill in the air to the gentle probing that reached every cell in his body. It called him in teasing whispers. ‘I think I understand. I can come back after death, but I need a host to sustain me. I can briefly use others and feed off their pain. But if I am to experience true existence, to live again on the earthly plane in flesh and blood as you do, I need to conjoin with someone who accepts me.’

‘Yes, but if you merge and they deny your existence, they will expel you from this world. You must give your host a reason for letting you in.’

‘I understand.’ Frank said, the thought of freedom tantalising his soul.

‘Then I do believe it’s time,’ the Demon said, clamping his cold clammy hand over Frank’s mouth.

In the cold dark cell with the smell of rotting flesh lingering in his nostrils, Frank did not want to die. He should have expected it, but the slash of the razor across his throat still came as a shock. Trying to stem the sudden flow of blood from his veins, Frank clawed at his killer for mercy.

The Demon’s grey-blue face smiled down upon him, cradling his body as the warm blood soaked his clothing. ‘Shhh,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t fight it. Control your fear. Focus your power. You are the Grim Reaper, are you not?’

As Frank’s life drained away, the heaviness lifted as he left his physical body behind. Writhing, he recognised Gloria’s soft voice whispering his name from far away. Frank fought the pull, resisting the urge to go towards the light. His hatred rose to the surface, breaking away in brittle black splinters from his soul. Birthing a new existence, he grew in strength. His formless shape had all the senses, and the freedom of flight. He rose to the prison ceiling and beyond, free from the confines of bars, free to live again. Leaving his killer behind, he fled the prison walls as the dull ring of the alarm alerted prison guards to the death scene. The Demon, now naked in his cell, was bathed in the blood of Franks’ lifeless body. But he was no longer Frank. He was the Grim Reaper, and he sped through the night searching for his host.