Most of Me (7 page)

Breathing hard into his face, looking into his eyes and into his soul, I knew that he wanted to be set free, but not like this. He was scared of the knife. But he knew that I wouldn’t use it. And I did refrain and pushed off him, running back into my apartment, locking the door.

I heard him shout, “there’s no running from it! He will find you, in the mirrors, in every reflection. He’ll come for you! Its name is the
Pacemaker!
”

Over the next half hour, all thoughts of Carl Winters, Ben, his Mom, the blood, and the madness had vanished from my mind. Thirty minutes to pack my life into a large rucksack. Thirty minutes of memories. I gave the apartment one last look, made a carbon copy of everything in my head, the smells, the damp from the windows, onions and garlic and mixed spices from the kitchen, the delicate smell of shampoo and soap from the bathroom.

Before I left, I heard scratching from inside the walls. I followed where the noise began and where it was going. Then it stopped near the front door. I placed my hand on the wall, and for a second I could feel a slow pulse and vibration. The noise progressed into a rumble, and whatever was inside the wall sounded as though it was getting closer and was going to break free through the brick and plaster. I didn’t have the chance to look around the apartment a final time. I grabbed my rucksack and left. I sped down the corridor and stopping briefly outside Ben’s apartment. Carl had gone, although I had questioned if he was ever there in the first place. I saw the bodies from the corner of my eyes; I tried not to look but it was difficult not to.

Had their bodies moved?
Maybe an arm or a leg; or was Ben looking the other way?
It didn’t matter. They were dead. Anything else was just mind games. I ran down the corridor, abandoning the whole mess. I guess I would be a wanted man after this. But as my Mom used to say, ‘it is what it is’.

I couldn’t stop what was happening…reverse what had happened. There was only forward thinking. I could work this out, try to understand where it was going…where I was being sent. Or I could run.

But for the moment, I must run.

***

It’s been 4 days since I disappeared. In bars, I watch the news but there is nothing revealing about me; there’s nothing about the murders, either. I head for the coast. I think perhaps I was desperate for the calm of the ocean; try and bring a bit of piece to my mind. But it doesn’t help. Whenever I close my eyes, mostly I see only darkness, but within the dark comes the noise, the whispers, the screams. When I sleep, I am at the house; it’s as though it stole a part of my soul, brutally ripped it from my back as I left. And when I am there, I am awake and, in hell. It feels as though it keeps on taking, and for how long, I really don’t know. But it is stealing my soul. Every dream, it takes a little more, and I grow weaker.

I see figures that shouldn’t be there. I look through windows and stare at myself as I’m gifted with a reflection - I’ve got to be thankful that I’m alive - but something is always behind me. It stands six feet tall, a face wrapped in cloth, its body dressed in rags. Its arms appear too long for its body, and it’s slightly hunched over. It’s eyes burn into me, wanting, needing. I dare not look back because to acknowledge its existence might be deadly. So I carry on and ignore that its there. I fear that if I do look back, it might become real. And I wonder if it is
him
. The old man had shouted its name. He had warned me.

Was this the Pacemaker?

He watches me through mirrors and anything that cast a reflection, from water to glass. But I couldn’t tell if he would do harm; couldn’t quite make out its intentions towards me. For now, though, he spectates and I look away.

***

Six days have passed. I haven’t slept for two nights. I’m afraid to do so. I’m still seeing the figure, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore it. Its like an itch that you just want to scratch, but can’t. But the need to do so was intense, burning inside. And I felt as though I was being pushed to see it, stare it in the eyes and allow it to do his work. So, at 23:47, after having consumed several beers - and a lot more after - I entered the mens room of the Green Bay Tavern. Upon leaving, I washed my hands and wet my face. In mirror, I looked pale, my eyes dark and sunken. It was there, too, standing beside me, patiently waiting. I could almost feel it as if it were real. But it wasn’t real. Not unless I looked back. I was tired of running from it. If it was the Pacemaker, then what could it do? I made the decision - although highly intoxicated - that I would look. I chose to stare back at it, to look into its eyes. But it wasn’t just looking into its eyes; it was absorbing its soul, too. It edged closer to me. I spun around, but it wasn’t there. I looked back into the mirror. It wasn’t there also. Although, I could hear it moan, sounding more like a muffled chuckle. I could
hear
it, now. I couldn’t do that before, so something had change. Was it real, now? What the hell have I done? The smell of damp cloth and rotten flesh filled the wash room. The foul odour was sickening. But it was clear that he had gone.

For now, anyway.

And I wondered when it would return. There was no question of an
if
; he was coming. I left the tavern with an enlightened sense of danger and death.

***

Tomorrow came and went. My anticipation for the Pacemaker grows. I know that I’m wasting time and should be doing something.
But what?

I wish it would just appear, and kill me, if thats what it intends. I can feel him following me, through the mirrors and reflections. And I hear the same sound as I did in the apartment walls, something that crunches through brick as freely as swimming through water. I feel he is here, ready to unleash hell.

I’ve given up on sleep; I’m afraid to do so. I might wake up to the sound of my own screams and my throat being sliced. Or I may never wake at all, and I think that’s more terrifying because if I’m in the house when I dream, I might become trapped. That cursed building has taken more of me than I care to think about.

On the eighth day, the skies were clear. A thin blanket of mist was clearing in the streets. It was mid morning and the coffee shop across the road was just starting to fill. There was a girl behind the counter. Her hair was black with a strand of purple hanging down the side of her face. She looked Spanish or Mexican or something like that. She was courteous with the customers; some smiled back, many didn’t. She was annoyed be their ignorance. I wondered whether she has a boyfriend. And if things were different, I might have invited myself into the coffee shop. My life was different, however; death could be around the corner, hiding in the glass, in the masonry. It may come from underneath. I can’t imagine what it would do. And then I thought,
what the hell!
So I took one step over the road to the coffee shop. I watched her serving, smiling, laughing. It filled my heart with either hope or distraction. But I smiled. And she looked at me, and smiled back. She smiled at
me
. But I looked over my shoulder just to make sure. When I looked back, the Pacemaker was standing beside her, as if smelling the nape of her neck. He was touching her, feeling her body, caressing her. She couldn’t feel a thing. I should go in there and warn her, help her. But to do what?

I turned away, but not before she noticed the look on my face. She removed her eyes in distaste. I felt like a customer who hadn’t rewarded her a smile.

***

The church was made of painted white wood and stone. A tall steeple saluted the heavens, and the bells rang out a sequence that scattered birds from the trees. Service had just ended, and people were shaking hands and making brief chat before climbing into their cars and going home. I waited until the last man had gone and the Father disappeared into the church. I looked around, checking there was no sign of the Pacemaker. But there wasn’t. I approached the church doors. There was a plaque that leant against the outside wall. It read, ‘welcome friend’. I smiled warmly at those kind words. I entered the church.

My footsteps echoed on the cold tiled floor, and as much as I tried to tread lightly, it was futile. Even the natural quietness seemed to be filled with echoes. I entered some more and chose to seat myself down one of the wooden isles. I looked up at the cross of Christ, closed my eyes, head bowed.

“Son?” A kind voice said.

I looked around. Father smiled down on me, providing a short lived comfort.

“You seem troubled,” he said. “A penny for them? Your thoughts?” He sat beside me and he too looked up at the cross. “Allow me to guess. You have a problem; no where to run; no one to turn to? Thats usually the case, isn’t it? A stranger enters my house. I don’t recognise them, so I’m going to ask questions. My doors are open for everyone,” he said as he turned to me. “But if you’re not of this parish, then I’m afraid I must ask you name.”

I shook my head. “I’m not of this Parish, Father. Actually, I don’t belong to any. Never really had a reason to believe.”

“Well,” he chucked, “I’m not sure what I can do for you. But there’s certainly something on you mind. You have
that
look.”

“Really? I thought I was hiding it pretty well.”

“Its in the hiding when a problem becomes obvious.”

“I never knew that,” I said. “I’ll have to try harder.” I started to get up, but he pulled me down.

“There’s no need to hide anymore,” he assured me. “My name is Father Thomas Richardson.” He made an exaggerated effort to look over both of his shoulders. “We’re all alone, no one around but you and I, and our Lord, of course.”

I acknowledged him with a sigh and tired smiled. I said, “Do you believe in Demons, Father?”

“Are we talking about Demons of the soul, or of hell?”

“I think everyone has their Demons, but I mean the ones from hell.”

He was silent, fingers pinching his lips, thinking. He lowered his hands and put them together, fingers woven into each other. He continued to stare onwards. Eventually, he said, “I am a man of God. I believe in God, so I must believe in his angels. And where there’s a God, there has to be a negative. A
Ying
and a
Yang
. I am drawn to believe in the Devil and so I must contemplate the existence of his Demons, also.” Father Thomas shuffled on the hard wooden bench and turned to me. He said, with his arm arched over the back of the bench. “What troubles you, son?”

I looked at his soft eyes, this godly figure of a man who appeared to be in his early fifties. He looked peaceful, not fatigued in his age, although his hair showed not a single strand of colour.

I did speculate whether the Father was real; could he be some illusion put in place by Carl Winters? If this was a trap then the real Father could be tied up somewhere? But I couldn’t think that way. I needed to trust him so I had to remain positive and push all paranoia aside. After all, if I couldn’t place my trust in him, then I feared it would all be over. I said, “If I tell you then you’ll probably think I’m crazy.”

He grinned and said, “I think we’re all crazy to an extent. It’s the society we live and breath.”

I told Father Thomas about the old man, the mirror, the demon that follows me. I tried to shy away from the death of Ben and his Mom, but I had to confess all if there was any salvation from this.

He stood and walked down to the cross in contemplation of my story. He drew the cross from head to chest and I heard him mumble,
Amen
. He slowly turned and looked up at me. I could tell that he was still thinking, and even when he came back and sat beside me, there was a coldness within him, like he was shocked and was going to call the cops as soon as I had left. He sighed into his chest. “Son…I cannot do anything for you.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I can only advise. But I can’t advise a man whose name I do not know.”

I said, “Daniel. My names Daniel,”

“Well, Daniel, you have approached me with somewhat of a puzzle. But, I have to ask;
did
you kill them?”

“
No!
” My raised voice echoed throughout the church. I lowered my tone immediately. “Absolutely not! He was my friend.”

“Although, you told me that you didn’t feel yourself prior to the tragedy?” he questioned.

“What I said to Ben just wasn’t me.
It wasn’t me!
I’m not that type of a person.”

“Or perhaps you are…deep down, and you just haven’t realised your inner self.”

I groaned at him, his reasoning leaving a bile taste in my mouth. I clung onto the bench in front and bowed my head. It wasn’t a respectful bow. I held my cradled my stomach, breathing deeply to relieve the nausea.

Father Thomas assisted by rubbing my back. “So do you think you was possessed?” he asked.

I straightened up and offered him reassurance that I was fine. I said, “I don’t know what possession feels like.”

“Well…you remember, so how did you feel when it was happening?”

“I felt…good, real good. Alive. It wasn’t wrong what I did.” I shrugged. “But, of course, it was all wrong. For that moment though, it was the right thing to do; I was enjoying it.”

“I see. And how did you feel afterwards?”

“Afterwards?”

“Yes…when the door was closed and Ben went home.”

“I felt tired, but I’d had a bad day. So I went to sleep. And thats when I woke to the thumping.”

“Ben shouting at the door?”

I agreed.

“Can I just take you back to the night of the argument? Can you actually remember what you said to him?”

“I remember everything clearly, unfortunately.”

“I see. In most cases, Daniel, a sign of possession is when control is lost and the victim cannot remember. Yours, however, you say that you remember everything.”