Strange Dominions: a collection of paranormal short stories (short story books) (7 page)

“Appropriate?” I fail to see what’s so damned appropriate about it.”

“Look at it. This place is a living hell. Isn’t that what we’ve made of our lives? It only seems right our dreams should reflect the same.”

“Why have you come
here
, of all places?” I asked.

She moved closer to me. “Because it’s only here in my dreams that I can tell you the things that need to be said.”

“Such as?” I asked, knowing full well what her answer would be.

“I’ve met someone else, and I love him very much,” She looked away, unable to return my gaze.

With utter contempt I spat the word back at her. “
Love!
Jesus, stop deluding yourself and see it for what it really is. It’s the one thing I can’t give you anymore so you go out and seek it elsewhere, like the bitch in heat you are!”

She turned on me like a wildcat.
“You pathetic shit!”
She stretched out her words for emphasis. “You think I went out looking for sex elsewhere because of your accident? Christ, you really are dumb. The affair began long before then!”

There was no stopping Monique when she was in full flow. She let me have it with both barrels. I was
“immature”
,
“inconsiderate”
,
“stubborn”
, and generally an
“all round bastard”
.

Okay! I’ll admit it. There were times when I was inconsiderate. Who hasn’t been at one time or another? It was hardly grounds for getting laid by the first guy who happened to come along, and I told her as much.

“Think what you like,” Her words were barbed and full of venom, “One thing’s for sure though; you’ll never screw me again.”

“And neither will Roger,” I assured her, “I’ll see you fucking dead first!”

I couldn’t believe it! The bitch just stood there smirking. Then she smugly told me that because this was her dream there was sod all I could do about it.

I grinned wryly, asking, “And what makes you so damned sure you’re dreaming?”

Once again that same maddening haughtiness crept into her voice, “What else could it be?”

Suddenly realising what I was alluding to, she laughed, “What - you’re trying to tell me that there’s some truth to those dumb experiments of yours?”

I assured her there was and went on to describe in detail everything that had transpired since her phone call.

“How else”, I quizzed, “could I possibly know the name of your lover?”

There were a few brief seconds there when I thought I had the bitch stymied. Then she explained as to how it was possible for me to know everything.

“Because this is
my
dream. You’re just a product of it. You’re only reflecting what
I
know.”

Her logic, albeit inaccurate, had me beaten. It would have given me immense pleasure to wipe the self-satisfied grin from off her face. The problem was, any threatening gesture I made towards her would result in her immediate withdrawal into her earthbound body.

It appeared we had reached an impasse. Then something she said next furnished me with the answer to my dilemma.

“So you see, short of possessing my body, there’s absolutely nothing you can do to prevent my leaving you. Oh! There”s one other thing,” she began to add, “It might interest you to know that I”m go-”

She never did finish her sentence. I couldn’t believe how easy it had been to take possession of her soul. But why not? Hadn’t the slut been easy meat in the physical realm?

The trick now was to prevent her astral form returning to its host. This was crucial to my hastily thought out plan, because lengthy periods of separation from her body meant the very real danger of irreversible dissolution. To put it quite simply, the bitch would die! The plan, of course, was not without its own personal dangers. Preventing her return meant that I too was forced to undergo the same period of separation.

Monique died before the immense strain on my damaged heart took me out, too. I was never quite the same man after that. In fact, if you could see me now you’d know just how bloody ironic that statement is.

I’ve managed to rid myself of Monique. Everything that made her unique, her thoughts, dreams and hopes; almost everything that she was has gone.

I have another form now – one that’s served me well. Through it I’ve managed to destroy and make pitiful the life of Monique’s former lover. It still gives me a thrill to recall how he begged and pleaded with me not to leave him. The stupid sap couldn’t understand how I had come to loathe him and the touch of his hands on my new body.

It hasn’t been easy adapting to Monique’s form over these last few months, but it’s had its moments. If I need reminding of just how beautiful she was I merely look in the mirror, and gratifying my desires is equally as simple.

If only I had listened longer to Monique before dispossessing her of her life force. Even now her lover’s child makes itself felt within my womb, and I dream such strange dreams. In them I am giving birth to a child, a female normal in most respects but for her long silken hair and the silvery umbilical that binds her to me.

The coroner’s ‘Accidental Death’ verdict had done nothing to assuage Sam Phelps’ conviction that his mother’s untimely demise was as a direct result of suicide, and that the brutal, mental indignities she had endured at the hands of his sadistic father were the cause of it. Nor was the teenager under any illusion as to who would be the target of his father’s perverse attentions now she was out of the way.

With cold dispassion he peered into the open grave, his gaunt expression betraying little of the contempt he harboured for its occupant, a weak and foolish woman, a congenital victim, woefully incapable of withstanding the harsh realities life had apportioned her.

He mocked inwardly at the pathetic soul now being laid to rest. ‘God, how dumb could you be? Didn’t it ever once enter that addled brain that the sick son-of-a-bitch is incapable of even the slightest degree of affection?’

He looked out across a sea of faces assembled at the graveside and was met by the cold and steady gaze of his mother’s tormentor. Unlike her, Sam was under no illusion that some shred of decency still inhabited the man. It was a belief that had served him well, and which had protected him from the mental cruelties Victor had visited upon him in the past. He had come to learn that love and affection were weaknesses to be exploited. Any emotions that threatened to expose this weakness, therefore, were swiftly subjugated. They were, after all, Victor’s very lifeblood; the perversity from which he took his pleasure.

Mercifully, the timeworn platitudes of the ageing priest came to an end, and Sam picked up a handful of earth and threw it casually into the open grave before turning to leave.

A brawny hand clamped onto his shoulder. “And where do you think you’re off to, boy?” Victor asked.

His pretext that he promised his aunt he would visit after the service, because she had been unable to attend owing to illness, was met with suspicion. Victor had no recollection whatsoever of the boy having mentioned it to him, though what with the funeral arrangements and all it was possible it had slipped his mind. Reluctantly, he gave his consent and cautioned his son to return home at a reasonable hour - a warning Sam knew was not to be taken lightly.

An overriding sense of purpose urged Sam on past his aunt’s cottage and beyond the environs of the village. Ill though she was, he saw little use in calling in on the retired psychologist, since her usefulness had long outlived its purpose.

The doting, old bird had never once suspected the true reason for his visit earlier that month, hadn’t even noticed the missing book he had taken from her study. Within its pages lay the means of assuaging his all-consuming hatred for his father and the terrible nightmares that had plagued him from infancy.

Although he knew what violence he would like to do to his father, Sam was under no illusions that he was capable of such an act. However, through hypnotic access to his mind’s most frenetic imaginings he would learn to commit with impunity in his dreams what he feared he was incapable of doing in reality.

On the bleak and inhospitable outcrop of Maelon Tor an age-old shepherd’s lean-to played host to the enterprising young thief. A warming fire burned beneath its single-pitched roof, illuminating the pages of his ill-gotten book. He paused momentarily to rekindle the dying flames, only to realise that dusk had settled in around him. The hour was late and he knew full well that his absence from home carried a heavy price - though what form it would take was open to question, given the Machiavellian nature of Victor’s mind.

Fearing his father would be scouring the streets for him, Sam skirted the village via the old drover’s lane, his pace slackening appreciably as he neared the rear of the house.

Unlike the ground floor view - hidden behind a high stone wall - the upper storey was clearly visible. Gratified that no discernible light could be seen from its windows he opened the ponderous oak gate and peered through into the garden. The entire place was in darkness.

Inching his way up the gravel path towards the back door, he caught sight of something glinting in the moonlight. There, snaking its way across the lawn and round the gable, where it was ultimately lost from view, was a streamer of magnetic tape. Puzzled as to how it had gotten there, he followed its path and came upon the glowing embers of a dying fire. Scattered around its edges lay the charred remains of his most cherished possessions.

His father’s latest act of attrition stripped him bare of the complacency that had lulled him into the false sense of security that had cost him so dearly. It was a wake up call. The few things he held dear in his life, his music, his books, and assorted role- playing games, had been consigned to the flame.

Victor peered down from behind a second storey window, watching, patiently waiting, and gloating in the night shadows.

Experience had taught Sam that physical confrontation with his black- hearted father was ill advised. He still bore the scars from a previous encounter when, at the age of eight, Victor had forced him to drown his beloved pet kitten for having soiled the drawing-room carpet. The hapless creature had struggled frantically to escape the icy waters of the rain barrel, tearing the flesh from Sam’s arms and wrists. In the end it was Victor himself who finished the job. Hauling the tiny, sodden, creature up by its hind legs, he smashed its skull against the barrel.

The livid scars served as a permanent reminder to Sam just how inhuman his father could be. But some wounds ran deeper, were less obvious. Left unattended they had become a cankerous growth that time alone could no longer dispel. His ardent hatred of Victor raged within him. Soon it would find release in the deepest recesses of his mind.

An inveterate gambler, Victor would often drive into the city at weekends to indulge his passion. This involved a considerable journey of some hours, affording Sam ample opportunity to put into practice all he had learned. At the eleventh hour, however, the elements themselves seemed ready to conspire against him, as a menacing storm front crept in from the north.

For a while it looked as though Victor might cancel his customary visit into the city. Awaiting the old man’s final decision, therefore, was more than Sam felt he could endure, his frayed nerves having reached maximum breaking point long ago. But habituation and addiction were potent forces to be reckoned with, and Victor’s defiant announcement that neither God nor the elements were going to prevent him from making his usual rendezvous came as a welcoming relief to the teenager.

Less than fifteen minutes had elapsed since his father’s departure and Sam was already feeling the effects of his auto-hypnotic induction, the incessant tick-tock of the metronome sounding the passage of time as he gradually drifted deeper into an altered state of consciousness.

Step-by-step he gave himself up to the soporific beat, his consciousness sinking inward to the synchronous pulse of his heart until, at length, even this last, tenuous link between reality and dream-state was relinquished and the gentle stirrings beneath his eyelids heralded the onset of his fantasy.

He looked about as the shadowy perceptions of his dreamscape gradually fused and blended into a cohesively familiar scene. He scanned the room for the telltale signs of surrealism that frequently inhabited his naturally occurring dreams. Nothing was amiss. All was as it had been prior to sleep. Elated by his god-like capacity, he felt that there was nothing to which he could not now aspire.

The sound was indistinct at first; an out-of-place grating that encroached upon the dreamscape. It grew louder and more defined with each passing second until there was no mistaking its source – a latchkey! Someone in the real world was entering the house.

He awoke with a start. Dazed and confused, and in a blind panic, he leapt from the chair and made a beeline for the dining room to replace the disengaged telephone receiver. The last thing he had wanted was to be disturbed at some crucial point in his experiment. His caution, it now seemed, was going to be his undoing.

Catching him in mid-flight, Victor bellowed, “What the hell’s going on? And what’s the bloody phone doing off the hook?”

Sam’s only reply was an ineffectual stammer, which Victor was in no mood to hear. A stinging backhand sent Sam reeling against the wall, a second blow glancing off his temple before he could regain his senses.

Vivid flashing lights burst before his eyes as a searing hot pain ripped through his skull. He sank to his knees and cowered like a whipped pup, certain that a further barrage of blows would follow.

“Get the fuck up!” Victor snarled, crimson faced and hauling him to his feet. “Now,” he demanded, “either you tell me what the hell you’re up to or I beat the shit out of you. Which is it going to be?”

No matter what he said or did Sam knew a good beating was on the cards and braced himself for what was to come.

Outside, a car horn blared and a voice called out impatiently, “C ‘mon Vic! At this rate the casino’ll be closed before we get there!”