The Midnight Hour (6 page)

There was one thing missing. One
person
.

She was there.

Lisa! Standing in the alley just ahead of him, vague but unmistakable in the fog.

She was wearing some kind of long dress and what he could only describe as a ‘bonnet’ on her head. The whole look was decidedly Victorian. The whole
dream
was Victorian.

As he drew closer to her, his beautiful Lisa, he lifted his hand to touch her gently on the shoulder, to feel her softness, her warmth, once again.

There was no hand! Only a black, barely definable shape leaving trails of oily dripping darkness as it moved. It was his. It moved under his control. But only by the furthest leap of the imagination could anyone call it a hand!

He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. Instead he vomited thick black bile into the air that burned his throat, blistered his mouth. He looked down at his body. Saw only darkness.

Lisa began to turn towards him, finally aware of his presence, and suddenly his fear was gone.... replaced by a foul tasting surge of anger and hatred.

How could she leave him? How could the bitch just walk out like that! No one else would have her. No one else
could
have her!

The black shapes he still thought of as his arms rose up, long blades sliding from them, not so much held as grown.

As Lisa turned he plunged the blades into her eyes.

He woke.

He screamed!

He checked his hands, his body, shaking with fear and panic.

Fingers. Thumbs. Skin. He was normal, himself again.

The shadow was back in his eye.

“Richard, you are clinically depressed.”

Doctor Charles tapped on his computer keyboard as he spoke, glancing up at Richard who sat, head down, in the consulting room’s other chair.

“I think the stress of work, of a relationship breaking down, has just proved too much for you over these last few weeks. I’m signing you off work for a month and giving you a course of anti-depressants. Nothing too strong to start with, but we’ll see how things go on those.”

The dot-matrix printer in the corner whirred and clattered as it printed out the prescription form.

“This ‘shadow’ you see in your eye is just a manifestation of that stress, of the chemical imbalance in your mind. As we treat your depression and relieve the stress around you I’m sure you’ll see an improvement in that. In time it will disappear altogether.”

He handed the prescription over and rose to escort Richard to the door.

“Come back and see me in a month. In the meantime, think about getting away somewhere, away from your flat. Away from the area even.”

The doctor smiled at him.

“Take a vacation.”

It had taken most of his savings but as Richard stood at the hotel room window and looked out over the small town of Benodet in Brittany, past the old church, along towards the beach, he knew it had been worth it.

Already he felt better and he had only just unpacked!

The shadow was still there but somehow it seemed less threatening, less frightening than when he was sitting in his flat back home in London. France was in the middle of a heat wave, people were walking around in shirtsleeves and sunglasses and the cafes and shops along the front bustled with life. He couldn’t have timed it better if he’d planned it months in advance. For a last minute booking it was amazing.

Perhaps things really would start to improve now.

On the third day of his vacation, while he bought an ice-cream from the cafe on the corner and watched fellow tourists lining up to board the boat for a river cruise, he suddenly realised that the shadow had faded back to a faint, vague grey.

It was now no darker than that first morning, perhaps even lighter.

He grinned a “merci” at the cafe owner, not even worrying how bad his French accent was. He smiled as he crossed the busy road, dodging teenagers on scooters, and sat on the wall facing the beach. The doctor had been right. He was going to be ok.

Her name was Sally and she was from Devon.

They had started a conversation for the simple reason that they were both sitting alone in the cafe and they were both obviously English. They took the conversation out of the cafe and round the shops, up to the local market, down to the beach, and eventually for an evening meal at a restaurant overlooking the quayside.

She had long black hair, a face that was pretty rather than beautiful, a smile that sparkled and shone, and a body to die for!

When he woke in his hotel room after their first night together, Sally still sleeping peacefully at his side, the shadow in his eye had gone.

Saying goodbye to Sally had been hard, but the two weeks of his vacation had finally finished.

They promised to keep in touch, exchanged phone numbers, addresses. He had every intention of keeping that promise when she finally reached her home a week after him.

He thought of little else but Sally on the flight home. Lisa was an ever fading memory, sometimes a happy one, sometimes a painful one, but receding further and further each time. He had all but forgotten about the shadow in his eye. That was part of the madness, the depression that had taken hold after Lisa had left.

He was happy.

The second morning back in his flat he woke to the noise of traffic outside, of distant police sirens, of people.

He opened his eyes.

A cold fist of fear clenched in his chest. His stomach churned. He shook. He felt a need to urinate.

He screamed.

The shadow was back, bigger, darker, blacker than before.

He was completely blind in his left eye!

“NO!” he cried out, pushing himself out of bed, stumbling against the bedside cabinet. The lamp crashed to the floor, the bulb popping.

He staggered towards the mirror, the sight in his right eye misty, distorted. He could see himself only as a blurred shape in the darkness of the room.

His knee hit the dressing table and he stepped backwards onto a shoe he had carelessly thrown to the floor the night before. He fell, his back hitting the floor hard, his head jarring, his breath forced out of him as hard as if he had been punched in the stomach.

He rolled, groaning, gasping.

The darkness in his left eye moved, swirled,
writhed
.

He no longer felt blind but rather that something was
covering
his eye, preventing him from seeing.

The
something
took on the consistency of oil, dripping and oozing, reminding him of his hand in his dream, his nightmare.

He raised a hand to his eye and tried to scream but was still struggling to find enough air.

He could
feel
it, welling up around his eyeball, oozing out of the socket through his fingers. It felt as if it was trying to suck his eye out of his head.

Then it was gone.

His fingers were dry. The only thing he felt on his face was his hand. Cautiously he withdrew it, opened his eyes, looked into the darkness of the room and saw it!

A figure, constantly shifting its shape, liquid in its movement, solid as it stood before him. As tall as a man. As broad as a man. Vaguely following the shape of a man. But
not
a man.

The shadow!

Richard could not move as he watched the blades slip from the ends of its arms. He could only watch open-mouthed as the thing moved towards him, each step splashing as though through puddles.

He couldn’t even scream as the blades buried themselves deep into his eyes.

WHEN THE FIRES DIE

Liquid fire dripped from the walls of the inner sanctum in viscous drops that rolled and spread but did not burn the black flooring. Tongues of flame flicked at the ceiling but no smoke billowed from the conflagration. A smokeless, eternal fire that lined the way to the throne room, that boiled the blood of those who stepped too close, but did not scorch the flesh.

Satan sat on the ornate throne, his foot tapping impatiently, his fingers drumming on the carved head of a demon. He scratched at the small horns that broke the skin of his forehead.

Hargot, one of his many advisors, was approaching between the walls of fire.

“Well?” Satan did not wait until the advisor had stopped walking.

Hargot hesitated, knowing his master would not like the news.

“They would not listen, Lord Satan.”

Satan closed his eyes and sighed. This was not meant to happen to him. Trusted with one of the most important realities of the metaphysical universe he was meant to be feared, reviled and, most importantly, obeyed!

Hargot cleared his throat, waited for a moment for his master to respond and then, seeing Satan close his eyes, continued.

“If their demands are not met in full, as of tomorrow morning the Stokers of Hell will be on strike.”

Baphomet gazed across the gathered assembly of demons, astrals and entities. Most were significantly less human than he was in form and manner. He, indeed, had
been
human once, long ago, although he had been called a name he could no longer remember. His face was grim, determined, but there was a smile behind his dark, mesmeric eyes. These creatures before him, the Stokers of Hell, were his! The power they represented was his!

Even the Lord Satan would have to bow before their combined might.

“What news Brother Baphomet?”

He searched out the caller, a particularly slimy, blue-headed demon whose name was unknown to him. Nevertheless he nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgement as if they were the best of friends.

“Nothing yet Brother. The slave Hargot has been given our ultimatum and ordered to take it to Lord Satan himself. Now we wait.”

“But what if the Legions are sent against us?”

The speaker this time was a small, feeble looking astral, barely managing to maintain a solid form in its nervousness.

“Not even Satan would dare that. It would lead to civil war in Hell!”

There was grumbling among the crowd. He knew there were many who feared a violent response. Even he feared the Legions. Only a fool didn’t. But he truly believed that Satan would have to acquiesce eventually, without violence, without forcing the workforce back to the boilers. They were strong, they were powerful. They just needed to believe in themselves.

He was still composing a rallying cry when he saw Hargot approaching, striding between the boilers, unconcerned as steam that would strip the skin off a living human swirled around his limbs, his face. Hargot had worked the boilers for three centuries before his current promotion. Neither they, nor the Stokers who ran them, held any fear for him.

But Baphomet made him uneasy. Baphomet had been in Hell for less than three centuries and yet had somehow raised himself above the others, had proclaimed himself their leader. He was not the first to try, but he was the first to succeed.

“Welcome slave Hargot. What news?”

The ‘slave’ reference pissed him off, as did the grand, archaic way of speaking. He struggled to retain his composure as he faced this…
human
!

“Our Lord Satan demands your presence immediately Baphomet.”

He stood at least three feet taller than the human before him, yet he could not shake the impression that he was looking up at the other.

Baphomet smiled, wiped a film of sweat from his shaven head and stepped towards the advisor.

“With pleasure.”

Satan waited impatiently. Hargot and the human troublemaker Baphomet were approaching.

Satan had deliberately moved the walls closer together, giving even less of a path between the running, dripping flames. It now irritated him to see Baphomet showing no more discomfort than Hargot. He had expected some sign of pain, of burning from this troublesome human.

He had to admit to a slight and annoying respect for this display of physical and mental control.

Nevertheless, he fashioned his best frown and his most ferocious grin, allowing his sharp incisors to pierce his bottom lip and dribble blood down his chin. It was a bit theatrical, but he felt this man would appreciate it. It seemed his style.

“Lord Satan.” Hargot was the first to speak as they arrived before the throne. “This is the man Baphomet. The leader of the unrest among the Stokers.”

Baphomet nodded his head in the briefest of bows. Arrogance all but shone from his being. If he was nervous, he showed no sign of it.

“Lord Satan, I trust your slave here has passed on our demands? I’m sure you’ll agree they are reasonable.”

Satan saw Hargot stiffen at the word ‘slave’. He had to admit to a growing liking for this human. He reminded him of himself as a young demon. Nevertheless, he had a job to do and a reality to run.

“I do
not
agree that they are reasonable! Your request for shorter shifts I could maybe give some thought to, but the increase in pay… do you have any idea how difficult it is to find virgins these days? The demand is increasing while the supply has fallen drastically.”

He leaned forward, fixing the human’s eyes with his most intense, malevolent stare.

“I suggest you and your followers return to work immediately, or suffer the consequences.”

If there was a moment of fear, of doubt, in Baphomet he did not show it. He simply smiled and shook his head almost sadly.

“I regret, Lord Satan, that the only consequence of this meeting will be the rapid cooling and eventual dying of the boilers. As of tomorrow morning the Stokers of Hell are on strike!”

The walls no longer dripped with flame. Patches burnt sporadically, fizzed into existence and then died. A bleak and sharply chilled atmosphere had settled over the throne room in the two months since the Stokers’ strike had begun.

Satan sat on his throne, angry, unsure, perhaps even a little confused. He had tried everything, short of capitulation, to bring this strike to a close. True, he had not actually sent the Legions against the strikers, but he had threatened it. He had threatened everything he could think of and yet Baphomet and his followers remained unmoved.