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  666

  Michael. P. Whateley

  Edited by David Burton at EconomyEdits

  Cover Art by Addendum Designs

  Copyright © 2016 by Michael. P. Whateley

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  The Priest Stalker

  Totem

  CARnage

  Thou Shalt Kill

  The Bower Beast

  The Zombie’s Tale

  Homo Sanguinis

  Subterranean

  Phone Contract

  The Lighthouse Journal

  The Haunting of Thaddeus Jayson

  The Hellion

  Also by this Author

  About the Author

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Cpl Ashley Brown, late of the 4th Battalion, the Yorkshire Regiment.

  A good man. A great tutor. A wicked sense of humour.

  A friend.

  Miss you buddy.

  See you at the ReOrg.

  Virtutis Fortuna Comes.

  The Priest Stalker

  The rain came down in a torrent. It was falling so fast that Father Martin Ashton's skin was stinging with every impact. He ignored it and hurried on. He kept glancing behind. He was sure that it wasn't his imagination, someone was following him, and he felt an aura emanating from it, an aura of hate. The rain was making it hard to see, it ran into his eyes, and was making his tweed jacket heavy. He glanced back again, but could only see a blurred outline through the water in his eyes. He got an impression of a big man, wearing some kind of hoody. He was sure it wasn't the locals.

  Not far now. The church was so close. The gate was only a few meters away. The hooded man was speeding up, he could feel it. A few more steps. Martin was almost running now, the panic rising. He pushed the gate open and ran down the path to the church. Then it lifted.

  The air felt cold, the rain wet, it was just another night. His hand was touching the door ready to open it. Looking down. he realised that he was holding his crucifix with his other hand. Turning, he looked at the gate, there was nothing there. Whoever, whatever, had gone. Martin walked to the gate, and looked to see if there was anyone lurking in the shadows, but saw only two dry footprints on the wet path. Steam was curling up from the two footprints as the rain fell on them.

  St Mary's Church was old, built in 1871. Although there had been a church on that site since 1190. It was set against the lovely backdrop of Stannington, a picturesque little village set in rolling hills. Inside the dimly lit church, Martin was sitting in one of the wooden pews, his head resting in his hands.

  "Hello, Father, terrible night," George said. George was the church warden, he had been doing his rounds, making sure the doors were locked and the windows closed. "Are you all right?”

  "I was followed again, it's really starting to spook me," Martin said, looking up at George. "Do you think I'm overreacting? That’s what the police think, they reckon it's just a local kid messing about. But... It doesn't feel normal."

  "You've got to trust your feelings, Father. Look, I wasn't sure if I should show you this, but I've been doing some digging. Look." George got three old battered diaries out of his pocket. "This is a diary from Father Ernest, he disappeared in 1974. In his final few entries, he talks about being followed. This one is from Father Joseph, he disappeared in 1944, he also talked about an evil presence following him. This one is Father Albert, same story. It can't be coincidence. It can't be a man, either, not with that timespan, unless it's some sick family tradition."

  "But what can I do? I can't tell the police I'm being stalked by a bloody ghost?"

  "No, they're not going to be able to help. I think we need to do some more digging. The last diary talks about the history of the church, something in its creation back in 1190. I'm going to call a friend tomorrow, he's into occult folklore, maybe he can find something, but I don't want you being out late by yourself. He only stalks you at night, so take care, Father."

  ***

  The next day, Martin visited some of his parishioners. It was a duty he enjoyed. It meant lots of talking, lots of tea, and lots of walking. He didn't have a car, he would miss the local beauty if he drove through it. But his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't stop thinking about the stalker. It didn't seem as scary in the daylight. But he new that as soon as the sun went down, he would feel the panic.

  He nearly jumped out of his skin as his phone rang. It was George, he wanted to meet in the church.

  ***

  The sun was going down as Martin arrived at the church. He hurried inside, checking behind.

  George was sat in a pew.

  "Father, I'm glad you've come. I saw my friend today, and we found out something."

  Martin sat in the pew beside him, his friend seemed excited and clearly wanted to get it off his chest. "Go on, George."

  "It's all to do with Ley Lines. Ley Lines are sort of energy lines that radiate around the planet. Occultists have known about them for years, and believe they increase their powers. They also believe that Demons can use them as a gateway into our world. The original church was built here because of a large occult following on this site, hoping to convert people to Christianity, but they didn't know." George paused, trying to formulate his thoughts into words. "This church is built on the end of a Ley Line. That’s a powerful place. But the Ley Lines pulse, a bit like a heartbeat. This one builds its power up through a thirty year cycle, then it drops again. Its maximum power is tonight, Martin."

  Martin sat looking at George. George was serious, as if he had just solved everything. Martin laughed. He hadn't meant to at his friend, but it all sounded so ridiculous. "You don't really believe all that nonsense, do you, George? Come on, I appreciate your help, but I can't believe all that mumbo jumbo. It goes against everything I believe."

  "Really? You believe in God, you've never seen him, why’s this different?"

  "I've seen God through his influence, and I feel him in my heart. This is totally different." Martin didn't appreciate his faith being brought into the conversation.

  "Well, you don't have to believe, just leave here for tonight, stay in another church, then, if you don't have a stalker after this, that’s good enough."

  "Why should I leave here? I'm in the house of God, I'm safe." Martin stood as he spoke. He was going to make himself a drink, and settle in for the night.

  "You don't get it, Father. The reason he stopped at the gate last night was nothing to do with religion, it was as far as the Ley Lines went, but tonight it will be active under the church, so he will come in regardless." George had stood and walked over to Martin as he spoke.

  "Well, it's too late to go anywhere now, I'm not going out while it's dark. What in heaven’s name is that smell?" Martin looked at George. "George, what's up?" The blood drained from Martin’s face.

  George was frozen in place, just staring at him. He felt cold, and started to slowly look over his shoulder, afraid of what would be standing there. There was nothing.

  "You scared the daylights out of me, George."

  Martin laughed with relief, and turned back to his friend. Smoke was curling up from George, and his hands were twitching. Martin approached and grabbed him. He was red hot, and Martin let go with a gasp.

  "What's up, George? Are you having a fit?"

  Martin reached for his phone, he was going to need an ambulance. He felt something hit his arm, and his phone hit the floor, skidding across into a pew.

  "Where's your God now, Priest?" a deep growling voice asked.

  Martin collapsed to his knees. George was no longer there. A creature, six foot high and rippling with muscles under a scaly skin stood in his place. It was this creature who had spoken.

&
nbsp; "What are you?" Martin stammered. He felt his crucifix and unconsciously held it with his hand.

  "I live here. I lived here before men came, and I'll live here when your kind is no more. You built your filthy hovel on my home." The creature strode across to Martin with one mighty step. He put his hand on Martin’s head and gripped it so hard Martin feared he was being crushed.

  "I've come for my payment, Priest." The creature twisted Martin’s head so fast that his neck snapped, and then pulled until the head came away. He held his grisly trophy high and laughed.

  ***

  George sat in a pew, waiting for the new vicar. He had reported Martin missing, but everyone just thought he had left, lost his faith, and ran away. No one would listen to him. He had blacked out on Martin’s final night, and not woken up until the morning, when Martin was nowhere to be seen. He knew he had thirty years to solve the riddle.

  The End

  Totem

  Autumn leaves fell against Mark’s face, leaving wet marks, like cold, ghostly kisses. Wiping his face, he walked on.

  This was Weston Park. The path carried on towards the museum. The excitement was rising in Mark’s chest with every step. It felt like a balloon ready to be burst. This was going to be great. He had been studying American Indigenous culture for the last two years, and now he was going to see a whole museum full.

  Reaching the steps, he could see the information panel. He stopped to savour it, enjoying the anticipation. Knowing that the experience could never live up to his imagination, he was going to relish this and not miss a thing. The wooden board was made to look like animal hide, to give it an authentic feel. It simply said, "The home of the Sioux." Sheffield University had managed to persuade one of the world’s largest private collectors of “Indian Artefacts” to allow it to be displayed at the museum – even better, they had allowed Mark to go and see it the day before it opened, meaning he would see it first, alone and in private. He was going to advise them about the layout, but in reality he was just going to marvel at it.

  Mark walked up the steps and approached the museum entrance. There was meant to be a guard, waiting to meet him, but there was no one. He tried the door, it was open. The guard must be doing his rounds, he thought, but still felt uneasy walking in unannounced. He walked on regardless, he could always explain his presence if challenged. He entered a dimly lit entrance. There was a musty, old smell in the room that added to the sense of history. Mark walked past a couple of empty packing crates. It looked like last minute changes were still happening.

  Mark stopped as something grabbed his leg. His heart thumped in his chest, his head felt like it was going to explode, and his mouth went dry. It was something cold, with a vice-like grip. He wanted to look down, but a voice whispered for him not to. Once he looked down, he would be forced to face reality.

  It spoke, in a voice so quiet and full of pain.

  "It’s out, the careless fools let it out".

  Mark summoned the courage to look down. It was the guard, or at least most of him. He had been mauled. His trousers were torn, bloody rags with nothing inside, his chest prised open, and his face barely recognisable.

  "What the fuck?"

  Mark stepped back, pulling his leg out of the man’s grasp. The world was spinning and he fell to the floor, his stomach contents erupting in front of him. Everything was blurry. He tried to focus and regain control. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled his mobile out, but dropped it on the floor.

  "I’m getting an ambulance. You’ll be all right mate, they’ll be here in a minute," Mark said, recovering his phone.

  "No time, just listen. They let it out. It’s hungry, it's been trapped a long time. Catch it. You have to catch it. More will die," the guard gasped between laboured breaths, foamy bubbles of blood dripping down his chin.

  "You’re delirious, mate. Blood loss or something. It’s out? What’s out? Did you fall in a machine? Forklift, maybe? Look, it’s going to be all right, just try to stay calm."

  Mark looked around, hoping to see some kind of machine that could have done this damage, there was nothing, just empty packing cases, and a Totem pole. The pole was on the floor, split in half. It looked like a bomb had gone off inside it. Looking back at the guard, Mark could see blood wiped on the floor around him, like something had dragged him about like a blood-soaked rag.

  "You don't understand. I don't work for the museum. I work for the collector. I’m part Sioux. My job is to keep it safe, keep it intact. But they broke it. They broke the Totem. And let it out. It was a cage. A cage of talismans to keep the Earth demon trapped. It's out. It's angry." The guard was almost shouting, blood and spittle landing on Mark's face.

  "Even if I believed you, how? How am I supposed to catch this thing?"

  The guard had remained still, his breathing shallow and his eyes rolling into his head. With a final long breath that sounded like his soul escaping, the guard shuddered once, then died. Mark was alone. He looked at his phone, he hadn’t called anyone. He doubted paramedics could have done anything. What was he expected to do? This was Sheffield in the 21st century, demons don’t exist, this was stupid.

  He inched across to the pole, trying not to breathe or step too loudly. There was nothing else here, the museum was empty, wasn’t it? But he could hear creaking, and an occasional squeaking. Was that the building settling, water pipes rattling? Was he being stalked? Do demons even stalk?

  Crouching, he looked at the pole. It was split almost perfectly in half. There were shards of wood hanging from inside. This had taken incredible strength, the wood was solid. How could anything be trapped in that? Was it just a spirit, a ghost? Stupid, that’s what it was. Some vandals must have broken in, damaged the pole, and ripped the guard up? No, that was even more idiotic. No human could do that. What was he supposed to think? This didn’t make any sense. There had to be a rational explanation.

  Mark turned one of the pole halves around to get a better look at the carvings. One of the faces was damaged. It looked different to the other breaks. Maybe this had been done while unpacking the Totem. Could this have caused the spirit to be released? Yeah right, Spirit, as if that was possible.

  From somewhere deep in the museum there was a crash. The violence stole Mark’s breath. It sounded like something had been knocked over. Something big. An electric current raced down his spine as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He still tried to believe, deep down, that the guard had been killed in a machine. He didn’t believe in ghosts, and goblins. Something real, something solid, had caused that noise. The museum was empty. No one was here except him and the grisly guard remains.

  Mark picked up his phone from the floor and dialled 999.

  "What service do you require?" the operator casually asked.

  "I need the police, and maybe animal control," Mark whispered.

  "Please state the nature of the emergency," the almost mechanical voice asked.

  "There’s a dead guard and something in here with me. I’m at Weston Park museum. Send someone now!"

  There was an explosive crash as the door to the next exhibit broke off its hinges, smashing against the wall. A second crash sounded as Mark’s phone smashed on the floor. He crouched, trying to melt into the floor, staring down, trying to resist the urge to look up, not wanting to look at the door, scared of what he might see. There was nothing, just the door swinging on the remains of its hinges. Mark felt around the floor, trying to find his phone, praying it was still intact.

  That’s when he saw it. Embedded inside the remains of the Totem. It looked like a thinner, but longer version of the Indian Artefact. It was the same colour, and texture. That’s why he had missed it the first time. It was almost part of the relic, as if it had somehow been carved inside the wood. Mark put his hand on it and applied a little pressure. It moved. He gripped it and eased it out of the wreckage. The end glinted like it was electric. It was a spear; unlike any spear he had ever seen. It was carved
from tip to tip with animal symbols. The wood was ancient, much more ancient than the Totem that had contained it. As Mark gripped it, his fear lessened. Crouching, he moved around the remains on the floor, trying to get a better view of the broken door. He wanted to face his fear and see whatever it was, then at least he could decide what to do next. He slid beside one of the packing crates, hiding himself, then, slowly, very slowly, he looked around it.

  He could see into the next room, which was also dimly lit, but bright enough for him to see nothing was there. As Mark concentrated on the room, he became aware of a crunching, cracking sound. It seemed to be coming from above. Cautiously, he looked up. The front of his trousers got warm as he wet himself with fear. On the roof, upside down, was the creature.

  It had eyes the colour and intensity of the sun. It calmly stared back at him. In one of its arms it held the remains of the guard’s leg, stripped now of flesh, the bone sticking out of the end. It crunched as the creature chewed. It was jet black and covered in matted long black fur. The body was five feet long and looked like a cross between a wolf and a chimpanzee, A face like an eagle, but the beak was full of razor sharp teeth and a forked tongue.

  Mark felt hope rise as he heard a new sound, distant but rapidly approaching, police sirens. He only had to get outside and he would be safe. He glanced up, fearful that the creature would have moved. But it was there, chewing, without a care. Not taking his eyes from the beast above him, he tried to slide closer to the door. It stopped chewing, looking directly at him. Mark stopped, waited, then moved again. Thump! The leg dropped at his side as the creature stood up on its four limbs, staring at him, hanging from the roof like some monstrous bat, like a cat that had cornered a mouse.

  Mark knew he was seconds away from death and could feel his body taking over. He slipped as panic gripped him, and he ran towards the door as the demon leapt from the roof towards him. Screaming, Mark threw himself on his back, holding his arms in the air to ward off the coming attack. He was aware of a force on his right arm, as if he had been hit by a baseball bat, but his eyes were squeezed shut. He was going to die, but could not face seeing the reality.