Ghostly Writes Anthology 2016

Behold the Autumnal shades with fright

as spirits whisper ‘Save us.’

The moon shines bright on this All Hallow’s Night

and demons dance while the humans sin in revelry.

Ghosts of monsters, nightmares past

and grinning the devil bows;

it is his night to dance in moonlight as the unwary lose their souls.

By Kyrena Lynch

Copyright - September 2016

A Dying Scream That Makes No Sound…

J G Clay

Red was his name.

He required no other. His birth name, along with the last vestiges of his former, would soon be consigned to a crypt of the past, sealed away forever more. He felt no sense of loss, of mourning. The life previous would not be missed. The ‘real’ world was a sham, a construct glued together by Miley Cyrus, reality television and badly brewed lager. The Order of the Nine promised an existence more tangible, more meaningful than the cycle of birth, marriage, mortgage and mortality.

If he survived the night, that was. Pushing away the worm of doubt, he stretched his long limbs as best as he could within the warm confines of the Jaguar.

Ready?

Driver sounded concerned. The large African American rarely displayed emotion in front of Prospects, Reapers and Psychopomps alike. He drove, as his name suggested. Whether the bullet headed behemoth performed other roles within the Order was unknown. If he did, Red would find out sooner or later. You done well from what I’ve been hearin’. His Southern drawl elongated his speech, ‘I’ve’ becoming ‘aah’ve’. Red smiled briefly, the solemnity of the occasion forgotten for a brief moment.

It’s time, my boy.

Red nodded. Words were unnecessary. A Reaper was sparing in thought, in action. That lesson had been drummed into him, into all of those who had studied the Way with him.

Goodbye, Red. Hope to see you on the other side.

Wordless, his face impassive, Red opened the door and stepped into the cool night.

He did not look back. There was no point. The Trial began.

Ghosts were real.

Their existence was debated, ignored, mocked even. But they existed, in the periphery of vision, at the edge of nightmare, in the cold harsh light of insanity. The Normal – the everyday people – denied the dead vociferously for one reason only. They did not want to see the end. They wanted the cold comfort of the church, the mosque, the temple. They needed the litany of stories, regaling them with tales of milk, honey, virgins and wine. They looked away from the shadows left by the passing of their fellows. The man on the street did not want to be confronted by the harsh brutal reality of the end.

Red had known otherwise. The towering figure, clothed in the robes of a holy man had revealed the truth to him so long ago. The twins – the monk’s cohorts, tied to him by bonds of pain of suffering – had befriended him, not out of pity or camaraderie, but out of a need to placate the demonic presence. The suffering he had known in those short months had marked him, not physically but psychically. Monarch’s stain became a beacon, drawing the dead, the demonic, the other-worldly to him. He had tried to function, to ignore the distorted figures, the hunched shapes in the corners of darkened rooms, beseeching him, mocking him, cursing him.

Eventually, the strain had become too much. Even drugs and alcohol had not been enough to silence the incorporeal monsters dogging his every moment, waking or otherwise. A failed suicide attempt had brought the correct attention to him. ‘The Order of The Nine,’ recognising his unique gifts, took him into their fold, nurturing him, strengthening his knowledge, his soul, his gift. But for a price.

Tonight, the price would be paid one way or another.

Spying the gothic bulky shape of his destination, he squared his shoulders.

The Old Red House beckoned to him.

They should not have been there, not in this time or place. Red slowed his pace to a saunter, weighing up the opposition. At this distance, it was difficult to tell if they were alive or dead. Alive would not be a problem. He was trained in the art of the fight. From the size and the shape of them, the battle would be brief. Dead, however would be another problem altogether. Gifted though he was, the art of defence against psychic attack was taxing on mind and spirit. An ill-conceived show of power could deplete his reserves, not by much but enough should he require use of every trick he knew.

There was only one thing for it. Changing his stance, his walk became flat footed, the soles of his shoes hitting the ground with a wet slapping sound. The boys reacted, jumping from the park bench as one and fanning across the path. Red smiled, relieved. They were living. They displayed none of the classics signs outlined in Tobin’s Spirit Guide. Lumpen though they were, the youths still moved with the litheness and grace of the living. The dead – recent or otherwise – were stiff, awkward, ungainly, as if death robbed them of the ability to move as a normal being would. Hands in pockets, hoods up, they waited, dancing on the balls of their feet.

Suspending all thought, Red charged forward, lunging for the tallest one. His fist connected with the boy’s blunt chin, the meaty sound of flesh on flesh deafening in the still night. The boy crumpled, his legs boneless. Red spun, lifting his right leg as the smaller one of the trio weighed in. He yelped as the bridge of Red’s foot cut him down, smashing into the side of his hooded head. Red spun, grace and poise in the motion. The remaining youth held his hands up.

Don’t want no trouble, mate. Honest.

Breathing heavily, Red glared at him, seeking any sign of attack. The boy seemed earnest enough, his hands still held up, his face a picture of contrition.

Bit of advice, said Red. Go home. This is no place for kids.

The boy nodded enthusiastically, his companions adding their pained groans to the discussion.

Satisfied that his point had been made, Red left the trio and the path, cutting across the path towards the solitary edifice at the far left of the park.

The boy watched the dark swallow the strange bald man, crossing himself for reasons he never fathomed out.

The shadow had no face.

Red had been aware of its presence since he had squeezed through the gap in the wire mesh fence. Wary, he pushed through the overgrown grass and weeds, eventually coming to a clearing. The remains of a rusted climbing frame tilted to one side, its weight bearing down into the soggy earth.

The shadow leant against it. Startled by his sudden approach, the figure flinched back, its unanchored tongue flopping from side to side as the figure danced from one foot to another clearly agitated. Its wounds were fresh, still glistening under its own luminescence and that of the moon. Blood coated its quilted coat, congealing to a crimson and black paste in places. One eye stared out from the morass of chewed flesh, unblinking. Without features, it was hard to gauge the thing’s mood. Red held his right hand up, the Omniversally recognised sign of peace.

Pax, Departed. I mean you no harm.

The faceless one considered his greeting before stiffly returning it. Red sensed no threat from this being, despite its appearance.

What brings you here, Departed?

The faceless one whispered to him, the voice strained and full of agony. His speech was intelligible. The dead did not require a full jaw or even a voicebox. Such obstacles were surmounted with ease.

Refuge, Reaper. We are hunted and there are too few of your kind to ease our passing.

Red nodded, sympathetic to the plight of this wraith. Not all ghosts were angry, vengeful beings. Some were merely lost, frightened or confused. It was part of the Reaper’s mission to guide these lonely souls to a better Realm or even a safe haven on Earth. The Reapers however were dying. The nature of their occupation was dangerous enough. Some whispered of a hunt, a slaughter by enemies unknown. Human souls were valuable in some Realms, prized for their energy, their entertainment and other less savoury practices.

I may be able to offer you the refuge you seek, Departed. If I pass the Trial. Red left that part unspoken. This wraith oozed desperation and fear. He had no wish to shatter its illusions. Wait here. I’ll call for you shortly when my work is complete.

The maimed wraith nodded, his anchorless tongue flapping.

Good luck, Reaper, it whispered.

A lingering whisper of chip fat, grease and ready-made curry paste coated the air of the kitchen as Red silently pushed his way in through the broken door. Expertly weaving his way through the debris of abandonment, he paused by a work surface, closing his eyes and muttering in a long forgotten tongue. Power surged through him, a deep primal energy surging from the earth beneath him. He gasped at the intensity, the thrill as it powered through his veins, warming cells and flesh in its wake. In his minds eyes, he traced the hard white light, wreathed in a golden aura, diverting and directing it to where it was needed. His eyes tingled as the magicks bathed his optic nerves, reconfiguring the delicate twists of fibre and neuron.

Cease!

Abruptly, the surge faded, draining away. Red opened his eyes, smiling. The night no longer existed. He saw his surroundings clearly, bathed in a golden glow similar to a summer’s day. It had worked. Sister Cano would be proud. Her patience had paid off. Looking around in wonder, he spied a book on the worktop, curled at the edges from damp. Curious, he picked up, his wan smile growing at the cover and the memories it invoked. A face, grimacing and evil, leered out at him from a wooden background

The Manitou. Not read that in years.

A memory blind-sided him, his mood evaporating.

A face pushing its way through the wood of the closet door, its mouth open, screaming obscenities at him…

The sharp smack of the book hitting the ground brought Red out of the recollection. Impulsively, he kicked it into a corner. Breath slobbered from him, his eyes wide as the remembered terror shocked his system, squirting adrenaline into his blood. He reached for the cold centre of calm within, willing his heart to slow. It was only a memory, a half remembered dream. Soon it would be confronted and destroyed. Red leant forward, gripping the edge of the worktop for support, closing his eyes and focusing. Something brushed his hand. His eyes snapped open in an instant. A photograph lay on the top of his right hand, having fallen there. Or had it been placed? His heart resumed its gallop as the detail of the photo became clearer.

A young boy favoured him with a gappy smile, one of his front teeth missing.

I lost that the day Kyra… or was it Myra? Does it matter which one?

With a trembling hand, Red grabbed the picture. He screamed, blisters forming on the pads of his fingers. The photo was white hot to the touch. Gripping his injured hand, Red watched, dumbstruck as the picture changed. The boy’s face began to stretch like warmed tallow, his skull elongating. His eyes rolled over white, the corners filling with red, a deep venous red that spilled down the bridge of nose. The smile became a grimace, filled with agony and venom.

A booming laugh shook the floor beneath him.

Red froze in terror.

His gut tightening, becoming taut. His testicles shrivelled, ascending up into his torso, the hair all over his body standing to attention. Red’s teeth chattered and his eyes widened as the laughter began to seep through the floor and the walls, surrounding him.

The photo bucked and twitched as if it were trying to hold his attention. The younger version of himself within reached out, coated in a thin layer of blood, empty ragged eye sockets twitching and fluttering before imploding in on himself, sucked into nothingness with a thin cracking of bone.

Words formed on the now blank picture; fiery, red and familiar.

A DYING SCREAM THAT MAKES NO SOUND…

Consigns the dying to an eternity of wandering. A Law. One of the first ones learnt. Reapers were taught to be taciturn and reserved in all aspects of life save one. At the moment of death, the Reaper was instructed to scream as loudly as possible. A good scream dislodged the soul – the animus, the atma – severing all times with this plane of existence. The Wandering and the Lost were often souls who had died silently.

The photo curled and shrivelled, disintegrating into a pile of blue ash and scattering before an unseen breeze. Swallowing, Red turned away, his blood pounding through a head that felt too large for his shoulders. He walked through an open doorway, not daring to look back for fear of what he would see.

Something sighed contentedly, enjoying the game. There was more to come.

Red’s leaned back against a crumbling wall, waiting for his heart to slow and his legs to stop trembling. He resisted the urge to use a magick. Bodily reactions were things to be conquered from within.

"Besides, I’m gonna need all the magick I have judging by that gutless performance back there."

Frustrated and disgusted, he swung a clenched fist backwards, smacking the wall behind. A shower of plaster and wallpaper tumbled to the floor. Another avalanche of plaster tumbled to the dirty tiled floor as he back-punched the wall once more, relishing the pain as a shard pierced the meat of his fist. The pain focused him, forcing him back into the moment.

Red straightened, brushing his hands clean.

Whispers came at him from the dark, jumbled and nonsensical. He ignored them, recognising the tactic for what it was; a way of interfering with concentration and also to unnerve the living. It had worked on him once when he had been a raw recruit.

The entities at Woodfield Manor had exploited this rawness. Had it not been for Black, Red would have lost his mind, possibly his life. Experience had hardened him against the tricks of the dead. From Stull Cemetery to the ruins of Bhanagarh, he had observed, practised against and fought entities of varying power. There was not much that could take him unawares.

Except the Monarch of The Old Red House.

Red jumped.

Pulling himself away from the wall, he spun into the centre of the rubble strewn corridor, his enhanced vision sweeping around for signs of the whisperer. A child’s giggle emanated from nearby, joined by another, then another. Red looked around, spinning around in a circle. The tittering became a chorus, innocent high pitched voices singing simple rhymes:-

I see you

Do you see me?

Monarch will make you history

He’ll squeeze your heart until it bursts

With your blood, he’ll quench his thirst.

Red froze.

Rhymes.

Rhymes were a portent and protection, so Black had once said. Ghosts spoke in rhyme to ward off demons. Something to do with a demon’s mind being unable to grasp the syntax and meaning of rhymes. The angelic chorus dissolved into laughter before repeating the rhyme again, this time louder.

I see you

Do you see me?

Monarch will make you history

He’ll squeeze your heart until it bursts

With your blood, he’ll quench his thirst.

Red leapt backwards, danger jabbing at his senses. A huge chunk of masonry crashed down where he had stood, coating him in a choking mist. The dust stung his eyes and his nose. He coughed violently, his chest hitching as his lungs struggled to cope. Over the sound of his own wracked breathing, the children sang once more, more spiteful.

Monarch is great

You are dull

We’ll all dance around your skull

Your flesh will rot, your flesh will smell

Monarch will send you straight to Hell.

Red stumbled forward, blinded from the dust but guided by an internal compass rusted from years of disuse. Behind him, disembodied voices screamed obscenities, curses and threats. He staggered on, ignoring the bullying choir, hoping that he was headed in the right direction.

A loud thump shook the building, stopping Red in his tracks. The voices stopped abruptly for a moment. The momentary silence terrified the half-blind Red more than anything. He could not see. Anything could be out there, stalking him silently. He was in no position to defend himself at the moment. Stretching his hearing to its limits, he listened for creaking floorboards, a swish of fabric, a stealthy tread.

Nothing.

Not even the scratching of a rodent.

Red focused harder.

A howl, a hurricane of screaming voices blasted him from behind. He clapped his hands to his ears, trying to muffle the soundtrack of suffering. His own flesh was no barrier. The screaming penetrated through the thickness of his palms, smashing through his eardrums and into his brain. He felt his own mouth open, a roar loosening from his throat, threatening to tear his vocal chords. The scream became a word, drawn out and tortured.

Stooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooop!

Abruptly, the bawling ceased once more.

Another chuckle boomed from above him.

Monarch had won another round.

Shakily, his eyes red, his ears ringing, Red staggered forward into another room.

Ah, my dear boy, how are you?

He had been washing his eyes out with a bottle of tonic water. The bottle flew from his hands, shattering against the cold stone floor. Quickly, Red rubbed the flat tonic water and greasy dust from his eyes before turning around. He frowned.

This is a new one.

The lounge had been well appointed once, when the pub had been at its pomp. Time had robbed the leather bench seats of their shine and supple finish. A chandelier lay in pieces across a half shattered table, surrounded by smashed chairs and tables. Scraps of cloth, shards of glass and newspaper littered the floor. Red stepped away from the bar, the crunch of bone underfoot ignored. The skeleton was too small and fragile to be human. Rodent or pet, he surmised. It was unimportant. The glowing man before him held far more interest than the mouldering remains of a small animal.

The man smiled, his immaculate moustache twitching. The smile did not reach his eyes. They were as hard as flint, devoid of any real warmth. His gaunt face – long and sharp featured – radiated a mixture of superiority and contempt. Dressed in Edwardian evening wear, black bow tie hanging limply from his throat, the man presented an incongruous figure against the brass and wood finish of the lounge. He would have been more at home in an officer’s club, sipping a peg of whiskey. The cruel smile widened.

"My thoughts must be wide open. This one’s long time dead."

The man smoothed down his black jacket, propping his luminous arms on the table. Red noted that his elbows did not pass through the table. There was some solidity to this wraith. Interesting.

I am, as are you, old chap. His tone was clipped and as cold as his eyes and the blue aura that wreathed him.

What?

The man clucked his teeth.in annoyance. Interesting, dear boy, interesting. That’s always the problem with you babus. Listening skills. Or lack of them, should I say?

The heat of anger warmed Red’s cheeks. Fighting to keep his tone civil, he replied.

Why are you here? I don’t remember-.

Remember me? No, you wouldn’t. I made this place my refuge long after your father sold. Haunting old officers club is not as amusing as it once was. Particularly half demolished ones. A shame, really. I do miss Poona. The Edwardian laughed. I miss my England too. What has my dear motherland become, eh?

Red fought the retort on his lips. Arguing with a relic of the past would not help. Information was information, even if it did come from a racist ghost.

How have you avoided the other Realms?

The Edwardian scoffed. "Avoid? Hardly, babu. One can go where one pleases. A handful of us have recognised this obscure fact. Used it to our advantage. Even in death, there is superiority. Besides, the other Realms do not possess…they do not possess the piquancy, the flavour, of our Universe. There’s much more fun to be had here."

The Edwardian favoured Red with another cruel grin. Red eyed the ghost warily, aware that this one could touch after a fashion. If he could touch, he could harm. He began to prepare himself, distracting the Edwardian by talking to him.

What about Hell?

The Edwardian raised a pencil thin eyebrow, scoffing. Limited appeal and little hope of escape. I have had word that there’s unrest brewing in the Abode of the Damned however. That could entice me. I enjoyed putting down the natives when they became restless. Certainly in India.

Red flinched, aware that the barb was aimed at him. The Edwardian was trying to anger him, throw him off balance by attacking his heritage.

Those were the days. I could snap my fingers and make blood rain from the heavens.

Growing tired of the conversation, Red backed away. The Edwardian’s face became stony. "Where do you think you’re going, babu? I did not give you permission to leave."

You’re not important. I have business here. I’ve wasted enough time with you.

No one leaves here without my permission. And without some sort of recompense. He waggled an eyebrow suggestively. You are a bit older than normal. But you’ll do. In any case, a scream is a scream whether the throat is old or young. I’m going to have you then kill you.

Red fixed the Edwardian with a glare. His anger now at boiling point, he pointed at the flickering wraith.

You won’t kill me. And you certainly won’t rape me either, you limp dicked excuse for a prick. I’m out of here. I suggest you leave too. If I find you here on my way out, there won’t be a God or Demon who’ll save you.

The Edwardian leapt from his chair, roaring his displeasure. As he stood, he gripped the edge of the heavy table, picking it up as if it were made of feathers. Red remained motionless, his body tense. Hefting the table over his head, the Edwardian hurled it at the younger man. Red raised his right hand, palm facing outwards. The table veered sharply to the left, crashing into the wall, gouging a trail along it before coming to rest on the floor. Shocked, the Edwardian clicked his fingers. A gurgling from above made Red look up. The ceiling ebbed and flow, a tidal wave of motion.

It was not water. The fluid moved too sluggishly. The metallic tang gave it away. Reaching deep within, he extracted another magick as blood began to rain from above.

"I told you, Babu. Did I not tell you, you stinking monkey? I make blood rain from the heavens."

Red nodded curtly.

You do, Colonel Blimp. But check out what I can do.

The Edwardian’s rant stopped, his mouth still agape, his eyes trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The rain of blood had stopped mid-flow, the fat droplets hovering midway between the ceiling and the floor. Spluttering, the Edwardian glared at a now smiling Red.

Stop that. Whatever you are doing, stop that right now!

Red’s grin twisted. The fear radiated from the Edwardian. He relished it, enjoying the feelings of helplessness and terror pulsing from the pompous bully.

"I said stop, babu. Don’t you niggers understand English?"

The smile vanished. The Edwardian gulped, a gesture that would have been comical in any other circumstance. Fury, cold and clinical, seized Red.

"I’ve got all this power. Let’s use it."

A small voice, rational and pleading begged him not to. There were curbs set on magicks for a reason, lines not to be crossed. Red’s anger, at the Edwardian, at the world, at himself, silenced the voice. Reaching into a deep dark corner of himself, he pulled up a secret magick, one that he had learned surreptitiously. Had Sister Cano known of this, she would have killed him there and then.

The Edwardian cowered as Red strode towards him, hands outstretched. Ebony lightning crackled at his fingertips.

Don’t touch me! Please. I beg you.

Sneering at the man’s cowardice, Red placed his hands on either side of the Edwardian’s incorporeal head. He began to mutter in a language older than the Universe he inhabited. The dark power snaked form his fingertips, tendrils of it forcing its way into the Edwardian through his nose and ears. The wraith’s skin began to wrinkle and crack as Red sucked his essence from him, stealing his energy, gorging on it. The Edwardian’s cries became feeble, his body twisting on itself as Red sucked him dry.

All of it. I want it all.

Red cackled as the pompous ghost shrivelled into nothingness, his blue glow fading into darkness.

Who makes blood rain from the sky now, eh?

"I do. I was never weak. Just too afraid."

Insight struck him. The purpose of the Trial was laid bare. Power lay in the hands of those strong enough to use it. The Reapers taught restraint, control and reserve. Laudable qualities, all of them but ultimately useless. Pleased with his new knowledge, Red stretched, cracking his fingers. His nerves sang, his mind crystal clear.

It was time to end Monarch. Once he had finished the task, The Reapers would be next. The Order needed rebuilding.

One task at a time. Multi-tasking was never my thing.

And there they are.

The twins stood at the end of the corridor, still dressed exactly the same as they had been all those years ago; blue dresses with matching white bibs at the chest. Their coppery hair- plaited and pig-tailed - hung limp from the sides of their small heads. Identical in feature and expression, the girls stepped forward in unison.

Red grinned, alert for any tricks, feints and glamours.

The twins –Kyra and Myra – had never displayed any powers during his brief time with them. They had only shown kindness and friendship at a time when he had needed it. The boy in the photograph had been painfully shy, relentlessly bullied and unmercifully mocked. Friendship, even that offered by beings not seen by anyone else, was a mercy, gratefully received and graciously returned by the boy Red had been. The souring of that friendship, made even more painful by the twins delivery of him to Monarch had scarred his psyche far more than any physical beating. Healing this scar was his true trial. Dealing with Monarch was a sideshow.

The girl on the left – Kyra – smiled. She had a tooth missing as did her sister; the same tooth he lacked in the boyhood picture. Unbidden, a memory rose like foul swap gas, bursting open, ejecting its foul content into the tired atmosphere of his mind.

"It’s the mark, Ridwan. Monarch’s mark. Once you’re marked, you’ll be one of us." The boy – Ridwan – eyed the pliers, his bottom lip trembling a little. Kyra smiled, the gap at the front looming large in his thoughts and vision. Myra, the smaller of the two, stroked his arm. He barely felt it. It was more of a light breeze than a physical touch. Yet, the heavy pliers looked as if they were in a solid grip. Ridwan knew better than to ask how Kyra did that. The black look she had given him when he asked whether she could walk through walls had chilled him to the core. He did not want to upset them. The girls were all he had. And the mysterious Monarch. The girls had assured him that he would meet Monarch soon. First, he had to prove his loyalty. The tests had been small, at first, more mischief making than harmful. The stealing of morsels of food and drink, bringing strands of hair, hats and sweatbands, anything that contained sweat, cells, even blood. All of these had been delivered to the twins, who took them away.

Lately, the tests had become larger, more strenuous, more frightening. Monarch now demanded larger offerings, still living. Newts and frogs from the scum-laden ponds eventually gave way to rats, rabbits, even a stray cat. Although, Ridwan never saw the end result, he knew in his heart that the creatures would not come out of the small coal attic door alive. One day, after offering the stray cat, he had pressed his ear to the warm wooden door. In the ten seconds before his father came upon him, dragging him away and swatting him with a large hand, Ridwan had heard the sounds of sucking, gulping and chewing.

The nightmares that followed lasted for weeks.

This sacrifice would be easy.

Nodding his consent wearily, Ridwan pulled his small delicate top lip back, exposing his baby teeth. Myra stifled a giggle beneath her tiny hands as he winced. Even through his tooth, the pliers felt bone cold.

"It only hurts for a moment", said Kyra before squeezing the pliers and pulling…

"You were wrong.