Sam Page 11

  “Jessica,” he said. “Jessica, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  Jessica looked around the room – except that she didn’t really. Her eyes were glazed over with milky cataracts. She reached out a hand and managed to locate Frank’s face. “Frank,” she said, her voice sopping with approaching tears. “I-I can’t see anything, Frank. I can’t see!”

  Frank pulled Jessica towards him and embraced her tightly. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said. “Just stay calm. We’re going to get this sorted.” Frank turned his head and made eye contact with Graham who was leaning up against the doorway. “Go and call a doctor.”

  Ashen-faced, Graham did as he was told and left to make a call.

  Angela padded across the plush carpet and sat herself down on the end of the bed. Trying to sound as calm and as soothing as possible, she spoke: “Hi, Jessica. It’s Angela. Do you know what happened?”

  Jessica turned her head in the direction of Angela’s voice, but could only gaze into nothingness. “I-I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  “Do you remember trying to jump off the balcony?”

  “What?” She sounded even more distressed at hearing that. “No, no, no. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Frank, what is she talking about?”

  Frank squeezed her into another hug. “Nothing, Jessica. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Angela turned to Tim and whispered. “She doesn’t remember trying to kill herself? Makes me wonder if she even knew what she was doing when it happened.”

  “What do you mean?” Tim whispered back. “That she was sleepwalking or something?”

  “Or in a trance. People can manipulated by hypnotic suggestion.”

  Tim sniggered then stopped himself as he no doubt remembered that Jessica’s condition was no laughing matter. “What? You think we’re dealing with the Amazing Sammie-Mundo now?”

  Angela shrugged. “I don’t know what I think yet. I’m just not so sure that Jessica tried to kill herself like we thought.”

  “You’re starting to sound a little less Scully and a little more Mulder – I like it.”

  There was a thick gurgling sound.

  Angela looked at Jessica and knew exactly what was about to happen. The lady of the house hitched forward in her bed and vomited onto the sheets. The mixture was revolting: blood mixed with bile and semi-digested food. The smell was even fouler.

  Angela fought away her body’s own reactive urge to vomit by smiling. It was an old trick she’d once learned during her visits to various hospitals on behalf of the church. For some reason it always worked.

  Frank leapt aside from the bed, narrowly avoiding the vile stream of puke. Jessica continued to expel fluids until it seemed like all that would be left were her internal organs, then she shot backwards in the bed as if seized by some invisible hand. She wept uncontrollably.

  Between sobs she managed to choke out a garbled statement. “I…I…I’m being punished for….for betraying Joseph. God is punishing me for betraying my husband. Please, please…please forgive me.”

  Then she passed out, so suddenly it was as if someone had flicked a switch in her brain.

  Tim’s face was stricken by shock. “She-she’s sleeping again? After that?”

  Frank ran a hand over Jessica’s clammy forehead. “Please, could you both give her some privacy?”

  “Of course,” said Angela. “Just let us know if we can help.”

  Angela and Tim walked down the hallway of the penthouse in silence. There was nothing yet to say as the situation currently made little sense. Jessica’s sudden maladies, such as her complete blindness and unholy sickness, seemed medically impossible. The woman had been inflicted with something malicious – maybe even poisoned. Angela had a feeling that little Sammie was responsible.

  She and Tim headed down the staircase and met Graham coming the other way. The man seemed flummoxed.

  “You okay, Graham?” Angela asked.

  “The phones aren’t working. Don’t know if it’s the weather, or what.”

  Tim seemed surprised. “Really? The rain isn’t all that bad. I can’t see how it would affect the phone lines.”

  “What do you want me to say?” said Graham. “The phone lines aren’t working. I don’t know why.”

  “Okay,” said Tim. “I’ll take a look at them. I might be able to figure something out.”

  “Be my guest,” said Graham, barging past them on the stairs and heading to the upper floor.

  “I’m starving.” Angela realised that she hadn’t eaten all day and it was now early-evening. It felt wrong thinking about her belly when Jessica was seriously in need of a doctor, but she knew herself well enough to know that she’d be little help to anyone if she was hungry.

  “Yeah, me too,” Tim agreed, “but I better go take a look at the phone lines first. Why don’t you find the kitchen and rustle up some grub. I’ll find you in a bit.”

  Angela thought it was a good idea. She watched Tim head out the front door and disappear into the rain outside. Then she headed for the west side of the house, where she expected to find the building’s kitchen.

  She found it at the end of a long corridor, its presence obvious by the double aluminium doors that marked its entrance. Inside, the kitchen was as grand as she expected it to be. A double range cooker occupied one wall beneath a large extractor fan. A full-length fridge sat beside a chest-style freezer. The equipment, along with the preparation area, was fit to feed a small army, but it was obvious that the facilities hadn’t been used anywhere near to their capacity in some time.

  Angela headed for the fridge and looked inside. The stench of rotten meat slapped her in the face, making her gag. When she examined the contents on the various shelves she saw that a mould-covered chicken carcass was the cause of the odour. Cringing, Angela grabbed the plate of spoiled poultry and flung it into a nearby bin, plate and all. The large fridge was still infested with the smell, but not so badly anymore. There was still yet another unpleasant whiff coming from the shelves, though, and Angela quickly located the two offending bottles of milk. The white substance inside had curdled into a malignant paste that she eagerly tossed in the bin to accompany the noxious chicken.

  Don’t they throw anything out around here?

  And God knows what they actually eat. They must get a lot of take out, I guess.

  Angela gave up on the rancid fridge and instead rooted inside the cupboards. Eventually, she found a large box of mini cookies and some still-in-date crisps. It wasn’t a feast, by any means, but it would do for now. She laid her finds out on one of the stainless steel work counters and pulled up a stool beside it.

  The slightly-stale cookies tasted heavenly. Her stomach gurgled as it was being filled. She would have to be careful not to eat them all; Tim would be by soon.

  The smell of the rotten chicken wafted over to her from the bin. The odour of spoiled flesh triggered unwelcome memories in her. Memories of that day at the church. Images of Charles Crippley hacking into innocent people with his bloody butcher knife. The scene played back in her mind like a grainy VHS videotape.

  When Charles Crippley had walked down the aisle that Sunday morning, Angela knew right away that the man’ fractured mind had finally been reduced to kindled splinters. Her attempts to help him over the previous few weeks had resulted only in the worsening of his condition.

  The look on Charles’s face as he stalked down the centre of the church was bestial. He was more animal than he was human. He proved it when he began tearing apart those in his path like a lion ripping apart gazelles. Before long, the church was a carpet of pink flesh and leaking fluids. Eventually Angela was the only one that was left. A lone woman facing down a beast.

  Out of instinct, Angela had begun performing the rites she’d learned from the Rituale Romanum. She renounced the Devil and implored Jesus Christ to protect her from evil. Charles had snarled and growled at her, but seemed unable to approach. He strangely kept his distance as if held bac
k by some invisible force.

  I’ll burn your flesh in hell, you pussy-licking cunt! He had screamed at her. I will tear your soul apart.

  Angela had continued with The Rites, shutting out the vile curses of the madman before her and the sight of her mutilated flock. She closed her eyes to the bodies of her former friends and parishioners and instead concentrated on the love of Christ and the power of the Lord. Even when Charles managed to finally take a step forward, plunging his knife into her chest, she had continued undeterred. There was no pain to inhibit her, for she was protected.

  She had felt the presence of the Lord in every part of her being.

  Eventually her words brought Charles Crippley to his knees. The bloody knife fell from his hands and cluttered against the flagstones as he frantically clutched at his chest. It was the obvious signs of a heart attack. The strength of Angela’s beliefs had stopped the man’s heart dead. It was then that she knew, with absolute certainty, that God existed. What she could not understand, however, was why He’d allowed over a dozen people to die on the floor of His church.

  Charles stared up at her from his knees, eyes bulging from his skull as the pressure inside of him rose. Despite his approaching death, the man still managed to speak to her, although it was not with his usual voice. It was somebody else’s. “YOU HAVE WON NOTHING, PRIEST. YOUR TIME OF AGONY WILL COME. YOUR DEATH WILL LAST AN ETERNITY. YOU WILL DIE A LONELY MATRYR IN A WAR ALREADY LOST, ANGELA MURS.

  Then Charles Crippley had died right at her feet.

  “Yuck! It stinks like my ass in here.”

  Angela was yanked from her memories by Tim entering the kitchen. She was glad of his presence and almost felt like he had rescued her. The memories had been about to send her insane.

  “Oh, great,” Tim said. “Are those chocolate chip?”

  Angela pushed the box of cookies across the table towards him. “Did you manage to call help for Jessica?”

  “Afraid not. The phones are totally dead, just like Graham said. I can’t work it out. Frank is heading out now to get help.”

  Angela frowned. “Didn’t he want to send Graham or Mike?”

  Tim shrugged. “I think he wanted to make sure it got done as quickly as possible. The guy is one totally freaked-out mamajama.”

  “I know. I get the impression there’s more to his relationship with Jessica than meets the eye.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that, too. You know what sucks about this whole thing?”

  Angela popped a crisp into her mouth and began munching. “What?” she asked between chews.

  Tim picked out a cookie and examined it before he ate it. Once he was done, he said, “While Frank is gone, he left Graham in charge.”

  “Oh, no,” said Angela. “The Devil really is at work in this house.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The rain beat against the windows like the march of an approaching army. Thunder rumbled constantly. Mike hadn’t slept for more than a few hours, but he could survive on less. The hiding sun, barely peeking out from behind the nearby forest told him that it was early evening.

  A few moments ago, Graham had woken Mike up with a sudden clap of his hands, then given him five minutes to get ready and join him in Jessica’s room. Graham hadn’t explained what was going on, but Mike assumed from his colleague’s rattled manner that some crisis had occurred in the house.

  He left the bedroom and then headed back up to the penthouse. The door to Jessica’s room had been left ajar and Graham was inside.

  “Hey,” said Mike. “So what’s been going on?”

  “I need you to watch Ms Raymeady until Frank gets back. He’s left me in charge and I need to keep an eye on the house guests.”

  “Okay,” said Mike, not quite understanding. He noticed the putrid stains on Jessica’s bedsheets and motioned towards her with a thrust of his chin. “She okay?”

  Graham shrugged. “Fucked if I know. She’s gone blind.”

  Mike spluttered. “Blind?”

  “As a bat. I’d clean her up a bit, but she’ll probably just puke again as soon as she wakes up. Frank’s already left for the hospital to get help. The phones aren’t working, so we couldn’t call.”

  “Really? That’s weird. Okay, well, you do what you need to do. I’ll keep an eye on everything here.”

  “Thanks, Mike.” Graham put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “I’ll be happy when those two are out of the house and we can get back to doing an honest day’s work, rather than hanging around and babysitting people. This stuff is no good for my heart, you know?”

  Mike smiled at his colleague and patted the hand that was on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, buddy. Things will be over soon enough.”

  “I hope so. As much as this all narks me, I think this family has suffered enough. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  Mike watched Graham walk away, then took a seat beside Jessica’s bed and examined her. He couldn’t see her eyes, since she was sleeping, but all colour had drained from her skin, making her flesh look like porcelain. She was a sleeping doll--her beauty a stark contrast to the ghastliness of her vomit-stained sheets. Mike wondered why nobody had bothered to change them.

  People can be so thoughtless.

  He got up and wandered out into the corridor, then opened up one of the linen closets that housed spare bedding. After selecting a thick bed sheet from the neatly-ordered pile, he headed back inside Jessica’s room and stripped away her dirty linen.

  She stirred slightly as he covered her with the fresh blanket. “Frank?”

  “No, Jessica. It’s Michael. How are you feeling?”

  “I…I can’t see. No, wait…I-I can. I can see.” She sat bolt upright in the bed, like a spring had triggered in her spine. Mike tried to ease her back down, but she pushed him away. “I’m fine. I need to get up. I…”

  She tried to get herself out of bed but her strength failed her. She fell back down onto her elbows, out of breath.

  “You need to rest.”

  “W-what is wrong with me? I…I want Frank. I need to see Sammie.”

  “Sammie is fine. Frank has gone to get you a doctor.”

  “What? Why? I’m fine.” She tried to get up again. Once again she failed.

  “You’re not fine, Jessica. You need checking over. Maybe you’ve just caught a nasty bug or something, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’m sure Frank won’t be long.”

  Jessica was confused; the lack of understanding was carved into her face. The poor woman really must not remember a thing.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “You tried to kill yourself,” Mike explained, hoping she’d remember.

  Jessica shook her head. “That’s impossible. You’re lying. Where’s Frank?”

  Mike felt his patience thinning. “I told you. He’ll be back soon.”

  “This is all because of this wicked house. It’s fucking cursed. It took Joseph and now it’s trying to take me. I can’t stand it anymore.”

  Jessica pushed herself up in the bed and this time managed to swing her legs round onto the floor. Mike reached out to grab her but she was up on her feet too quickly and he missed. She was unsteady on her feet and almost stumbled to the floor. She managed to correct herself after a few unbalanced steps.

  Mike got out his chair and followed after her.

  She headed over to the room’s wardrobes. “I need to get dressed,” she said. “Please leave.”

  “I can’t do that,” Mike explained. “I’m here to keep you safe. You need to remain here in the house.”

  “I’m going downstairs, Michael. I need to see my son. I’m taking him out of here right now before anything else happens.” She began to sort through the clothes racks, looking for something she wanted to wear.

  Mike stepped up behind her and wrapped his arm around her neck. He squeezed hard, imagining he was trying to pop her head right off her shoulders.

  Jessica began to fade quickly,
already weak from sickness. The pressure on her carotid artery was sapping her brain of oxygen and unconsciousness was bearing down on her fast.

  Mike felt her go limp in his arms. He dragged her back over to the bed and laid her down gently. With her current state of mind, she’d most likely remember nothing at all of this, but even if she did, he would just deny it, make her think she was going crazy. It would be easy considering recent events.

  Jessica and Sammie were going to stay in this house whether they liked it or not. It was his job to keep them there and that’s what he was going to do. No matter what.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tim sat outside Sammie’s room and calibrated his equipment. He was past the point where he felt any of it would do any good, but it was still important to maintain it. This wasn’t going to be his last job, after all.

  Although it’s starting to feel like it.

  The urge to flee, to just get the hell out of there, was rising in him again. An atmosphere drenched the house. It was…foreboding…for want of a better cliché. It felt as if danger was lurking around every corner.

  And the epicentre – the reason for it all – is a ten-year old boy in the next room.

  Tim’s primary intention, whenever he was on a job, was to disprove any claims of ghosts and monsters. He was past that motivation now. There was little doubt that an unnatural presence resided in the house. The others might not admit it, but he knew better.

  Tim had met true evil once before. At a hotel in Basingstoke: The Grey Gardens Hotel. Tim and his brother had been called to the hotel to investigate any environmental factors there may have been for a spate of recent deaths at the building. So many accidents had occurred that the hotel was now closed to the public.

  At that point in his life, Tim had possessed zero belief in the paranormal. He and his brother were simple conmen – dazzling people with expensive gadgets and pointless tests. The money was good and the work was easy.

  But things changed the evening they slept in that hotel.