Perpetual Penance

It is a pitiful thing to see something once so beautiful reduced to this scuttling mess; fingers scraping against concrete as the sobs wrack its skeletal frame. Like the rats that share the cell, it writhes in its own filth, a fitting punishment for one such as this. Those that stand and watch feel nothing for this thing, this creature; no pity for one who was once as they are. The cell is unlocked and they drag it by the hair across the marble floor, its screams incoherent and primal; its broken wings scratching against the angry welts covering its naked body. They sweep it past others that reach out to them between the bars, faceless shadows of what they once were. It is not yet their time but for this one, Judgement has arrived.

The doors slam as they depart and it is left cowering in a bloodied heap. “Sophiel, so very glad you could make it. I hope the journey was not too unpleasant?” She gazes through eyes still adjusting to the light to see one the Seraphim seated on a dais above her, fingers steepled against his chin. “He has given instruction that you may be released; once certain conditions have been agreed upon, of course.” Was this more punishment? Had they not had enough of this torment or could it be that she might truly be allowed atone for her sins? It was but a moment of uncertainty; the rebellion had awoken something within her but she had not followed Satan into the war. She had watched from the sides as the battle raged and angels on both sides fell until at last Michael rose triumphant and banished those that opposed Him back to Earth. She had shaken away the doubts that nagged at her but still she had been hauled from her bed late into the night and thrown into Tartarus; fifteen lifetimes she had spent in that hole. “Anything” she croaked and the Seraph rose and extended his hand. 
 
He smiles as he rapes me. He thrusts with the knife and with his body, tearing and ripping at the flesh beneath but I am not what he sees. He sees the girl; the girl who is safely sleeping in her bed where I left her with no memory of my visit. I am her cuckoo. For each of the angels thrown down to earth, I must die in place of one of His children. The ones that are destined for a greater good should not and will not be taken from the Earth by such as this creature which looms over me. I can feel both his blades inside me and disgust wells within that something this vile should exist in this place that we have vowed to protect. I feel the mortal body dying around me and close my eyes.

He stands above the bloody mess and wipes himself against her hair. He thinks it’s a shame she didn’t scream like the others; didn’t thrash and bite as he took her. He likes that. He thinks of her nails scratching deep into his skin, exciting him again and he looks down on her willing form as again he starts to harden. He hesitates. Her eyes were closed. Why then are they looking at him and WHY ARE THEY MOVING?

My hands take his throat and I feel His wrath flow through my fingers as the light enters him and I can only hope that he feels the pain I did, the pain that he wanted for the girl. My father’s vengeance is dreadful in its beauty and I turn away as his soul burns. I drop him to the floor and the rain starts to fall on his limp body, washing away the sins of the past.

As I wait for another to be sent, I think about how my life is to be. My clothes stink and I am hungry and wet but at least I am free. I will try not to complain. I will do His work and the eternity that stretches before me is one that I deserve. I am here to protect His children and if I am to die for each of them then it is but a small thing; a single grain of sand in the desert of misery that His son endured. I understand the need to preserve the goodness in these people but why are they also so full of hate? So many that pass me huddled in this doorway look through me, if they turn their heads at all. They too do not see me but this time no celestial glamour is required to cloud their vision. They tell me that this is simply their way; too busy, too scared or too wrapped up in their own issues to care for the problems of others. I find it difficult to understand. I rub my hands together and pull them into my armpits away from the cold.

I see a boy playing in a park, laughing as he runs after the balloon mummy gave him for his birthday. It’s red, the same colour as his hat and mittens. I watch the momentary puffs of breath as he runs; a steam train on uncertain tracks. He shouldn’t go far; mummy said that she and daddy were setting up the ‘PIKNIK’ especially for him but that he could play until they were ready. The balloon is drifting towards the woods where a man waits. He is sad and he is lonely and I sense his thoughts of…oh Father NO!

I come awake with a start, my mouth dry and heart hammering in my chest. I gather my belongings into my plastic bag and melt into the night towards the boy.

For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone (Psalm 91:10-12)

Eight Men in a Boat

I’ve never really liked boats. It’s the deceit in which they present themselves. Gently tugging at their mooring; a vision of serenity as they bob to and fro, waves lapping tenderly against the hull. Lulling me into thoughts of long summer days floating on cloudy peaks as the breeze caresses my face. Land far behind; the ocean's tears on my lips and the horizon my ambition. I would be free; free to roam the planet with only my wits, my strength and the breath of God to guide me. The reality however is somewhat different. The instant I step aboard, my insides lurch and my legs lose their natural ability to keep me upright. The vicious dark water beneath trying desperately to unnerve and unbalance until it can reach in and drag me down. Don’t even get me started on sharks. Damn you Spielberg.

So why am I here? What could have convinced me to set aside the solidity and familiarity of terra firma for this? A sense of adventure I suppose; an inbuilt desire to challenge myself and my place in the world (the fact that there are no decent mountains within easy access might also have had something to do with it), but I digress. Here I am and I’m ready to roll. Signed up and kitted out for a battle against the elements and a chance to test myself against the might and fury of the ocean. A journey where I’ll find out more about the man within, the true worth of what I am. I’m going sea fishing.

I’ve been fishing before obviously but this might prove more of a test than hanging my piece of garden cane (with size 12 hook) over a rock pool and keeping very quiet. I’m not sure the need for silence was entirely necessary but Grandad was especially particular about that. He used to rock back and forth humming one of those tunes that you recognise but can’t quite place while small puffs of smoke escaped the corner of his mouth. I think it was there with pipe and rod that he was happiest; away from Gran and her constant craving for conversation. God she could talk. He told me once that the milkman chose to deliver in the dead of night just to avoid her smiling face waiting there on the doorstep for him.

I pull into the car park to find that most of the others have already arrived. Why Mike chose this as a stag do instead of the usual drink until you drop affair only he knows but cocky smile, smoke lit and step with spring all present and correct, I get out there as though I’m happy to be along for the ride. I’m greeted with a chorus of “Geeeeeeezer”s and once the shadow boxing and back slapping have settled I wander over to Marcus. I used to work with him way back when but now only see him at weddings, funerals and the likes of today. “Thought you weren’t into all this?” he asks waving around at the boats in the distance. “I’m not. But you know, Pete’s wedding and all. What can I do?” Nodding, he offers me another smoke and we soon settle back into that comfortable conversation that distinguishes friends from acquaintances.

“Come on then boys, we’re good to go”, Mike shouts and as a group we bounce (or trudge) towards the old man waving from the other side of the car park. He leads us up onto the dock and towards a weary looking blue boat that looks about to fall apart in fright at our approach. “You gotta be kidding me” I mutter to no-one in particular and with steps as light as fairy wings I board. I find a place about half way down as I can’t decide which end might be safest and hug my knees as the guy goes through his safety talk. We’re given bait and rods and with what sounds suspiciously like a backfire we set off.

Almost immediately I can feel the sea shaking the bottom of the boat like a snow globe, wanting me to join the flakes floating through the nothingness. I light up again which helps a little and pop the bait onto the hook. With a stomach better suited to washing clothes than breaking down food I pull myself up just as we break out of the harbour and into the open sea. Marcus looks over and begins a remarkable impression of a man about to turn inside out just to make me feel better. What are mates for eh? Ignoring him I cast and settle down onto the bench that runs down the centre of our little vessel.

Three hours later and the boredom is starting to kick in. The lack of beer on board (safety issue don’t you know) is causing consternation and nobody has had even a whiff of a bite when it happens. The rod suddenly comes alive in my hand; I’ve got one! Wearing my smugness like a windbreaker I lap up the bitterness all around, plant my feet firmly against the hull and start to reel it in. Man against beast, intelligence against nature, the hunter and its prey in the perpetual struggle for the ownership of life. I breathe deeply and try to centre myself to avoid being drawn into the maelstrom of adrenaline that stalks on the periphery of my emotion. I become the hook, biting and gripping against the terrified thrashing. I feel the tension slacken as at last fatigue stands shoulder to shoulder with me and the monster starts to tire, the fight for survival almost at an end as I pull it towards me and oblivion. With a final gargantuan effort that saps the final dregs of my strength I drag the beast from the depths.

With laughter ringing in my ears, I console myself with thoughts of the quid I’ll get if I return it to Tesco.

Lucien

They say that pride comes before a fall. Believe me, I know how that feels.

All I wanted was a little parity, acknowledgement of the effort that I’d put in. Sound the trumpets and sing Hosanna, for He made the Earth in six days and on the seventh He rested? He wasn’t alone in creating the first of the Worlds but as I found out well enough, you can’t argue with the Good Book. With the apology hardly out of my mouth, I fell.

Once the first had been created, you, His image unknowingly made the others. Your dreams, so real and rich with life opened tiny fissures in the fabric of creation which stretched and grew over time to become the other worlds that you glimpse each night but never truly see.

My original name is misunderstood here on Earth so for now I am Lucien and as I sit here sipping coffee in the park on a hot sunny day I wonder how the hell I’m going to get back. The last time I spoke to one of those still above watching over you, he mentioned that there was talk of Him relaxing his stance a little. The longer the world turns the tighter people seem to wind and the scales are starting to tip away from Him. He may therefore allow some of us back, an end to our ascension detention if you will.

You wander past me on your way to work, happily unaware that they walk among you. The lesser demons mostly, either escaped through small tears in the surface or summoned. Those that call them have but an inkling of what they do. They read through the ancient texts and recite the words of summoning. With power comes responsibility is not a mantra that they seem to heed. On the whole though, they’re relatively harmless, simply revelling in the freedom and mischief they find on the outside. They use your nightly travels between the Worlds as highways, hitching rides until they find something somewhere to entertain.

Occasionally though something altogether more ancient and flagitious arrives. They reside within the perverts and the paedophiles. You see the stories in the newspapers, on the news and can feel their vile touch. The stories that make you huddle just a little closer together, discussing in hushed voices. The ones with children, the innocent taste the sweeter.

Like the one I’m watching now in the café opposite.

It hides itself well. It’s within the man in the grey pinstripe suit, the one with the crisp white shirt and black horn-rimmed glasses flicking through the newspaper. His head is angled slightly and a slight smile coats his lips. His languid movements do not betray the turbulence that I know lies barely beneath the surface as it stalks. His fingers tap on the table top, dancing to an invisible song, a pause, it sees someone.

He stands and his arm brushes against a young woman in a pale yellow dress transferring to her. She hesitates as the sudden change momentarily stuns her, then seeing the prey ahead reaches out to touch the jogger in the grey tracksuit as he passes. This is how they move in daylight. The human contact that you crave bringing you comfort, reminding you that you belong to something bigger, turned against you.

I see the target, a child of around five with blue shorts holding his mother’s hand as they head towards the swings. The jogger excuses himself as he collides with her and disappears around a bend. The mother stiffens and changes direction suddenly pulling her son along with her as she heads back to the street, her son complaining bitterly. I follow at a distance, trying to keep them in view without it seeing me. My caution seems to be unnecessary. She doesn’t look back as she walks dragging him crying behind her. Her everything is in her hands.

They come to a halt at a white Victorian semi detached house with flowers in the garden. She unlocks the door and I notice thankfully that no dog comes bounding out to greet them. As they enter I cross to the gate attached to the side of the house and close my eyes concentrating on the lock on the other side. Once through and at the back of the house, I stop and steady my breath. I can feel it moving through the house within her. I enter through the back door. The house is quiet; the kitchen that I’m standing in has an ordered feel to the surfaces, clean and functional. The toys scattered on the floor in stark contrast. I hear the creak of the floorboards above and head for the stairs.

I take out the knife and climb. One step at a time, I concentrate solely on the movements, lightly placing my feet, breathing shallowly through my nose. I must keep quiet. As I reach the top I can hear them talking behind the closed door to the left of the landing. The doorframe splinters as I crash through the door. The boy is wide eyed and screaming as I plunge the knife into his mother, I really don’t want to kill her but only when trapped within a body can it be destroyed. I tear and rip at her insides and can see it behind those frightened eyes looking for an exit. It tries to flow into me, but pulls back when it realise what I am. Holding her to me I feel the life drain away with the blood until I’m holding a heavy empty shell.

I watch her shining soul drift away on the air. The acrid stench in the room slowly dissipates as it flows back to the darkness from whence it came. My task complete, I turn smiling to the boy who is trembling in the corner of the room. He doesn’t speak but makes small noises shaking his head in disbelief.

Wiping the blade on my trousers I advance on the boy apologising to Him once again.

Even angels need to feed.

Risen

The swaying leaves whisper to each other on the warm breeze as he weaves his way through the skeletal branches; the rippling growing ever louder as their frustration and anger mounts. Why does he not stop and explain what worries him so? They can feel his anxiety and panic, as he races through the cooling green canopy. He cannot stop. He must not stop. He has risen again.

Celeborn and Galadriel had known that one of the Nazgûl, Khamûl had taken residence in Dol Guldur away to the East and although wary, were content to keep the peace and let the evil lay where it could be watched. An understanding had been reached that the Galadhrim would stay close to Lothlórien and Khamûl would remain within the confines of the fortress. This had been how they had lived for many years. Recently, however The Grey, Mithrandir had been seen in the area and thus Haldir had been dispatched to find why one of the Old Ones walked among them. His brother Orophin had wanted to go, being the eldest, but in this Galadriel herself had interceded. “Speed, not strength is necessary for such a task and none are quicker than your little brother” she had reasoned and Orophin had bowed his acquiescence.

The evening was closing in and Haldir wasn’t keen to cross the river Anduin in darkness. He shivered as he remembered the nights when he and his brothers sat around the fire as their mother warned them of the wraiths that swirled within the mists rising from the river’s edge; a single touch of their ethereal fingers enough to draw the light from their golden hearts until only empty husks remained. He had to put such childish nightmares behind him and concentrate on the task at hand; he needed to warn them of what he had seen. A nagging tightness had started to form in his leg and although he had been running for many hours, cursed at the frailty of his young body. Urgency was paramount, but he would need to rest before crossing the great expanse of water.

Reaching into his pouch for the lembas, he looked around him and as he broke off a piece of the bread and thought of how much his people had to lose. The forest wrapped snug around his shoulders would always be a dark, lonely place to human eyes, whereas to his, the vibrancy and life within swelled his heart and filled him with love. The Galadhrim felt attuned to the trees in a way that humans could never understand; a sense of belonging rather than ownership of the world around them. Yet all would be destroyed; the green carpet stretching as far North as the Grey Mountains would become a river of ash and fire if Sauron had once again taken form. Celeborn would need to talk to Oropher, who had withdrawn to the North, to Mirkwood. The bread had eased the cramps somewhat and he felt a glimmer of hope as the warmth spread slowly through his body.

His head shot up as he felt it approaching, his senses at once alert to the presence that the forest seemed to scream and shrink from. From the East; a rushing malevolence that permeated through his skin and wrapped itself around his heart. Something was tracking him and coming fast. He secured the bow to his back, tightened the leather straps holding the curved knives to his side and slowly rose to his feet. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, battling against the cold terror that gnawed at him, to find a peace within the maelstrom of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. For fully a minute he stood still and silent until at last the fear started to dissipate and he opened his eyes again, wondering what foul creature Sauron could have released that would have such an effect on him.

His eyes slowly scanned the horizon watchful for movement that would reveal the path the hunter was taking, his keen eyes battling against the darkness as the sun edged ever lower. A dark shadow suddenly rose to his left followed by an angry chattering as the cloud of crows announced that what he searched for was closer than he had hoped. He broke into a run towards the river, towards home, not wanting to turn his head and face the evil that hounded him. He unclasped the bow from his back as he ran and nocked an arrow to the string ready for the moment when he would need to stand his ground. He could feel invisible hands reaching for him, the flap of leathery wings as it swept onwards towards him.

He turned and fired, feeling the arrow wend its way through the maze of trees, hungry for soft flesh to welcome it home. A keening cry pierced the air and he screamed as his hands clamped to his ears, dropping the bow to the ground. He fell to his knees trying to shut out the horror of the sound that invaded every inch of him. His stomach twisted and hot bile flew from his mouth onto the ground around him as he tried to shut out the sound. The wail turned to a low growl and as he struggled to his feet, he saw it coming through the gloom towards him.

He had heard tell of Balrogs, but nothing could have prepared him for what now came crashing towards him, ripping trees from the ground and tossing them aside as its dark wings unfurled to cloak the moon. The whip it held shimmered with black flame and it thundered once against the dark sky as it watched him scrambling alone in the mud.

Haldir unclipped his knives and rose to face him.

Danse Macabre

Officer Petrie looked down on the broken body and wondered what kind of world he lived in where man could be capable of such a thing.

“Jesus Mick, will you give it a fucking rest” he shouted at his partner who was doubled up and retching uncontrollably.

Petrie dragged Mick away from the body towards the end of the alley.

“Stay there” he ordered and returned to the shapeless form hidden behind the nightclub bins.

He knelt next to the body and breathed heavily against the wave of nausea that threatened to overcome him. Each of the fingers had been broken and bent backwards on her hands; the tips were a bloody mess where nails had once been. What should have been in her stomach now lay between her legs and her head had been thrust into the cavity. The face, which once must have been pretty, was now frozen in pain as though Munch himself had laid his brushes to flesh and the lips; oh God the lips. They had been cut from her mouth and arranged against the milky skin on her thighs to spell out the numbers 555. Petrie picked up his radio and called it in.

“Yeah, we’ve got another one.”

By the time Jack Quinn arrived, the alleyway was a seething mass of people. Scenes of crime officers, reporters and detectives all bound together in the rush for information. He spotted Petrie standing away from the throng and wandered over.

“You found her?” he asked quietly, aware that the man was still working through the emotions that bubbled to the surface on cases like this. Petrie nodded and turned away as tears started to fall slowly down his cheeks. “I’m sorry man but I need to push you here”, Jack added. “When you found her was there a smell; something that didn’t belong?”

Petrie turned back towards him and Jack saw the anger threatening to erupt.

“A smell; I find that…her like that and you want to know what she fucking smelled like?”

Jack held his hands up to placate him and backed away slightly giving him room.

“Not what she smelled like, something that shouldn’t have been there, please this is important. You know there have been others and you know others will follow if we don’t find him.”

Petrie’s eyes seemed to soften at that and Jack saw him working back through the scene, walking through it step by step in his mind.

”There was so much blood; smeared everywhere. All I could smell was that at first but yeah, I didn’t think much of it but, this is stupid but there was something sweet there, something floral.”

Jack smiled and put his hand on Petrie’s shoulder.

“Thanks man, seriously. Get out of here and get some sleep”

As Jack drove he tried to put the pieces together in his mind. He was sure that the smell of flowers was something, but what? It had been mentioned in the report when the first body had been found but nobody had picked up on it until the third had been pulled out of the river. The water should have driven all scent away from the body other than that of decomposing flesh but the divers had mentioned the delicate smell so at odds with the circumstances. That had prompted the team to go back through the previous files.

He had originally been allocated as a single detective but as the body count grew so did the investigation and there were now five of them chasing this down. Once the papers had gotten hold of the story, the pressure had started to be exerted from above. ‘The Fiend of 555’ they called him. God how he hated the monikers the media handed out like candy to these animals. These people were unhinged and incapable of remorse and pity. Naming them simply added structure and reality to the delusional worlds in which they lived.

As he pulled into the small driveway he lit a cigarette and took a long drag letting the smoke flow deeply through his lungs, calming him. Flowers would have to wait but as to the significance of 555 he wanted answers and hopefully this guy was going to have some answers.

When a murder investigation starts, especially a multiple, the crazies flock to the phones and taking the call from Simon Caldwell told Jack that the deluge had begun. As soon as Caldwell identified himself as a student of Occultism Jack was ready to get him booked for wasting police time. Caldwell however continued to talk over the protests and disbelief and slowly the irritation gave way to incredulity as he gave details of the murders that had not been released to the public.

When Jack had pressed him on how he had known about the lips (they had told the papers that the 555 had been written in blood), he had simply replied that it was the only way that they could be summoned. When he had queried the ‘They’, Caldwell had replied that it would be better for them to meet in person as a telephone call could not properly convey the danger that was approaching.

Jack had never had much time for religion and his knowledge of the occult was non-existent but however sceptical he might be, the information about the lips had intrigued him and so had agreed to a meeting at Caldwell’s house. He opened the door and stepped out to the bite of an October evening. Pulling his collar up against the cold, he approached the porch and knocked.

The warm light that spilled over him as the door opened immediately extinguished any preconceptions that he had of dark rooms with strange runes written into blood spattered walls. Simon Caldwell also was nothing like the dark brooding figure he had envisioned. He was in fact a rather cheerful looking man with an air of intelligence that shone from his bright constantly jumping eyes. He was wearing a grey pair of trousers, white shirt with a brown cardigan and a pair of flannel slippers.

“Please” he offered with a wave, showing Jack though the doorway, “do come in.”

He followed through a long hallway lined either side with oil paintings. Jack had no interest in art but the beauty of the images he passed called out to him and seemed to lift his mood. “Beautiful aren’t they?” Caldwell said as he caught him staring at them. “I’ve always loved art. I’m unfortunately rather useless myself but I love to collect. Being able to capture the emotion and essence of something is a special talent indeed.” Jack nodded and reached out to touch one of the figures contained within.

As his fingers brushed the canvas a tremor of unease rushed through his body and the image seemed to melt and congeal before his eyes. The children that had been playing in the field grew larger and darker. Wings erupted from their bloody backs and as the grass wilted and turned to rock, their black mouths full of razor sharp teeth opened wide to him, dark and hungry. He felt a tug on his arm and turned to see Caldwell looking at him with a strange smile.

“You shouldn’t touch” he said and beckoned him through to a doorway to their left. Glancing back at the painting, the children were happily playing again and with a shake of his head he followed.

The room they stepped into reminded Jack of the world that Conan Doyle had created for him as a teenager. The wooden panelling, the bookshelves crammed with heavy looking books and the log fire burning brightly all brought to mind the room where Holmes would sit and ponder on a case while sipping at a glass of whiskey and puffing gently on his pipe. He had known at an early age that he wanted to follow in those fictional footsteps and felt immediately at home.

They settled into large leather wingbacks and Caldwell poured tea from a silver teapot decorated with an intricate design.

“Unless you’d like something stronger?”

Jack shook his head but pulled out his packet of cigarettes with a questioning look.

“Of course, the ashtray is on the side.”

Jack lit one and took a sip of the tea which was deliciously hot and sweet. Settling back into the softness of the chair, he crossed his legs and looked at Caldwell.

“So tell me about this summoning”

“Every thing that exists, has existed or will ever exist has an opposite. Dark and light, good and evil and yin and yang; all are simply different faces of the same coin. Occultists have always been feared, but we are simply searchers of truth; looking for answers where there are none, asking the questions which must not be asked. “

“Religion has always shunned us, believing that the texts that they have access to give them the truth of their existence. But each of them holds different books with different truths, so who is to say which of them hold the answers? God, as is believed here is the Godhead, the holy trinity of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Together they are one, multiples of a whole. If we take this as truth, then of course the opposite must be true and another made of three but joined as one must also be. “

“These are the beings that those that are killing are searching; the three faces of evil; Ba’al, Oriax and Vetis. The deaths are sacrifice to these three and the lips are used to call them to this plane, where they will become whole, become one and tip the edge on which man perpetually balances towards their own aim. The founding of a Hell on Earth where the Devil will reign”

The ash on Jack’s cigarette sat precariously, ready to fall as he sat open mouthed trying to take in what had just been said.

“The numbers?” he lamely managed.

“Ah yes the numbers. Five as you will know is the number of sides on a pentagram or pentangle if you will. These are the embodiment of the five classical elements of air, water, earth, fire and the divine. Turning these upside down, overturns the natural order of things and thus acts as a doorway into which evil can step. The etching of the numbers into the skin is a calling card; the three fives are the three pentangles, the three doorways into which the demons will be drawn.”

Jack placed the now extinct cigarette in the glass ashtray and put his head in his hands.

“I can help you” Caldwell said. “I know these people. I know their beliefs, their motivation and their rituals. Let me help?”

Jack looked at the man opposite him and couldn’t believe that any of this was real. Nothing the man had said made any sense, Demons, God and the Devil? How the hell was he going to get this past his superiors? Nevertheless, this was the only link he had however out there is sounded and…

”Flowers” he suddenly exclaimed.

“I’m sorry” said Caldwell.

“After we’ve found the bodies, there’s been a smell of flowers around the bodies.”

Caldwell eased out of the chair and crossed to the bookshelf which swallowed the far wall.

“Just a minute, let me see…ah yes.”

He took out a tattered looking book and brought it back over to the table that sat between them. He started carefully turning the pages which looked ready to simply crumble into dust until he stopped.

“Jonquil” he said with a smile. “Each flower tends to represent a power and Jonquil is used to show desires fulfilled. I would think it likely that the killer or killers rub themselves with the oil from the flowers to show that they desire this above all else.”

Jack shook his head. As crazy as all of this sounded, the guy seemed to be making sense in a warped kind of way and this was the first lead of any kind that seemed to have any legs.

“Ok” he said, “where do we start?”

Driving through the dark narrow lanes, Jack wondered whether not keeping his team in the loop about where he was going was such a good idea. He had no back up and no-one was aware where he was going but damn if he was going to try and explain what was going on. He’d have to take the risk.

They had spent most of the previous night trying to make connections to lead them forward. Caldwell had an extensive library in his house and Jack left him poring over books while he had logged onto the central computer to trace the deaths onto a map looking for an area in which to search. As he was marking the pins into the board, Caldwell had jumped up from his seat and hurried across to him.

“Don’t you see? Five, five always five” he had said shaking his head.

Jack had looked at the blue and red pins in the map and hadn’t been able to see a damn thing.

“Here” Caldwell had said pointing at an area where no pin existed. “You have four bodies. If the fifth were here and you were to draw lines between the five you would have….”

“A pentagram” Jack had exclaimed.

It had been so simple when they had something to link them with. Caldwell had nodded excitedly and had centred his search in the area between the four existing and one imaginary pin to find the location to which they were currently heading.

“Pull over” Jack said tapping the map as they approached the crossroads, “the house should be a few hundred yards further on. We’ll walk from here.”

They had waited until early evening as the light was starting to fail so that they could approach without being seen. The cloud cover was heavy and only a suggestion of moonlight gave them any visibility. He went to the boot and pulled out the huge Maglite he always kept there.

“Let there be light” he mumbled and together they started towards the house.

From what they had read, Learbourne house had once been a family home, the majestic columns which adorned the façade had started to crumble with age and the occupiers had opted to sell rather than renovate. The house had then been bought by a company named Diaballein Associates of which very little information could be gathered.

Walking up to the huge iron gates which protected the driveway, they could see lights and movement from the ground floor windows. Jack turned off the torch and looked along the fence line.

“Come on, we’ll get in over there below the trees.”

He was up and over the fence heading towards the house when he realised that Caldwell wasn’t with him. Hurrying back to the fence he saw him standing on the other side with a pained expression on his face.

“I’ve never been particularly athletic” he said by way of an explanation and shrugged his shoulders at Jack’s growl.

“Ok, stay here and keep your head down. I’m going to go and have a nose around. If I see anything dodgy I’ll call it in and meet you back here. Ok?”

Caldwell nodded. Jack passed him the torch and melted back into the darkness heading for the house.

He could hear the muffled noise of voices as he got closer to the building and music floated through an open window. Were they having a party of some kind? Ducking below a large stone window sill, his back against the cold wall he caught his breath and as always made sure his phone was on silent. It had gone off years ago when he was a beat officer and was part of a five man team getting ready to smash the front door of a drug den in; never again.

He crept round to the side of the house and tried to open the first unlit window he came across. It was shut tight so he moved onto the next and the next until eventually as he was almost at the back of the house one shifted. Carefully he pushed up the heavy sash window and climbed into the dark room. His feet landed on soft carpet and he took a moment to let his eyes get accustomed to the light. He was in a storeroom of some kind. There were boxes stacked against the far wall and he could see a single door illuminated by the bright strip of light beneath. He twisted the handle and slowly peered around into the room beyond.

A grotesque parody of a ballroom dance greeted him. Naked bodies covered with what looked like blood danced entwined to the graceful melody of a brass quintet. Each of their faces was hidden behind masquerade masks shaped to look like demons. As they whirled and floated across the floor, they brushed their hands against any couple they passed and another tiny wound would be added to the hundreds already present. They were holding razorblades and cutting at each other as then span and twirled. The blood ran down their glistening bodies onto the floor where tiny channels had been dug which joined together and headed towards three slowly filling pentagrams carved into the floor.

The front doors opened to admit a tall thin man dressed entirely in black who walked with his head down into the room. His bloody hands dripped onto the pristine entranceway marble and as one the crowd turned to watch as he marched over to the polished black alter at the rear of the pentagrams. His pale grey eyes scanned the room and for a moment they stopped on Jack before moving on. Content that he had their attention, he held aloft a large curved blade.

“Five it was written and five have been taken.”

Cheers erupted from the bloodied dancers and the music abruptly changed to a slow rhythmic beating. Those holding razorblades started to cut and slash at their own bodies adding to the river of gore flooding into the carved sigils beneath their stamping feet. A guttural chanting rose in waves from the spinning dervishes and Jack felt himself entranced with the archaic scene before him as it reached a deafening crescendo.

Suddenly all was quiet.

From the centre of the three pentagrams, figures of blood started to rise. Shifting liquid forms that for an instant would became whole, almost solid, before melting back into themselves. The acolytes fell to their knees in supplication as eyes blinked into existence from where heads seemed to form. Malevolent dark pits that sucked the breath from Jack as they stared deep into his soul. Bloody fingers twisted together to beckon him and he felt himself pull open the door and step through.

He was aware of his body but unable to control the movements as he felt himself drawn towards the demonic figures. The man in black who had been standing silently behind the rising shapes came forward to meet him and Jack found himself stopping just out of reach of one of the demons. Up close, Jack could make out swirling blue tattoos that covered the man’s face and shaved head; shapes that seemed to slither and writhe against the papery grey skin. The way that the others held in awe, Jack assumed he was a priest of some kind.

“So nice to have company at such a momentous occasion” he said with a small bow. “And you might be…?”

“Sergeant Jack Quinn, Westbury police department. My team have been briefed as to the situation here and are on their way. I suggest you release me now before this goes any further.”

The grey eyes held his for a fraction of second as if deliberating.

“I think not” the man said with a chuckle turning away from him. “The police as I understand it, favour fact above fiction and I can’t for one second believe that you have managed to concoct a story convincing enough to entrust to anyone else. No, I believe you to be alone Sergeant Quinn and in more trouble than you realise. “

He gestured to the demons that still seemed to struggle to maintain their structure.

“Just take a look at them, the ultimate killing machines. Separately they would cause damage beyond repair but together, as a trinity of death this cursed Earth will belong to them. Once I give them the final set of fingernails they will become one and all will bow to their power. God will fall and…”

As he paused, Jack followed his gaze to the rear of the room where smoke billowed from beneath a closed door. With a shout, one of the kneeling figures ran to the door and pulled it open.

The air seemed to be sucked from the room as the fireball engulfed the man, his screams instantly cut short as his charred body fell to the floor. Others started to rise and the priest screamed at them to close the doors and contain the flames. As they moved towards the blackened body, their hands came up to protect them for the searing heat which kept them at bay.

Through the billowing smoke Jack caught a glimpse of Caldwell running across the other side of the large Hall. The demons seemed agitated at the disturbance, reaching out for the priest to release them from their shackles. More shouts arose as other fires were spotted and the room became a mass of confusion as people looked for ways to calm the flames which threatened to surround them. Jack watched in horror as a shrieking woman ventured too close to one of the pentagrams and liquid claws dragged her into their bloody grasp. The demon howled in rage as it tore her in half and threw her limp remains against the wall.

Jack backed away from the bloodied heap and realised he was once again able to move of his own volition now that the demons were distracted. He instantly scanned the room for the priest and found him as he grabbed for a package on the alter. He reached inside and across the room Jack could see the madness in his face as he pulled free the broken nails that would complete the summoning. With a triumphant cry the priest pulled back his arm just as the Maglite smashed against his skull. He crumpled to the floor as behind him Caldwell dropped the torch, fell to his knees and threw up.

The cry of anguish that came from within the pentagrams filled the room as the demons twisted and stretched against their invisible bindings. The flames licked at their feet and Jack could feel their hatred pulsing into him. Again he felt his muscles start to tighten until unsteady hands pulled him away.

“They can only control those that hold their gaze” Caldwell said, wiping his mouth with his cardigan sleeve. “Oh God, what have I done? That man with those tattoos...I think I've killed him”

Jack moved across to the body careful not to glance at the raging demons and felt for a pulse; nothing. Removing the priest's cloak he kicked the scattered nails away from the body and hurried back. The flames were all around them and the thick smoke made it difficult to breathe.

“Don't worry about him, we need to get out of here. What do we do about those things; we can't leave them to get free?”

Caldwell started to move towards the windows on the far side of the hall.

“The ceremony is incomplete; they are stuck between their realm and ours. There's nothing they can do now except retreat back to where they came from. Let them burn.”

They raced across to the large sash windows where the heat had started to blister the paintwork and using the priest's cloak to protect his arm, Jack smashed through the panes and they clambered out into the cool night air to a cacophony of sirens and flashing blue lights.

“I thought perhaps it might be wise to call for a little help” Caldwell said as he collapsed onto the damp grass.

They sat wrapped in blankets on the tailgate of an ambulance watching the fire-fighters futile attempts to dampen the flames that licked at the old house. Officers had bundled the naked, shivering acolytes that had escaped the inferno into vans. The clean up of the many others that had not been so lucky would begin tomorrow. Jack turned to the pale shivering man beside him shaking his head at the bravery it must have taken for him to act in spite of the fear.

A phrase long since forgotten came to mind and he smiled as he recalled the words.

And the meek shall inherit the Earth.