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.