Poison in the Well Read online

  Poison In The Well

  Part One

  Chris Tetreault-Blay

  Dead Men's Tales Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 Chris Tetreault-Blay

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: Saba_ijaz

  To Steve,

  Taken from us too soon, but gave us with memories that will never leave.

  Prologue

  By rights, the creature should never have lived.

  Such an abomination should never have been given life but such was the self-destructive nature of man, it had. It lived and still breathed, whilst the world above it was long since dead.

  It was once human. Not only human, but it was once the one person who ate, slept and bled to keep Wildermoor safe. The man had also been part of the wicked plan that eventually took all life away from Wildermoor, unbeknownst to him until it was too late. Truman Darke hadn’t asked to have been part of any of it, but once people started disappearing from their homes all those years ago, it was his duty to not only find what had happened to them but to also protect those that were left behind.

  By the time he had unearthed The Council of Eternal Light’s wretched plan, it was already too late. Almost three hundred years too late, to be exact. The Reaper, the embodiment of the evil that The Council had raised from the depths of Hell, was already there. However, it was only those with souls that were already lost that were able to see him.

  The rest of the world just kept spinning idly around them, blissfully unaware that the grains of sand were rapidly falling in the hour glass. Their souls had already been accounted for; it was just a question of who would own them, who would win the final battle.

  The man known as Truman Darke effectively died the moment his brain did, when his head was caved in by Urizen, a soldier who served the Council’s leader, a devoted member of his flock. But Truman’s body kept breathing, the nerve endings continuing to send messages to the now-deceased organ in his skull. His body was inherited by Dr. Mark Stone, the Council’s hired scientist, and stored at St. Dymphna’s, a former medical research facility that had become Stone’s own personal asylum.

  Every person that floated through Wildermoor had a past. Most of which went on about their lives completely oblivious to those that had lived centuries before. Dr. Stone was not completely like the Wildermoor descendants, was not born and bred there and so was not trapped in the everlasting purgatory that they were; destined to be tethered to Wildermoor like a dog on a leash. For eternity.

  But he had a past of his own. Stone hadn’t yet had the pleasure of ending one life and inheriting another, but had been granted an extended existence by Julius Archibald, the Council’s leader who was himself beyond the land of the living. And a new identity, in return for one thing; to continue his research and create the ultimate organic super-being. Something immortal. Something impervious to pain and death.

  Something unstoppable.

  Stone had already gotten dangerously close to finding the missing link between human and super-human nature, so knew he could deliver on his end of the bargain. That was in 1945, just as the Russian’s stormed in and took control of Auschwitz-Birkenau. Back then, he was still known by his birth name – Dr. Josef Mengele, “The Angel of Death.”

  On many occasions, Mengele took a sadistic pride in his moniker. Other times, he despised it. He found it more confusing as, in his mind, his research and practices – whilst to many seemed ungodly and vilely inhumane – were all carried out with the intention of creating life, a more supreme being. Death was merely a side effect to those too weak to withstand his methods, deeming them unworthy of the ultimate prize – and a place in his vision for a new world.

  It was his thirst for mortal – or immortal – advancements that caught the attention of Julius Archibald. The Council’s leader visited Mengele many times towards the end of 1978, where the ex-Nazi doctor was living incognito in South America. Julius appeared to him only at night as a ghostly apparition, soon convincing Mengele of the power he and the Council of Eternal Light possessed, introducing him along the way to his own feared creation, known as The Reaper.

  Mengele was promised a new life, and unlimited resources – many beyond the reaches of humanity – in order to complete his work – and thus helping Julius realise his own ghastly dream of revenge and, eventually, complete global and spiritual domination.

  A deal was struck, as Mengele willingly offered his soul to a darker power. In February 1979, the Mengele the world thought they knew was pronounced dead. His body was found drowned in the sea, off the coast of Bertioga, Brazil. But the essence of his body had already been transported to a new vessel, that which bore the name Mark Stone.

  Truman Darke was to have been Stone’s final – but greatest – project, completed shortly before taking his own life during the final moments of the night that would become known as the Wildermoor Apocalypse; the night that two great forces collided in one final stand-off. The night that all souls left living across the moorland county were vanquished.

  Even Stone was unaware at the time of the horror he had created. Pieced together from what remained of Truman Darke, spliced with DNA captured from the Christian Lord himself – the holiest of beings, then existing as a lowly being known only as Patient 28 – along with several of the umbras – shadow demons – from The Reaper’s army. Together with all of this, Stone added his most prized ingredient – DNA from extraterrestrial beings, which he stole from the possession of the United States government during the 1980s.

  Such a concoction had never been fathomed by human mind, let alone be able to be brought to fruition, before Dr. Mark Stone.

  As all life disappeared from Wildermoor that night, December 21st 2012, Stone’s creature was left to burn – left to die - after his duel with The Reaper. The fires raged for weeks below ground, but the creature would not expire. It simply shed its skin like a snake reaching a new stage of maturity.

  And then, as it steadily carved its own lair through the earth seven storeys below the ground, it started to feed.

  Chapter One

  I remember the white light.

  It was all around me. It warmed me, soothed me. Its substance felt so thick that it was supporting my own weight. I was laid there, bathing in its brightness. I was not aware of any surface below me holding me up. I experienced weightlessness.

  Peace.

  I closed my eyes, held my breath. Once I opened my eyes again, the vastness of the white landscape was still around me. I repeated the exercise countless times, maybe for an eternity. The result remained the same every time I opened my eyes.

  Well, almost every time.

  On one occasion, the most recent, I looked around me and I noticed something different. I couldn’t understand what had changed immediately, just that there had been a shift of some kind. And I was suddenly afraid. Darkness seeped in from the invisible corners of the white landscape. With it, I felt a chill beneath me.

  I remained horizontal, as if I were lying on my back, but suddenly aware that there was nothing beneath me. The weightlessness gave way to a great pressure, bearing down on me from above. I was falling, but I realised it only too late. My stomach felt as though it were shrinking at a blistering speed, then rising again to become lodged in my throat.

  I opened my mouth and tried to scream, only to find that I co
uldn’t utter a sound. I couldn’t even breathe. The light that had soothed me for however long I was in that world was now rushing past me, rattling my ear drums to the point that I feared they would burst. I was suffocating.

  And then I heard the whispers from somewhere above me. At first I couldn’t hear them clearly, did not recognise any word they were uttering. But the further I fell, the louder they became.

  Fear coursed through me. I was now aware of how much my body was already aching. I closed my eyes, willing it to end, knowing full-well that I was about to reach the bottom of this abyss at any second. I clenched my eyes shut even harder, thinking that my skin was drawn tight enough to tear from my bones. My limbs would not move. I simply laid there and waited for the end.

  Then it all stopped.

  I tried to open my eyes again, but they were now so heavy that it took every morsel of energy to lift the lids. Was it fear itself that was trying to keep them closed? I knew I was now somewhere different, but also knowing that my mind didn’t really want to find out where.

  I felt tired. Beyond tired. Utterly exhausted. Finally my eyes opened but only a hazy film coated my sight. A mixture of white, grey and yellow floated past me. My head lolled limply from side to side as I tried to force my eyes to paint some kind of picture, freeing my mind from the cocophony of confusion that was now setting in.

  The whispers returned too. Only this time, louder and clearer. But just as comforting as the bright light had been.

  ‘Can you hear me, dear?’

  My eyes were open but I still saw nothing. I focused with all of my might, dragging all of the colours and shapes together. I felt a sound resonate from my chest. It made me jump before I realised that it was indeed my own voice, though I had no clue as to what I was trying to say.

  ‘That’s it, come back to us,’ the other voice said again. I knew the face from which it came was floating above me, but I could still not make out any features. I focused harder, making my temples throb.

  But it worked. As if I were somehow tinkering with the inner aerial of my mind - as we once did with our TV’s before the digital age - I slowly tuned in to the world around me. The woman’s face was beautiful, warm. Her eyes glowed a shade of brown I had not seen before. I felt at ease only for a few moments. The halo around her became a head of blonde hair, pulled tightly back into what must have been a ponytail behind. She wore no make-up.

  Our eyes met and she smiled briefly, before hers darted to one side and she spoke to another person who was not in my vision.

  ‘He’s coming to, doctor. He’s okay.’

  I tried to move my head from side to side, desperate to take in as much as I could, aching to know where I was. My head started to buzz, making my ears ring. But it wouldn’t move. It was only then that I became aware of the collar holding my head in place. I also quickly realised that I couldn’t move any of my limbs.

  The panic set in but I couldn’t scream. Only a strangled, gurgled cry sounded from my drooling mouth. The sound embarrassed me. This wasn’t me. I felt shame almost immediately, giving my mind something else to focus on so that I didn’t notice the pain as the blonde woman removed the first needle from the back of my hand.

  ‘Just relax and try to stay still. You’ve been through a lot, but you’re going to be fine now.’

  I tried to nod, but instead only stared at her dumbly. She looked again at whomever the doctor was that she had addressed the moment before, and then looked at me again.

  ‘We will take you through to the ward now.’

  I felt the world beneath me move again. I focused only on the movements above me, the rows of strip lights dancing by at increasing speed. The sight of them lulled me back to sleep.

  *****

  I was back in the weightless, white world again. Only this time, the sense of confusion was not there. I knew where I was only too well. It was a memory that replayed itself to me every time I closed my eyes. It was more than just a routine now. However, despite its familiarity, the sights, sounds and smells were all too real, as if I were living them for the very first time.

  Which in a sense was exactly what was happening.

  A mixture of red, black and yellow danced above me. My head lolled limply from side to side as I tried to get my eyes to paint some kind of picture, freeing my mind from the barrage of confusion that was now pounding inside my head. The whispers returned too. Only this time, louder and clearer.

  And they were no longer whispers. The sound that first entered my ears then was incoherent, but savage. Shouts, screams, snorts…something altogether horrid. I remember a hand around my neck, pulling me up from the warm place in which I longed to remain. The cold hit my naked body, awakening every sense that had until then lay dormant. The cold turned to confusion as I was wrapped in a dirty shroud.

  I should have been warm again, at peace. But I was scared. I tried to cry out, but my lungs ached. No sound would come. Then the world around me started to move, shaking violently.

  From behind my eyelids, I could tell that I was then transported to a different place, somewhere even darker, somewhere away from the chaos that was ensuing around me. The horrifying sounds faded until the only sound I could hear was of someone breathing.

  Again, it should have comforted me. But even then I knew that something wasn’t right, that this wasn’t how it had been intended.

  That was my first day back on this earth; snatched from the belly of the one person who should have been there to welcome me. My mother was left to die on a rusty table. Maybe she was already dead even before I left her body.

  I don’t believe that it should be possible for anyone to remember their first moments of their lives. I call it my curse. One that I’m sorry to say has followed me ever since.

  *****

  The muffled images began to fade once more as the all-encompassing light returned, bathing me in its warmth for only a moment before it too dissipated and I could feel the weight of my own body again. My eyes prised themselves open and the haze eventually cleared.

  I was in a world of white again, yes…but not the one that brought me comfort. The cold, clean colourless walls of the hospital room instantly made me feel queasy. The pictures all began to form as my head lolled again from side to side. There was no-one there with me. I was alone.

  Again. Just as I had always seemed to be.

  I inhaled deeply, wincing at the pain that shot through my sides. I closed my eyes again briefly, chasing the pain away. My mind buzzed with too many questions, awakening every sense I had but at the same time dizzying me. Unable to cope with the inertia as the room around me started to spin out of control, I turned my head and vomited on the floor.

  Then I heard footsteps coming towards me.

  Chapter Two

  Her name was April. Up until that moment, she was the most beautiful creature I had seen in my eighteen years in this skin. Of course, things would change again over the next year-or-so as I would see more of the life that had been laid before me, but for the first two weeks after I awoke from my coma she was everything. Granted, I only got to see three of four people at most in that time, but April was the only one who took time to sit with me and talk to me about anything that wasn’t written on my charts.

  She had only been a qualified nurse for a couple of months before the day I arrived at St. Catherine’s District Hospital, and she called me her “first real challenge”. We laughed about it as we chatted late into the nights more than once, but I never fully understood what she meant.

  I arrived unexpectedly and anonymously in the early hours one night, dumped on the pavement outside the main A&E entrance. Whoever had delivered me that night had taken care to position my prone body in line of the sensors to the automatic doors, meaning that their incessant opening and closing was all that alerted the desk staff to my presence, before I would have surely succumbed to hypothermia.

  Or worse.

  I was unconscious and bleeding heavily from two wounds; one in my left
side, opened up clean between two of my ribs, and one below my waistline. Fever was ravaging my body, threatening to shut down my organs systematically as the infection set in. They rushed me to theatre and did what they had to do to close me up again.

  During the first forty-eight hours, I was told, I clinically died twice. The lead surgeon had all but given up on my chances the second time and was not prepared to resuscitate me. I was obviously nothing more than a burden for him at the end of a very long shift. He must have saved his quota of lives that night.

  I would have just been just another statistic, another John Doe, had it not been for one of the theatre nurses that night; a portly, motherly figure known as Nurse Spiers. For whatever reason, she decided that I deserved one more shot at life and somehow overrode her superior’s decision, administering an adrenaline shot that kicked my heart into action again.

  I never got to meet the woman and thank her personally. I only got to see a fleeting image of her one night, as April pointed her out to me as she floated past my ward room, no doubt on her route to work her magic on another in need. But I hold the brief image of her face even today.

  It was April whose voice I heard as I came to from my haze the first time, before sinking back into my bright warm place. And she was there again to wipe the bilious spittle from my mouth after spilling my guts over the floor. That’s what helps a man recognise that he may have truly found ‘the one’; no matter how soon after their eyes first meet, the woman who sees you at possibly your lowest and still comes back to you is worth trying to keep.

  I was left alone most of my waking hours for the first couple of days. I appreciated the quiet; I had too many things to try and straighten out in my head. Of course, all answers – and more – would come over the following few months, but the incessant tugging in my chest to know it all there and then – to be able to make sense of my predicament whilst invisibly chained to my sick bed – kept me awake at night.