Devil Kickers Read online

  PRESENTS

  DEVIL KICKERS

  DANIEL MARC CHANT & VINCENT HUNT

  Further reading by the Sinister Horror Company:

  THE CHOCOLATEMAN – Jonathan Butcher

  WHAT GOOD GIRLS DO – Jonathan Butcher

  BURNING HOUSE – Daniel Marc Chant

  MALDICION – Daniel Marc Chant

  MR. ROBESPIERRE – Daniel Marc Chant

  INTO FEAR – Daniel Marc Chant

  AIMEE BANCROFT AND THE SINGULARITY STORM – Daniel Marc Chant

  BITEY BACHMAN – Kayleigh Marie Edwards

  CORPSING – Kayleigh Marie Edwards

  FOREST UNDERGROUND – Lydian Faust

  KING CARRION – Rich Hawkins

  MANIAC GODS – Rich Hawkins

  DEATH – Paul Kane

  THE BAD GAME – Adam Millard

  TERROR BYTE – J. R. Park

  PUNCH – J.R Park

  UPON WAKING – J. R. Park

  THE EXCHANGE – J. R. Park

  POSTAL – J. R. Park & Matt Shaw

  DEATH DREAMS IN A WHOREHOUSE – J. R. Park

  MAD DOG – J. R. Park

  GODBOMB! – Kit Power

  BREAKING POINT – Kit Power

  THE BLACK ROOM MANUSCRIPTS VOL 1

  THE BLACK ROOM MANUSCRIPTS VOL 2

  THE BLACK ROOM MANUSCRIPTS VOL 3

  Visit SinisterHorrorCompany.com for further information on these and other titles.

  DEVIL KICKERS

  Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Marc Chant & Vincent Hunt

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Edited by Daniel Marc Chant and Adam Millard

  Cover design and interior images by Vincent Hunt

  Published by The Sinister Horror Company

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  DEVIL KICKERS -- 1st ed.

  ISBN TBC

  DANIEL MARC CHANT THANKS…

  Vince Hunt, the Mac to my Blaine (I am a sexual tyrannosaurus after all). Christian Lourenco for being her. Justin Park (single ladies, look him up) and Adam Millard.

  VINCENT HUNT THANKS…

  Jo for supporting me in every insane creative endeavour I have, laughing at my terrible jokes and making each day better than the last.

  And Dan, my brother from another mother... we finally did it. God help us all.

  “Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings.” — Peter 5:8-9

  PROLOGUE

  MOTHER

  The woman writhed on the bed, twisting and turning her body as she pulled against the bonds holding her down. She arched her back, pulled her legs and tried to bring them back together, but the ties around her ankles kept them spread. She threw her head back and screamed, clenching her hands together as another pulse of energy rushed through her.

  “You’re fucking fools!” she screamed. “This pig bitch is mine now!”

  She glared at the man hovering over her, screaming and yelling obscenities as he waved a cross at her and flicked holy water across her face and body. It hissed as it hit her skin, before disappearing in a small puff of steam. The woman flicked her head to the side, the bones of her neck cricking loudly, and stared at the second man hovering at the corner of the room. He was reading from a large book, hands shaking, causing the pages to quiver. His voice was low and droning as he chanted.

  “What’s going on?” the third man asked, staring down at his wife in horror. “Why does she look like that?”

  “The demon has claimed her,” explained the one brandishing the cross and flicking the water across the woman. “It is preparing her body for complete possession.”

  “Oh god… her face… Her face!” the woman’s husband cried.

  The woman’s face was twisting as she pulled at her ropes. She spasmed over and over as the skull beneath her face broke and shifted under the skin, rolling and moving her features. Her forehead erupted with lumps and boils, and her eyes glowed an eerie red. Her lips pulled back to reveal black-stained jagged teeth as she hissed at the man who had once been her husband.

  “The spirit of the Lord compels you!” cried the man holding the Bible. “Leave this woman in peace! The spirit of the Lord compels you! The spirit of the Lord compels you!”

  The woman screamed and shook, tugging harder at her bonds. One of the ropes began to fray, and her ankle shifted away.

  “Hold her down!” the cross-holder cried, tugging at the collar of his robes. “She must not break free!”

  The husband leapt across her body, pinning her down as hard as he could. She continued to pull and arch her back, the presence within her lending her unnatural strength. He stared at the face of his wife and held her tighter, even as she relaxed and her face returned to normal for a few moments. She turned away, her gaze shifting; sadness filled her eyes and the lines of her face. Her husband glanced over his shoulder and saw what his wife was looking at..

  There, standing in the doorway, were their sons. They were holding each other tightly, their faces drenched with tears. They stared at their mother with terror and horror. They were shaking heavily.

  Glancing at his wife, the husband saw the way she looked at them, tears in her eyes, lips trembling. She turned to look at him for a moment before, suddenly, her face shifted once more, the demon returning to the surface. She screamed, twisted, and the ropes completely snapped. She grabbed her husband by the wrists and threw him across the room. He slammed into the wall and fell to the floor, plaster sprinkling down on top of him. He lay there, limp and unresponsive. The priest threw his cross aside and attempted to hold the woman down. She caught his wrists and, in a huge and otherworldly display of strength, flipped him over, before straddling his waist.

  “Foul demon!” he cried defiantly. “You have no power here!”

  The woman grinned at him wickedly. She suddenly raised her arms above her head, clenched her hands together, and brought them furiously down onto his face. She hit him over and over, her fists growing redder and redder as blood began to pour from his wounds. He tried to fight her, thrashing his own hands at her, but she didn’t flinch, not even when he caught her in the throat. She just roared and roared as she brought her hands crashing down on his head. At first, he screamed and cried out, twisting beneath her. But then his arms grew weaker and he stopped fighting; his cries grew quieter and quieter. He jolted at her blows and whimpered in pain.

  Then he stopped moving and fell silent.

  The boys were crying in the doorway. But before the woman could move towards them, a whimper came from the corner of the room. A voice began to chant in Latin, and the woman turned to hiss at its speaker.

  It was the other priest, reading from the Bible and chanting rapidly. His entire body was shaking and his voice kept breaking. He glanced up, saw the woman begin to approach him before returning to the pages of his book. He kept reading as she drew closer and closer, his voice getting higher and higher. She grabbed him, and the Bible fell from his hands, slamming against the floor. He whimpered, clenched his eyes shut, and clasped his hands as he prayed in aloud in Latin.

  She raised him above her head, pressed him against the wall. He continued to pray
as he lashed out an arm, placed his palm against her forehead. His words grew louder and more confident, and the woman let out a furious high-pitched scream of pain. Panicking, she threw him violently to the ground. His head slammed against the floor and he cried out, rolling around and moaning in pain, momentarily stunned.

  The children cried, fearful, and began to cry again. The woman turned on them, hissing and snarling as black pus ran down her chin. She slowly walked towards the boys as they clutched each other tightly.

  “Mum…” the older boy cried out. “Stop it!”

  She hissed and roared, swiping clawed hands at the boys as she stalked towards them. The trainee priest sat up, rubbing his head and groaning. He looked around, saw what was about to happen. He scrambled to his feet, began searching for something—anything—to use as a weapon. His gaze fell upon a shotgun and he grabbed for it.

  The possessed woman was by now bearing down on the boys, who whimpered as she drew nearer. He reluctantly raised the shotgun to his shoulder.

  “DEMON!” he cried out.

  The woman turned to face him, eyes glowing red and teeth bared. She growled and snarled.

  The trainee priest locked eyes with her, searching for any sign of humanity left within. He found nothing. Over her shoulder, he saw the battered body of his mentor, the priest who should have been able to stop this from happening. He turned away, met the terror-stricken stares of the petrified boys.

  He cocked the shotgun.

  “I’m so sorry, boys,” he whispered.

  The words set the woman into motion, and she rushed at him, shrieking demonically, so loudly that he almost dropped the shotgun. He didn’t. Instead, as the creature that had once been a woman launched itself at him, he levelled the shotgun at the woman’s head and squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HELL COMES TO 27 DOWDY LANE

  The van chugged up the quiet country lane, rocking from side to side on its axles. Music blared from the open windows, along with a small stream of smoke from the passenger side. Now and then a loud clanking noise came from the van’s engine, and the smoke from the exhaust suddenly turned a deep grey, stinking of burning oil and plastic.

  The van took the bend dangerously fast, almost on two wheels, and for a moment it seemed as though its entire right side would leave the surface of the road, sending it toppling to the ground. But then it levelled out as it headed onto a straight stretch of road.

  On the side of the vehicle, a vinyl sign with a kitsch-looking devil—complete with pointy beard, horns, and a cherry-red hue to his face—smiled out to the public. The Faustian salesman's face was printed next to a big, bold logo that wouldn’t have been out of place amongst 1950s Americana.

  Idol Hands Cleaning

  A small cottage appeared close to the edge of the road, idyllic and covered in flowers.

  This had to be the place.

  The driver pulled the van to a stop outside, the engine quietening.

  “This looks like a nice place. Sure it's the right one?” Chris asked, flicking a cigarette out through the open window before rolling it shut. “Doesn’t look like the sort of shithole we normally get.”

  He peered through the windscreen, frowning as he double-checked the address corresponded with the one written on tattered piece of paper pinned to his clipboard. He grunted as he examined the small flower-covered cottage again. It seemed kempt, quiet, and homely.

  “This is the address Sally gave us,” Chris said, wearily. “She’s never sent us to the wrong place before, Pete.” He reached behind the driver’s seat and pulled out a small bag. “And anyway, if she did get it wrong, are you going to be the one to tell her?”

  Pete didn't even need to think about it. “Fuck no! I don't have a death wish.” He looked up to the cottage. “Well, not completely.”

  As Chris rustled through the bag, Pete rubbed his chin.

  “It’s not as creepy as some of the places we’ve been called out to,” he mumbled, pressing himself back against his seat. “In fact, I would go so far as to say that it's” —he made air-quotes— “quaint.”

  Chris looked up at Pete from behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses. “Don't be a bell-end. It doesn't matter what the place looks like. It's what’s inside we should be worried about.”

  “Well, as long as it isn't like that studio flat we got called out to in Clapham. Remember that?”

  Chris shuddered slightly. “Trying to forget it.”

  “I have never been in a lift that stank so much of piss in my entire life.”

  Chris pulled a small, black case out of the bag and cracked it open. He removed his glasses and popped them into the soft fabric lining of their case, clapping it shut with a loud snapping noise. He adjusted his collar and checked his hair in the rear-view mirror, making himself even more presentable.

  Of the two of them, he was the more smartly dressed, with a simple light grey shirt and skinny black tie. His brother wore a well-worn leather jacket over a t-shirt reading: 'The Porkchop Express'.

  Chris pulled on a black waterproof jacket, let out a big sigh, and turned to his brother.

  “Presentable?”

  “That'll do, pig. That'll do.” Pete nodded his approval.

  Chris shot his brother a stern look. “Fuck off, Pete.”

  Pete laughed to himself, but then a thump from the back of the van silenced them both. They looked into the gloomy space behind their seats.

  “Looks like he's awake,” Pete said.

  “Perfect time to get out of the van then,” Chris replied.

  Wasting no time, they climbed out, shutting their respective doors with a loud bang. Chris stood, silently watching the house ahead. Pete rounded the van—gravel crunching beneath him—and came to stand next to his brother.

  Pete arched his back, stretching his muscles after the long journey. “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure,” Chris said quietly. “It seems quiet, but for some reason the quiet jobs are always the worst. I’m not seeing any of the usual signs.”

  “So now you're the one thinking Sally might have sent us on a wild goose chase? Oh, what a delicious slice of irony pie that is. I'll let you tell her she's screwed up.”

  Chris reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Thanks, but if this isn't a firm case, I'll let you tell her. It'll give me time to run away while she's chewing your head off.”

  Pete chuckled, put his hands in his pockets, and appraised the garden and the exterior of the house.

  Chris was right. There were no markings, no strange effigies or pieces of trash that didn’t fit in with the rest of the garden. He sighed. Maybe this would be another waste of time.

  “Well, there’s a family in there,” Chris said, noticing his brother’s disappointment. “If things are as bad as they usually are, then they might be hiding what’s going on, protecting each other.” He looked in both directions; there were similar houses not too far away. “After all, who wants their neighbours gossiping about the strange things they might be going through.”

  “Maybe…” Pete replied.

  “Dad did the same,” Chris said quietly as he approached the front gate.

  He realised what he had said and glanced over his shoulder at his brother. Pete looked away, gazing at a hedge. There was a frown on his face and he avoided eye-contact with Chris. It was a touchy subject between the two of them, despite what they had ended up doing with their lives.

  “Pete—”

  “It’s okay,” his brother said, finally meeting his brother’s gaze. “You're not wrong.”

  Chris looked past his brother to the van behind. It shuddered slightly as something within it stirred. Pete must have saw it, too.

  “Don't worry about that,” he said, patting his jacket pocket, which bulged slightly at his side. “I've got just the thing to keep him quiet.”

  Chris nodded and grinned, then turned back to the gate.

  It opened silently, despite the rust on
its hinges. Someone had taken care to make sure that the gate opened quietly, and Chris doubted it was the adults living in the cottage. His feet crunched on the gravel of the garden path, but he could also hear glass beneath his boots, glass which had been shattered and scattered amongst the gravel, perhaps as a trap. He inspected the ground as he reached the front door, noticed the glinting shards amongst the dull grey gravel. He reached out to ring the bell, but stopped with his finger just centimetres from the button. There was a tiny tack glued to the button, right at its centre where an unsuspecting individual would press their finger. It was stained red. He decided against that option, and instead knocked on the large, deep-red wooden door. As he waited for someone to answer, he glanced across his shoulder, saw his brother still next to the van, still staring intently at the hedge.

  There came the sound of far too many locks being disengaged, and then the door opened. Just a crack, but enough for Chris to see the timid face staring through it.

  A woman, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept for quite some time. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, and she appeared nervous.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  Chris gave her his best and most sympathetic smile.

  “Mrs McBain?”

  The woman nodded, and looked to the van behind him. “Whatever you're selling, we don’t want it,” she said, preparing to shut the door in his face.

  “I’m not selling anything, Mrs McBain. My name is Christopher Idol, from Idol Cleaning. You called our offices recently about your…” he paused, shooting the woman a nervous glance, “… your daughter’s current condition?”

  A look of recognition washed over the woman’s face, and for a moment Chris saw a brief glint of hope ignite in her eyes. It was a look he knew all too well.