Devil Kickers Read online

  She opened the door fully, and Chris saw inside the house for the first time.

  If the outside was a picture of homely quiet, then the inside was a nightmarish landscape of noise. Chris could see that this was once a place of warmth and comfort, but now it was scarred. There were scratches, stains, and marks all over the walls. Wallpaper had been torn off in places. Pictures hanging there were either cracked or lying, broken, on the floor. It looked as if a tornado had passed through the house, intent on destroying everything this poor family possessed.

  “Please. Come in,” the woman said, a nervous excitement in her voice.

  “Thank you.” Chris stepped into the house, careful to avoid the smashed glass lying on the floor.

  Mrs McBain looked toward the van once more.. The man standing next to it looked up, gave her a cheesy grin and a little wave.

  It was at that point she shut the door.

  ***

  Pete watched as the little woman ushered his brother into the house, and then shooting him an awkward look. His playful wave had done its job.

  He turned his attention back to the hedge.

  Something had bothered him about it the moment he looked at it; a strange shape that stood out starkly against the roundness of the leaves. A flash of colour caught his eye. After checking no one was watching, he moved closer to the hedge.

  There was certainly a shape there, something that shouldn’t have been there. It could have been anything: a crisp packet, a piece of newspaper blowing around in the wind, a chunk of old bin bag.

  Kneeling, he reached in, heart beating a little faster. His hand closed around something soft and slightly damp. He pulled it out and examined it. There, in the palm of his hand, was a tattered-looking stuffed doll. Its hair was woollen strands, and it had big, white plastic buttons for eyes. Dirt covered the pale pink felt, and some of the stuffing was sticking out.

  “Strange place to put a cuddly toy,” Pete muttered.

  Just then, there was a bang from the van, and he glanced back at it. He was about to return to the van and deal with the cause of the noise when he suddenly felt something shift against his palm, something hard and smooth.

  He turned the doll over and there, sticking out of the its posterior, was a large wooden cross. It had been quite forcefully shoved through the felt, pushing the stuffing out.

  “Violating a stuffed doll by shoving a cross up its arse? That’s a new one.”

  He stood there for a while, tortured doll in his hand.

  “Yep,” he sighed, looking towards the cottage, which no longer looked inviting or quaint. “We’re in the right place alright.”

  ***

  “Thank you so much for coming, Mr Idol,” the woman said. “My names Daphne.” Chris stepped further into the house, glancing at the domestic destruction around him. The timid and tired looking woman seemed ashamed as she noticed him taking in the scene.

  “Sorry about the mess. We wanted to tidy up before you arrived but…” The words caught in her throat and she looked ready to cry. Chris cut her off before she became any more upset.

  “Please,” he said, offering her a smile. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

  Daphne looked grateful for his understanding and bowed her head, before composing herself.

  “Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?” she asked, softly.

  “I'm fine, thank you,” Chris replied, but then after seeing her dejected face, he added, “A glass of water would be nice.”

  She smiled unconvincingly. “Is bottled water okay? I'm afraid we can’t use the tap water anymore—”

  “Because she's turned the water black,” said a much deeper voice.

  Chris turned to find an exhausted-looking man standing in the kitchen doorway. His hair was unkempt and he had visible scratches across his left cheek. He looked as if he had been in a fight with an angry cat, and had only just made it out alive.

  “She's turning the whole goddamn house against us.”

  Chris looked at the man understandingly “Mr McBain?”

  The man limped slowly forward. “Please, call me Ed. I would shake your hand” —he lifted a bandaged hand—“but I'm afraid it’s a little difficult at the moment.”

  “Did your daughter do that?” Chris asked.

  “She did all of this,” Ed replied, motioning to the rest of him.

  “Ed...” Daphne started,

  “No, Daphne!” her husband cut her off. “The man needs to know what he's up against.” Ed looked wearily towards Chris.

  “At first we thought Tippi was just sick. You know, one of those bugs that go around the local schools. We took her to the doctor, and they were no bloody use. Give her some aspirin and plenty of bedrest they said. Idiots. No matter how much chicken soup or Lucozade we gave her, it didn’t help. She started cursing. Hideous language that I’ve never heard from a child, even in some of the rougher parts of the village.”

  “And they swear like absolute troopers on Addison Crescent,” Daphne chimed in.

  Ed continued. “Then she began getting violent. Smashing furniture in the house and doing horrible things to her toys. Cackling like some kind of witch. I feared for anyone who set foot in this house.”

  Chris thought back to the trail of nasty little traps he had had to avoid outside.

  “She was making us prisoners in our own home, Mr Idol. Torturing us bit by bit.” There was sadness and anger in his eyes. “When she slapped her mother, we knew something had to be done.”

  Chris looked over to Daphne, and noticed for the first time the slight discolouration on her left cheek, as if she had used make-up to cover a dark blemish. She saw him notice.

  “She was going crazy, trying to get into the kitchen. We had started to lock it, just in case she got her hands on something sharp. She was kicking and screaming at the door, and when I grabbed her arms she just turned on me like a trapped animal.” Her eyes became glossy with tears. “And that was when I saw it.”

  Chris had seen this reaction before. The moment when ordinary folk realise that they are dealing with the unreal. The unfathomable. Dealing with something they can’t control. For some, it was too much to comprehend. Some people never recovered from their first confrontation with the dark. He felt deeply saddened at that moment, for the parents of this poor child and, in a lot of ways, for himself. This was why he did what he did.

  Ed stepped over to his tearful wife and placed his one good arm around her. Daphne composed herself and continued.

  “Her eyes were so dark. Like hot coals, burning with so much hatred. And she just kept swinging her arms above her and trying to hit me in the face. That was when Ed arrived home from work.”

  “It took all I had to get her up into her room.” he motioned to the chaotic hallway. “As you can see.”

  “We had to…” Daphne's voice shook. “We had to restrain her on the bed. Oh God! I feel awful. Our little girl. My little Tippi!”

  Daphne turned and pressed her face into Ed’s chest, her shoulders hitching as she sobbed.

  Suddenly, there were noises coming from upstairs; bangs and muffled shouts. Then there came a scream.

  Daphne and Ed were clearly stressed; their faces were tight and lines were there that seemed new. They both wore strands of grey in their hair, stark against the blackness, and their skin was ashen. This was one couple who needed help, and Chris would do everything in his power to give it to them.

  Ed looked up at Chris, pleadingly. “Please help us, Mr Idol. Please help our little girl.”

  Daphne glanced nervously up the stairs as another scream came.

  Chris took a deep breath, secretly pleased that the girl was already restrained. It meant that one of the trickier jobs was already done for them. He gave the parents the most encouraging smile he could muster.

  “You've both done the right thing,” he said, calmly. “My brother and I have dealt with many cases like this”

  “You have?” Daphne asked, sobbing her words. There was
a touch of hope in her voice.

  “Yes,” Chris said, ignoring the shouts from upstairs. “We’ve dealt with these situations many times. I warn you, things will be difficult, and they may get messy, but everything will be fine. I assure you. We're professionals.”

  Daphne continued sobbing into Ed’s chest and he held her tightly. He shot Chris a concerned look, which turned into a hopeful smile.

  Chris gave them a moment, turning away and into the living room. The room was in shadow, the bookcases and books were in tatters, the sofa was shredded and the curtains torn. They were still drawn, though, cutting out most of the light.

  “May I see her please?” Chris asked gently.

  The couple nodded, and led him towards the staircase. He ascended slowly, the couple following closely behind him. As he climbed higher and higher he saw the destruction through the rest of the house. The wallpaper was torn from the walls, the carpets pulled up from the boards. There were burn marks everywhere, as well as patches of water on the floor, as well as indeterminate yellow fluids, which Chris didn’t dare think about.

  As he arrived at the landing, the sounds suddenly got louder.

  Tippi was screeching now; there was a scraping, squealing sound, as if an object was being dragged repeatedly along a wall. Tippi yelled obscenities.

  He walked across to the door, his heart pounding harder, excitement filling his body, just as it always did before a job.

  He reached for the handle.

  Suddenly, the corridor was filled with a low, guttural rumbling noise, as if a bear had followed them up the stairs and was letting them know how pissed it was. It felt like the very floorboards beneath them were vibrating with its terrifying rumble. Chris paused as he saw that Ed and Daphne were still at the top of the stairs, clinging to each other. They looked terrified and wary.

  “Stay where you are. I'll go in alone.”

  They nodded. Chris knew there was no way they were going to follow him in. He didn’t blame them.

  “Good luck,” the couple said in unison, and Chris started.

  He glanced back at them, stifling an annoyed look. He took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. When it was wide enough, he peered around the edge.

  “This is MY house, you rancid cocksucker! GET OUT!” the rasping, guttural voice yelled from the shadows.

  “Hello, Tippi. My name's Chris. I’m here to help.”

  Suddenly the sound of retching filled the room, and thick green liquid came flying at Pete’s head. It all happened so quickly, he didn’t even have time to cover his face. The liquid covered his face, coating every inch of his head. He clenched his eyes shut against the spray, but it still stung as thick, soupy, acidic gunge spattered his skin.

  He drew back and shut the door behind him, reached for the inside pocket of his jacket. He dug through his pocket quickly, trying to ignore the smell. It was vile, an amalgamation of blood, meat, and vinegar. The bile rose in his throat, and he almost cried with relief as his fingers finally closed around a tissue. He wiped the vomit from his eyes and blinked as he dabbed his nose and mouth clean. He took a deep breath, sucking in clean air. This was the first time he had been upchucked on, and it wasn’t pleasant.

  There came a cackling from beyond the door as Chris turned to face Tippi’s parents.

  “She’s been throwing up a lot recently,” Daphne said with a shrug. “We thought she was just sick.”

  Chris sighed as a chunk of the dark bile slopped from his hair to the floor.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “I’ll just go get our equipment, and we can begin.”

  ***

  Pete sat in the van, muttering to himself as he jabbed and stabbed at the screen of his phone. The little candy shapes weren’t falling how he wanted them to, and he was completely out of bonus items he could use. With a disconcerted grumble, closed the game. He sighed and leaned his head back against the headrest.

  Releasing a sigh of boredom, he flipped open the glovebox and rifled through it, shoving aside sheets of paper and envelopes. He pulled out a Bible and stared at it incredulously.

  “This should be in the lock box.”

  He returned to the glovebox again, tossing the Bible on to the passenger seat. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and produced a crinkling bag. He reached into the bag, tok out a mint humbug, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth.

  He had only just started to savour the minty flavour when there came, from the back of the van, another thump. The van shook slightly.

  Pete rolled his eyes.

  “Oi! Give it a bloody rest, will you!” he said. “Here’s your bloody wine gums!” He produced a small packet of sweets from his jacket pocket and tossed it into the back.

  He was about to turn back to his phone—damn game was so addictive!—when he spotted his brother emerge from the cottage and make his way back towards the van.

  He laughed so hard that he almost choked on his humbug.

  ***

  As Chris approached the van, still wiping the horrid demon-vomit from his ears, Pete stepped out. Chris could tell his brother was trying his hardest not to laugh.

  “We've got a spewer!” Pete chuckled. “Classic!”

  Chris glared at him, green gunge dripping slowly from his hair down onto his shoulders. Pete recoiled slightly when he got close.

  “Crikey. You didn’t shit yourself at the same time, did you? That smells rank!”

  “Laugh it up, dickhead. And next time, you can be the one who does the meet and greet.”

  “Oh no, dear brother,” Pete said. “I think you'll find that, with your excellent people skills there’s only one person qualified to meet the clients. You do a better 'hopeful optimism' face than I do.”

  “Thats true. Yours does have a habit of making people uneasy.”

  “Exactly!” Pete exalted. “You're the face, I'm the muscles. That’s what works best.”

  Chris' rolled his eyes as they walked to the back doors of the van.

  “Oh, did you leave the Bible in the glove box?” Pete asked.

  “Nope,” Chris grumbled, “It must have been him,” he said, motioning to the back of the van. He stopped for a moment. The van wasn't rocking back and forth. That was unusual. He looked to Pete, whose grin got even wider.

  “Wine gums,” he said, with a bloated sense of pride. “Shut him right up.”

  “How many did you give him?”

  “The whole bag.”

  Chris' eyes widened. “The whole bag?! You gave him an entire bag of wine gums?”

  Pete’s smile fell away.

  “He is going to be an absolute nightmare to deal with later, what with all that sugar pulsing through his system. And where did you get wine gums from, anyway?”

  “Oh, it wasn't a proper bag. I got cheap ones when we stopped for petrol. He'll be fine.”

  “Well, you can deal with him if he’s not.”

  “Shit,” Pete said.

  They stood quietly at the back of the van for a moment.

  “What was it like inside?” Pete asked, all humour gone from his voice.

  Chris sighed and looked up at the house. The McBains were looking out from their living room window, still huddled together.

  “It’s not pretty in there. We got here just in time. The girl seems to be in the latter stages of possession. From what I saw of her before I got a faceful of sulphur-vom, she hasn’t got much time. The parents are in bits, naturally. They love their daughter, which will help them. We'll need their strength, but be extra vigilant. We need to keep them out of harm’s way if things get rough.”

  “Got it,” Pete said, nodding.

  Chris took a breath. “Time to rock and roll.”

  Together they threw open the back doors of the van and began to prepare. They took out two yellow coveralls. They climbed into them and continued to pull things from the back of the van.

  Their tool belts were filled with bottles of holy water, extending crosses, goggles, and gloves. There were
chains upon which dangled different symbols: the star of David, a smiling Buddha shaped out of copper, Ganesh, and many more. They clinked together musically as they shook and swayed with movement.

  “Bet you wish you had put your coveralls on before you went in earlier, ay?” Pete chuckled.

  Chris paused for a moment, then gave in to his own small chuckle, before pulling on one of the tool belts. “You are such a knobhead.”

  “Yes,” Pete said as he took a double-barrelled shotgun from the van. “But I'm a knobhead with a shotgun!” He grabbed the shells from the box, checking that each one had a cross etched into its tip, and slotted two into the shotgun. The rest he shoved into a pouch on his tool belt, making sure they were within easy reach. “Christ, I'm already sweating. Remind me again why we need all this padding?”

  “Because sometimes they bite,” Chris said. “Remember Billy Waybridge?”

  Pete shuddered, rubbing a spot on his shoulder.

  “Good point,” he muttered. “I still think we need to come up with better uniforms, though. We look like we should be cleaning toilets for a living.”

  Chris nodded at the gun in Pete’s hand.

  “Clearly we're going to clean yours today if you've got that thing with you.”

  With a sarcastic laugh, Pete said, “Oi! Don't mess with me when I'm packing ol' Bertha!” He waved his shotgun in the air, finger perilously close to the trigger, and Chris reached out and snatched the barrel.

  “What have I told you about waving that thing around?”

  “Chill out, bruv. I know what I’m doing. That’s why I'm the one holding it, after all.”

  Chris rolled his eyes. “Just be careful. We don’t want to completely scare the locals.”

  Pete glanced around as Chris leaned into the back of the van. “It's the locals that normally scare me.”

  From the van, Chris pulled out a cage, covered entirely in cloth. It was small, not much bigger than a breadbox and, there came from within, a slight chirping.