Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) Read online

  The second body might give him away. Dexler had been overcome with shortness of breath, dizziness, nausea and fatigue. He could only manage to drag the corpse to the rear of the building and heave it under the bordering hedge. The low-hanging leaves would only conceal so much of her and he was unable to get her right leg to stay curled up in its position over the left enough to hold it in place.

  Everything started to appear clear to him as he approached the turning for Exeter Street. He had taken a detour to try and clear his head and just in case anyone had already picked up his trail. He had forgotten to wipe down and dispose of the weapon he still carried and that left a dripping trail behind him.

  In any event the sun was starting to break through, not enough to warm the air as his breath remained visible, but it was a start. The street was quiet; most of the residents already at work or those who laboured their day away in front of the TV were still in bed. Dexler could not abide the lazy. His father had made him scared of having spare time for spare time was when the trouble usually started.

  It was during those quiet moments that He would haunt him too.

  But those days were gone now that Dr. Thacker had been taken care of. Suddenly he felt a ton-weight had been lifted from his chest and shoulders, one he had carried around with him since he was seven years old. That was until the moment that he approached the battered Vauxhall parked shy of the corner, feet away from where he turned to walk down the side street to where his own house stood.

  As he drew closer, his chest felt heavier, pressured. He struggled to breathe as he looked in through the window of the car. The smell was quickly rising through his nostrils so that he could taste the burnt, rotten meat at the back of his throat. A retch rose from the pit of his stomach and, as he stared into the cab of the car, the shadow man appeared on the opposite side of the car and loomed menacingly over it, staring straight at the man inside.

  For the first time the shadow man’s stare was not fixed on Dexler. Why then could Colin still not breathe?

  *****

  Dexler remained frozen to the spot as he watched The Reaper move around the side of the car trying to find a way in. He seemed transfixed on the figure that lay asleep inside the vehicle. Dexler could tell that The Reaper wanted the sleeping man. His movements became more agitated. His head turned frantically from left to right, as he adjusted his body to try and gain access to the car; one hand pressed on the passenger window the other was planted on the windscreen.

  For years Dexler had kept the secret of The Reaper to himself. He could not face the ridicule of being haunted by a phantom. And the few people to whom he had divulged this apparition, Dr. Thacker included, had been quick to pass it off as a symptom of psychiatric trauma; representing the abusive father in Dexler’s own twisted, terrifying world. But for all of this time The Reaper had existed as flesh, blood and bone to him. He had felt him. He smelt his presence every time he appeared and the fear was overwhelming.

  But now The Reaper looked strangely human, vulnerable, in his attempt to break through a structure he had not met before, his gesticulations illustrating his frustration.

  It was the way The Reaper was wanting, lusting over the sleeping man that was so disturbing. Colin had never seen The Reaper display any attributes or emotions like that around him. What did the sleeping man have that Colin didn’t?

  Instantly, Dexler hated the sleeping man. He wanted to show The Reaper how to break into the car, how to physically break another person just as The Reaper had broken him after all these years. Fear gave way to some form of masochistic jealousy.

  The Reaper was to blame for everything – for the grisly death of his parents, the sickening procedures that Dexler had had to perform to break down their bodies and dispose of the flesh and then the bones, the unimaginable torture he had had to perform on the unwelcome visitors that turned up unexpectedly the day before Wildermoor’s finest had found Colin and taken him away. But The Reaper had, in some way, made Dexler feel special, wanted, maybe even important to Him. Dr Thacker was to blame for bringing The Reaper back to him, so therefore it was also responsible for her death and that of her receptionist.

  The sleeping man obviously had a link to this phantom also. The death of Dr. Thacker was supposed to have dispelled The Reaper from Dexler’s life for good, but no – this man had also been sent to torment Dexler. Why couldn’t everyone just leave him alone? Why couldn’t The Reaper just stop tormenting him?

  The Reaper’s actions became more frenzied, until finally it turned to face Dexler. Its body tensed and seemed to grow a full foot taller and from within its heavy dark hood came a sound more guttural than any he had heard before, more grating than any fingers on a chalkboard. The force of this outcry rooted Dexler to the spot, his breathing stopped in an instant.

  But still Dexler struggled to shout back at the shadow.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ He screamed. ‘Who are you? What do you want from me?! Why can’t you just leave me alone? I DON’T NEED YOU!’

  He heard the words perfectly in his mind, but his mouth had frozen and only a few of his muttered words grew sound.

  The street that lay behind The Reaper started to shimmer, like the hottest summer day shone its rays on the tarmac road. The shimmering became a trembling, until soon he felt a series of tremors taking place in the world behind the phantom.

  Flames appeared from under the Vauxhall Astra licking the paintwork. They grew until they slithered up the doors and the windows. The Reaper stood within the blaze, his arms stretched out before him, reaching towards Dexler. Colin wanted to scream but the heat had dried his throat. It felt as though his heart was slowing and his lungs were shutting down. The world before Dexler started to fade as he started to lose consciousness. He could feel his skin starting to tighten as it blistered. It would not be long before the skin would peel back on itself as he was burnt alive. Was that the destiny that the Reaper had in store for him? Surely not.

  Within a flash the heat died and the air held in Dexler’s lungs expelled in a gasp. The flames were gone, the Vauxhall before him appeared as it was before, not burnt.

  Dexler’s eyes began to focus on the houses stretched out in a neat line either side of him The simple stone cladding on the opposite side of the street shone a brilliant white as the emerging sunlight hit them.

  Dexler looked once more into the car. The Reaper was no longer pressed against the windscreen. He was gone.

  The sleeping man however had awoken and was staring back at Dexler.

  Thomas Laing looked menacingly at Colin Dexler, a Cheshire-cat smile growing across his face, his tongue slithered out from his thin lips and ran along the top row of perfect teeth. His cold blue eyes did not move and something told him they could not be trusted.

  The familiar feeling of dread and pure fear swept over Dexler. It was the same he had felt every day of his miserable life since he had hidden in his closet as a small child.

  Dexler quickly turned and ran down the side street. He did not stop until he got to his front door five houses down. He fumbled with the key in the lock. Please don’t fail, not now. The keys fell to the floor. With a trembling hand Dexler tried again, this time the key sliding easily into the lock. With a swift turn and push on the door Dexler fell into his hallway and slammed the door.

  For the next hour Colin Dexler wept until he fell asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  He woke up surrounded by darkness but Dexler knew that he was not at home. This place felt different, alien to him. The air was humid. He could smell the earth so strongly he felt that he was surrounded by it. Had he been buried alive and woken up in his own grave? As he got to his feet he realised this could not be the case.

  A single flamed torch on the wall sparked and lit as if on command, illuminating the small area in which Dexler stood. It was not an empty tomb as he had first feared. The room was small, maybe no more than ten feet square and consisted of a few simple items of furniture. A low, thin framed bed sat
behind him, a heavy oak wardrobe to his right and a beautifully carved wooden dressing table before him. On the top of the table was a mirror, the main panel of reflective glass sitting central to two smaller ones hinged on either side allowing them to fold away if the reflection became too much to bear. A small amount of light shed by the flame shone back from the mirrors so Colin could see his own face staring back at him. He walked closer to the ornate table.

  He could tell he was dreaming the moment he saw his face. In his dreams his appearance was a lot more favourable. His skin appeared supple and possessed a healthy glow, the bags from under his eyes had lifted and he looked rested, at peace.

  At no point was there evidence of the years of sleepless nights and neglect that he had suffered for so long. Even his hair was thicker; the grey flecks replaced by a black dusting, making him look ten years younger.

  Where the hell was he? This was not his house yet he felt strangely at home as if this was somewhere he knew. Suddenly a voice appeared out of the darkness behind him, as soft as the lamplight.

  ‘There is no need to worry anymore, Colin.’ Dexler jumped at first but then started to feel at ease once more. ‘He will harm you no more.’

  Dexler turned his head to search the sea of darkness behind him from which a small, yet commanding presence emerged. The man stood no more than five-and-a-half feet tall, silver hair, cleanly shaven and dressed in the most beautiful white gown he had ever seen. Not a lifeless sheet acting as a nightgown but a heavy robe of quality that gave this man a sense of standing.

  The man recognised the puzzled look on Dexler’s face.

  `You know of whom I speak.’ The man said.

  ‘What do you know of me?’

  ‘As much as I need to know and possibly more than you know of yourself.’

  Colin looked around the room balking at the last remark. It was cosy, he had to admit that. Not even in his own house or his own bed had he felt so calm for many years. More than he cared to remember.

  ‘You still fear him,’ the elder continued, ‘but you need not. He has moved on to another subject now.’ The flippant use of the word subject sent a shiver down Colin’s back. Had he been no more than a subject himself? ‘There is a new hope.’

  ‘A new hope? For whom exactly?’

  ‘Us!’ came the surprised reply as if the question was ridiculous. ‘We have all been waiting for a new gateway to open.’

  Colin decided that the man spoke only in riddles and found no sense in the answers he was getting. He was now convinced this was all a creation of his own imagination, a surreal yet safe world that his subconscious had created, waiting for this moment to invite him in. There was no threat in there and nothing to fear.

  He closed his eyes for a few moments taking in the smells and sounds of the enigmatic cavern, whilst also testing his theory that he was in fact dreaming. When he re-opened his eyes, he was looking once more into the mirror and the old man stood behind him looking at Dexler through the reflection as he spoke. Dexler blocked out his words by focusing on the other sounds around him, of which there were few besides a regular, rhythmic humming that appeared to emanate from the core of the room in which he stood.

  ‘What is this place?’ Colin asked finally.

  ‘It is any place you want it to be but in reality is the last place you hoped it would be.’ Great, he thought, another riddle. ‘All you need to know is that he cannot harm you here.’

  Colin knew what this meant, but wanted to block the phantom from his mind.

  ‘You talk of him as if he is real,’ he challenged.

  ‘And you don’t think so? You – the man who has been running scared of him almost your whole life. You - who has let himself be influenced and manipulated by him, in order to commit sins against others in his name - question his existence?’ Dexler could tell he had started to test the nerve of this man, whoever he was. ‘Or were you simply looking for someone to blame for your own sins?’

  Dexler stared into the mirror chastised, at first unable to respond. The reflection altered to show a great fire, the sounds of torturous pain hidden within. The picture became clearer until he knew he recognised the house that was being devoured by the flames. He suddenly realised that the mirror was replaying scenes of his own tortured memories.

  The humming sound became more of a pulse, growing louder as Dexler started into the fire once more.

  *****

  ‘No-one ever wanted to believe me when I spoke of him,’ Dexler said, his voice breaking as he struggled to hold back tears. He sat perched on one of the end corners of the small cot, vulnerable. The old man remained where he stood, body not moving, hands clasped together, looking down at Dexler’s sorry form. The strength he had exuded when he had first seen himself in the mirror had begun to fade and he was shrinking back within his true self. ‘When they found me at the house as it burned, and I said it wasn’t me, that a man of shadow had caused it, they looked at me as if I were confessing my guilt. I had no guilt for the crime, as I didn’t commit it.’

  ‘Nor did you feel guilt or remorse for the death of your father that day,’ the old man offered.

  Dexler bowed his head in an act that could have been perceived of shame, had it not been for the slimy smile that slithered over his lips.

  ‘He had it coming,’ he returned, for the first time sounding like the criminal he had been labelled as.

  ‘Maybe, but does the moral and criminal standing of one justify the acts of another?’ This was not a question that required, nor received, a response. ‘Your whole life has been spent trying to find excuses for your sins and others to blame. Is that why you are so unsure of His existence now? Do you think you are at last facing up to your own role in all of your crimes?’

  He was being tested, Colin thought, that was all. This was merely a rehearsal for when the police finally found him. His time would be up soon, that was unavoidable, but he was not about to show weakness.

  ‘For so long I have been told that He doesn’t exist,’ Colin responded calmly and with conviction, ‘that he is merely a product of my traumatic youth.’ The last two words were spat rather than spoken.

  ‘Is that what you believe or simply what you had been led to believe? How can you be so sure of yourself now?’

  ‘Madness exists merely in those around us; not in our own minds. You – this – are merely a product of my own cognitions.’

  The old man smiled coldly. It was at this point that Colin noticed something strange and unnerving about the figure. Two dark, empty spheres rested where his eyes should have been. Life seemed to exude from this man everywhere else but his eyes, the windows to his soul, were pitch black.

  ‘Who are you?’ Colin asked breathlessly.

  ‘Who I am and where you are is not important. It is not why you are here, if you even believe you are here at all.’

  Colin shook his head and his gaze shifted to the floor. He couldn’t look at those empty pits any longer.

  ‘I do not know where I am anymore.’

  ‘You are where you belong.’

  The pulsing in the background was now getting stronger, resonating deep inside Dexler’s ears and burrowing into his mind. He felt his head throb, the pain in his temples flaring with each beat.

  ‘What is that sound? What is this place?’ he pleaded.

  ‘Neither is important’ the man replied coldly.

  Colin covered his ears with his hands, pushing tightly against them to block out the pulsing that was ringing in his mind, making it ache. The throbbing of this sound started to ease as the thrum slowed. Almost reduced to tears, Colin repeated

  ‘Madness exists merely in those around us; not in our own minds. Madness exists merely in those around us; not in our own minds.’ His body started to rock back and forth on the spot as he spoke to himself.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ said the old man, ‘I of all men know that.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Colin asked again. ‘Please make it stop,’ he begged referring to the hum
ming sound.

  ‘It will cease when it is ready,’ he replied. ‘As for me, in life my name was Julius Archibald.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I am here to tell you that you need not fear him anymore. He is done with you.’

  As the nauseating sound and sensations of the throbbing began to ease, Colin’s mind returned to thoughts of the sleeping man in the car, the one who had evoked that animalistic and desperate reaction from The Reaper. The anger began to rise once more.

  ‘What does he have that I don’t?’

  ‘Strength,’ the reply was blunt and honest. ‘Desire. He – we- need these in order to succeed, to live again and rule as we once should have. These attributes are easy to manipulate. Your weakness was your weakness alone. He, our Leader, merely leeched from you, living from the evil inside of you and that which came through the acts you committed, but he could not gain strength from you for you are weak.’

  It was all becoming clearer for Colin. Finally he understood why he had been haunted for so long. The Reaper latched onto those who were vulnerable and easy to control, puppeteering in the hope that his power may grow with or through them. The more Colin reacted to his presence and acted on the emotions he felt - the anger, the resentment, the joy from bringing pain to others – he was displaying weakness, unable to control his baser instincts, and allowing himself to be manipulated by something that others could not see.

  As Colin’s head rose from his hands, the pulsing suddenly ceased. He looked up to find Julius Archibald gazing at the ceiling. A warm smile, yet chilling in its appearance, broke over Archibald’s face.

  ‘What is it?’ Colin asked, trembling.