from him so his image was indistinct behind it. And as this diaphanous cloud rose into the air, I saw that it was now taking on some sort of form. And the form was of Moker himself, but without the scarf and hat, without the grimy raincoat he always seemed to wear, without any clothes at all.
Although the image was unclear and ever-forming, I could make out the pits and scars to his body (I wondered if the old wounds had been self-inflicted), the malformed bones and surprising plumpness of his chest, and I wondered how a person could exist with such afflictions and could come to terms with such hideous defects. The substance was rising upwards, breaking free of the man himself, rising like a ghost from the grave, and Moker’s body was sliding sideways as if its lifeforce was deserting it. Finally, Moker’s empty body slumped against the rear seat’s corner. As Moker’s real eyes were closed, so too were the eyes of his fluctuating self-image, but I remained hidden all the same.
The substance—ectoplasm, animus, essence, I didn’t know what to call it—continued to build until I thought it might disappear through the roof of the car, but as the bare head—it had traces of wispy hair—touched the ceiling, the whole thing began to float sideways, towards the corpse in the other corner. This emanation was both fascinating and horrible, unusual and frightening, even though I’d left my own body many times in similar fashion in my past life (although I was sure that my spirit had never been visible like this, otherwise somebody would have mentioned it!). The ghosts at the seance parlour hadn’t scared me as much, because there was nothing threatening about them. This was different, there was something malign about the phenomenon I was witnessing, and I felt non-existent hairs on the back of my neck prickle, goosebumps rise on my arms. If I hadn’t been dead, I’d have run for my life.
This is when it happened. This is when I saw something I never thought possible. Of course I’d read the books and watched the films about demonic possession, but only hokey or over-imaginative writers and film-makers were responsible for such scenarios, while this was a real man, albeit an abnormal one, whose soul was stealing another person’s body. Death had emptied the woman’s body of its soul and now a different soul was taking its place, filling the vacuum. As I watched, the vaporous issue from Moker was entering the corpse on the back seat, creeping into it, smoothly but bit by bit, nothing hurried, no sudden possession, just a steady ingress, the hazy but discernible “mist” gradually sinking into the body until the nebulous features of Moker had completely disappeared.
After a few moments—but very long moments—the corpse’s eyes snapped open wide and looked into mine.
30
When the corpse spoke, its voice was strange, forced as if remembering the process. It was female, but there was an underlying hoarseness to the tone.
“I… know… you,” she said.
I jerked back so fiercely that I went through the dashboard and landed in a heap beneath the car’s engine. Stunned, I remained there for a few beats, at least out of sight of the Hillman’s two back-seat occupants; then, rather than stand and be in view again, I rolled out and crawled around the Celica that was parked next to Moker’s car, keeping low, afraid of being noticed, coming to rest behind the Celica’s furthest front tyre.
How was it possible for this woman to see me? Wait—the spirits at the seance had. In fact, most had been frightened of me. But… but… this woman’s eyes had fully opened and had looked right at me. Did it mean she wasn’t really dead? But that long, sharpened knitting needle straight through the heart—who could survive that? But then Moker’s spirit had left him and entered his victim’s body, so did that now mean he was dead? Think, I urged myself, think it through. Hadn’t I once had the power to leave my own body without being dead? I was almost an expert of the out-of-body experience, but had this man Moker developed his own ability to a level where he could use a body once its true tenant had left?
I peered over the Celica’s bonnet, squinting to see into the shadows of the Hillman. It was very dark, but there was movement in there. I kept low, nervous of being caught again. I heard rather than saw the rear door open and I ducked down out of sight. Cautiously I raised my head again, moving along the Celica’s bodywork so that I could watch through its windows without too much exposure.
The woman was standing by the Hillman’s open door. I could only see from the chin down to her waist, but I could tell she was unsteady. She raised a hand to lean on the grey metal roof, the other hand gripping the door handle. Her chest was heaving as if breathing was a strain. Was it Moker forcing the lungs to inhale? Was he inside the woman, forcing the dead body to function again? Unbelievable though it was, I suddenly had no doubts. After all, everything I had gone through recently was incredible, so what was so hard about this? The woman’s spirit had vacated her dead body and Moker’s own spirit had moved in to fill the vacuum, had taken possession. I was witness to it.
I kept out of sight, moving away from the Celica to get behind a concrete pillar, only standing up when the pillar was between the two vehicles and me. I risked a quick look.
The resurrected woman slowly and awkwardly turned her whole body to look around the car park. I flinched back out of sight once more, wondering if she was searching for me. Waiting for perhaps half a minute, I carefully peeked around the pillar again. She was moving her arms, trying to flex her stubborn fingers, only succeeding in straightening and clawing them stiffly. She began to walk, quite unstably to begin with, a hand brushing along the Hillman’s roof for support, but her stride becoming just a little more adept with each step. I moved around the concealing pillar to keep out of sight, but still I peered around its corner.
Her right hand was now on the Hillman’s bonnet, and her footsteps were still somewhat awkward, but I couldn’t be sure if that was because of her zombie-like state, or because of the high-heeled shoes she was wearing. Her confidence seemed to grow though with each further step, and soon she had left the security the old car and was walking along unaided, the dragging along the concrete floor rather than clattering as they had when the woman was alive. At one point, her left knee gave out and she went down, her hands slapping against the ground and saving herself from falling all the way. She knelt there on one knee, her shoulders sinking and rising as though she were catching her breath, the knuckles of her hands pressed firmly against the concrete. She stayed that way for one, two minutes?—I couldn’t be sure—then forced herself to rise again. That is, Moker forced her to rise again.
It was a graceless effort, like Bambi finding his feet for the first time, but with considerable effort she made it. The woman—this zombie of a woman—stood in the emptiness of the darkened car park regaining her breath, seemingly gathering more strength.
I began to understand that when the body dies, not everything fails at once; it takes a little while if only seconds for organs to cease functioning, and longer for muscles and tissues to atrophy, so was it possible for an alien entity to take over and make them work again? Probably, like me a week or so ago, you’d think no way; yet here I was witness to the miracle(?). It seemed possession was not confined to devils and demons. I understood now that when Jesus Christ had brought Lazarus back to life, He’d actually recalled Lazarus’ soul, ordering it to return to its host. Who would have thought that the host body could also be appropriated by someone else’s soul?
Before continuing, the dead woman looked about her once more as if looking for something. I had no doubt that “something” was me, so I remained hidden, frightened, incredulous—but inquisitive. She appeared to give up her search, although I’m sure she wasn’t satisfied. She started moving again, the first few steps clumsy, ungainly, and also slow (although not as slow as those zombies in old and hackneyed horror flicks), heading towards the EXIT door that Moker had been watching for a couple of hours that night.
What the hell was she—he—doing? Wasn’t mutilation the next item on the killer’s agenda? According to the newspapers, that was the whole agenda. It was then I wondered if Moker, using the OBE, had entered all his dead victims this way. And if so, what was the point, what kind of kick did Moker get from it? I decided to follow. Oh, believe me, I didn’t want to, I wanted to flee, get somewhere sane—like my own home. But the truth is, by now I was really curious.
I waited for the door to swing closed before leaving my hiding place—I don’t know why I was quite so wary of being seen; after all, wasn’t I untouchable? What could Moker do to me?—and went to the yellow-painted door. I listened before passing through it and heard shuffling footsteps ascending the stone steps that led to ground level. When they had faded enough for me to feel confident, I pressed through—no, I didn’t even have to press this time —I just glided through the door.
The footsteps could be heard clearly now, although they were growing quieter, fading into the distance.
