world. He was apart from the others as though he were overseer to the attack. Right now, he was observing me. His was the only image that did not falter and, although he wasn’t smiling—the situation was too desperate for that—his expression was benign.
I could only wonder what he had brought with him to my house this night. Cohorts? Angels? Soldiers of God? I had no idea and there was a time when I would never even have considered such things. I just felt thankful that they were on my side. At the seance, the spirits had been separate, individual entities, but tonight they were integrated, unified, as if their collective purpose enhanced their power. I knew very little about the supernatural, or paranormal, but I reasoned that the fading house lights and the deep chill in the atmosphere were because the spirits were drawing energy from the “real” world, this one, the world in which humans live and breathe; they were tapping intangible forces that existed unperceived around us, perhaps also feeding off the psychic energy of the people present in the room. These thoughts passed through my mind swiftly as I looked into the face of my dead father, and maybe it was he who had put them there.
A guttural yelp from Moker grabbed me back and I saw him cringing on his knees, one shoulder pressed against the wall as if he were trying to push himself through the plaster, while the ghosts vainly flayed, their blows having no true physical impact. Yet he cowered there, blubbering and flinching as though he actually felt their relentless punishment and I guess it was his own terror and the expectancy of their blows that fixed him there. I knew that soon he would wise up to it.
And he did.
His whole body was quaking when he tentatively raised his disfigured head, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the room’s Arctic temperature (his black raincoat had a light dusting of frost over it and, when he moved, the stiffened material crackled) or because he was so afraid. Cautiously, he craned his neck to face his incorporeal bullies.
I felt rather than saw Primrose stir beside me and when I looked down she raised an arm from the floor and restlessly threw it across her chest. She was not quite unconscious, but was close to it. Prim lay on her back, the carpet rigid and unyielding beneath her, her eyelids twitching as if she had left one nightmare for another, her breathing was shallow, laboured, short harsh wheezing gasps coming from lips that were becoming discoloured. The underside of the bare arm she had moved to her chest was stippled with scores of tiny red indents as if it had rested on a bed of blunt close-set nails, and I worried about her other arm and exposed legs. But my prime concern was for her breathing. A major asthma attack could kill, and if she didn’t use her Ventolin inhaler soon, this might easily develop into one. She might even need an epinephrine injection.
Panicking, I whirled around to see if Andrea had recovered yet. Through the agitated mist-shapes, I saw that her inert body lay in exactly the same position as the last time I checked; the only difference was that blood beneath her face had soaked a little more of the carpet (the carpet itself bristled like the raised hackles of a dog, the vibration continuing to create ripples around the room). I prayed she wasn’t dead, both for her sake and for Prim’s.
Moker caught my eye again. He was pushing himself to his feet, his back and hands flat against the wall behind, ignoring the entities that flailed him without effect. They seemed more frantic now, as if their impotence had enraged them. Moker swept an arm through them like a man might wave a cloud of midges away from his face.
The fog paled even more and the overhead lights and the room’s lamps brightened a fraction. The ghosts were losing sway, their own failure somehow diminishing their strength and, as if understanding their weakness, Moker took a step forward, his arms swinging before him so that the closer parts of the mist licked and curled upon themselves. The vision that was my father rejoined the nebulous throng and the serial killer turned in my direction.
But it was Primrose he was interested in.
On my knees, I sagged forward, as if in supplication. I was in deep despair.
The ghosts hadn’t quite finished with Moker though.
The shapes that had become almost indiscernible in what was now a haze began to draw together to form a compact whole. Their shade intensified to a deeper hue, and they grew more substantial, more concentrated, so that once again they gained Moker’s respect. He had already started to move towards Primrose when he paused to watch. His eyes gleamed as though mesmerized.
I was more concerned about Prim’s condition. I was almost overwhelmed by despair when I saw how fast she had deteriorated—her breathing sounded torturous as her small lungs fought to draw in air and the bluish tinge was more apparent. Without much hope I swung towards Andrea again, but now I couldn’t ignore what was happening near the centre of the room.
There was hardly anything left of the floating haze, because much of it had been gathered by the black storm that was forming. This Delphian formation was revolving like a miniature tornado, moving faster and faster so that soon it was spinning.
Moker gaped at it (and with that great black excavation beneath his staring eyes, it really was a gape). The lights dimmed once more as if the brightness was being sucked into the blackness, and the chill inside me intensified, even though there was no “inside me”; I felt like a block of ice, coldest at the centre. Moker’s shivering became extreme, a kind of repetitive juddering, each jolt like a sudden seizure. I checked Primrose, afraid now that she might freeze to death, but there were no ice particles in her curly hair, nor were there goosebumps on her bare arms and legs. I wondered if her semi-consciousness was a factor, her psychic energy untapped and, if so, I hoped it would be the same for Andrea, who appeared totally unconscious (please don’t let her be dead, Lord).
The strange fusion of ghosts was about five feet in height, its sides too irregular to measure (widest part roughly three feet, thinnest about two) and looked almost solid as it hovered a few inches above the floor, its spin increasing by the moment. Objects that had flown across the room only minutes ago seemed attracted to its gyration, although they only shifted or twitched where they lay. The carpet, however, went berserk, sections of it lifting (particularly the area directly under the maelstrom) as though a wind had found its way into the house’s airbricks and beneath the floorboards to rise with some pressure through the thin cracks between boards. One corner tore itself off the tack rail and curled towards the centre storm, flapping there like a loose tongue. The carpet’s pile weaved circles like iron filings attracted to a playful magnet, too far away for them to take the leap, but close enough to encourage them to try. Dust specks that no vacuum cleaner could capture rose in circles, tiny whirlpools themselves, competing with the mother one.
And still Moker was gripped by the main phenomenon: transfixed, confused, fearful…
… Until this primary maelstrom became thinner and sleeker, resolving itself into a curious matt black pillar that was perfectly rounded, quivering with what I could only guess was pure energy. It thrummed as if it were machinery of some kind and the loose things in the lounge became even more agitated. Abruptly, without warning, it shot across the gap between itself and Moker and plunged into the dark pit of his face.
I suppose it was as close to a scream as Moker could raise, and the eruption swelled throughout the room, a frightened screech that had no proper form; it was a prolonged and raw ululation, an animal cry that echoed off the walls. He collapsed onto his hands and knees and howled—a minor sound compared to the attempted scream—as they came in contact with the carpet’s hardened fibres. Now he whimpered, a high-pitched agonized mewling as though the blackness inside was poisoning his system, or had clamped onto vital organs and was squeezing the life from them.
I thought that the battle was nearly over. I thought that Moker would flee from the house, run from his tormentors, and forget about Primrose and Andrea. There was still the problem of Prim’s asthma attack, but at least there would be a reprieve, more time for Andrea to wake up—if she could wake up—and bring the life-saving nebulizing inhaler to our little girl. I thought there was a chance.
But I was wrong. Oh boy, I was so wrong.
The lights began to brighten again. The carpet pile lost its vibrancy and relaxed to its normal state, leaving millions of dust motes swarming in the air like pygmy midges. Fallen stuff became immobile once more. Only a few inconsequential wisps of the haze remained to drift lazily in the air. The room was almost calm…
… Until Moker gave one shocking, protracted belch and expelled the blackness he had swallowed only moments before.
It had lost its sleek form and billowed out like smoke from an industrial chimney, its curling edges dissipating into the atmosphere. More of it was disgorged as Moker began to retch like a dog that had swallowed too much greasy fat with its meat, and each time he heaved, less and less of the smoky substance spilled. His body
