Chapter Eight

The Albert Dock provides a significant geographic advantage in favour of non-demonic beings when the River Mersey is filled with Holy Water. Isidora and Quentin, followed by the old man, raced towards Father Peter, who was lying flat on his back on the wooden deck by the water.

When he caught a glimpse of the river, the old man screeched at the sight of the overwhelming quantity of holy water and stopped in his tracks. Quentin and Isidora carried on until they reached the priest, whose eyes were shut behind his sunglasses as he gloried in his latest holy accomplishment.

“Father Peter!” Isidora got on her knees and shook him by the shoulders. “The old man is back!”

“Don’t be so hysterical,” said Father Peter. He yawned and slowly sat up.

He lifted his sunglasses and looked up, squinting. The old man stood behind them on the concrete, unwilling to go down onto the wooden deck by the water.

The old man cackled. “Father Peter, we meet again.”

Holes in the old man’s head, chest and hip appeared where Father Peter had shot him during the exorcism. Green fluid oozed out of the holes, as well as his eyes, nose and mouth. It leaked down onto the deck where the three were sitting. As the substance spread over the deck, the wood began to disintegrate.

“Oh, that’s awesome!” Father Peter said to Quentin and Isidora. “Just what I needed, a demon!”

Isidora imagined the old man inside a cage. A metallic box formed around him.

“How did he get in the virtual afterlife?” asked Quentin, grabbing Father Peter by the collar and shaking him aggressively.

“I have no clue,” said Father Peter. He laughed, and Quentin punched him in the nose.

Father Peter grinned. “You can’t hurt me here, Quentin.”

“Oh, you bet I can,” he said. “Guess what Isidora and I were up to just before the old man came back?”

Isidora elbowed Quentin and nudged him out of the way.

“What were you doing earlier?” she asked Father Peter.

“Praying, enjoying the sun…” he laughed.

There was a sizzling sound; the old man’s green fluid was beginning to burn through the walls of his cage. Isidora fixed it.

“There’s something different about you,” she said to the priest. “What are you hiding?”

Quentin pointed to the new and improved Clyde and Brooke. “Look at the rats! He did somethin’ to them. I’ve been tryin’ to make the big one big again, and I can’t.”

“And you won’t,” said Father Peter. “Now release the demon. I want to try something.”

“Not until you tell us what’s going on,” said Isidora. “You said you sent the old man to Hell. Why is he here?”

Father Peter sighed in resignation. “Let’s ask the Pope.” He gestured for the three to sit with him, cross-legged, holding hands.

“Encore toé esti?” asked the Pope. “Make it quick.”

“Your Holiness, there’s a demon here in the virtual world. The old man from Liverpool.”

“Perfect. Kill it and tell me how it goes, whether it is different, more easier than usual, like you theorize in your report.”

“Your Holiness, I’m just trying to understand how this is possible. I blessed this world. How did a demon get in?”

The Pope grunted. “Criss de cave. What you did is bless some water. All that means is you broke the barrier between the supernatural world and the unnatural world by letting God in. God, demon, whatever. Anyone can get in there if they feel like it now.”

Father Peter, Isidora and Quentin all looked at each other, panicked. The old man cackled again, more loudly this time.

“Your Holiness, you said I would be bringing God into this world. You never said I would be bringing in demons.”

“You’re so naïve, Father Peter,” said the old man. “You really think He tells you everything He’s up to?”

Quentin imagined duct tape over the old man’s lips, who mumbled and failed to cackle again.

“Father Peter, you are an exorcist. Your job is to kill demons, not to ask all these questions. Criss-moi patience. Goodbye.” The Pope left the conversation.

The old man ripped the tape off his mouth. “Silly Father Peter blindly following orders. You think you’re so rebellious, don’t you, with those impure thoughts about Icy Isidora over there.”

Quentin laughed. “Icy Isidora! Good one.”

The old man’s voice began to echo inside Father Peter’s mind. “You could be great, you know. All that power, all that potential, wasted as a pawn in His game. Cast aside by the church, like a freak! Hidden in the Academy as a boy, trained to hate your own strength. Sheltered from the outside world, deprived of any authority, robbed of any free will, forced to live the gruesome, violent, lonely life of an exorcist.”

Father Peter placed his hands over his ears and screamed in agony, his blood burning through his veins. He grabbed a knife from his toolbox and cut his hand. Instead of blood, he watched the demonic green fluid flow out. He fell to the ground.

“Get out of my head!” he cried, clutching his bleeding hand, tossing and turning.

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Quentin. He looked over. The old man was still in his cage.

Isidora bent down and gently ran her fingers through Father Peter’s hair. She held his hand, which looked perfectly fine to her. He pulled it away.

“Don’t touch me, you slut!” he said in a hoarse, unrecognizable voice. He screamed in pain and laughed simultaneously, his eyes rolling back and his body twitching and twisting unnaturally.

“Yes, she’s a nasty one,” said the old man. “So suspicious, so distrustful… always asking questions, never giving answers. She should be punished. Punish her, Father Peter. You’re so weak, such a penetrable mind, from all that repression. Imagine how strong you could be on our side. When the war begins, you’re the kind of leader we will need. Punish her!”

“She doesn’t deserve it,” said Father Peter between agonizing breaths. “She can still be saved.”

The old man chortled. “Save her until the next time she spreads her legs open for a Hell-bound creature. Go ahead, Father. Look at him.”

In Father Peter’s mind, the whites of Quentin’s eyes were bloodshot and his irises transformed from brown to red. His skin shed off in flakes, revealing a new layer which appeared burned beyond the third degree, cracking and bleeding the green fluid with every motion. Quentin’s voice was so hoarse Father Peter could hardly understand the words he hissed to him: Father Peter. Father Peter. 

“Father Peter!” said Quentin. “Are you all righ’? Can you hear me?”

Father Peter jumped at Quentin’s throat, strangling him. The old man laughed.

“How is this possible? How are you hurting him here?” asked Isidora.

“My tool kit! Give it to me so I can kill this demon!” said Father Peter in terror. Quentin tried to push him off, but was incapable of hurting him back.

Isidora opened the toolbox. She took out Father Peter’s sharpened cross and sprinted to the old man’s cage.

“What are you doing?” cried out Father Peter. “Isidora, give me the cross. I have to kill Quentin!”

Isidora took a deep breath.

One…

She tightened her grip around the cross.

Two…

She raised the sharp end in the air at the old man’s eye level.

Three.

The cage disappeared and she swung for the old man’s head. His icy hand grabbed her wrist and she felt as though her bones would be crushed from the pressure of his grip. She dropped the cross. He pushed her to the ground and lay face to face with her, gripping both her wrists. He smiled and opened his mouth unnaturally wide, breathing his frigid, misty, sulphurous breath into her face, stopping her from breathing. The green fluid projected out of his mouth onto her face. Isidora felt as though acid burned through her skin.

* * *

Dalton typed furiously on his keyboard. He was surrounded by Darcy, Karl, Stanley, Edward and Dr. Whalen, all watching the screen in vain.

“I’ve never seen malware like this before,” he said. “What I’m about to say will sound mad, but it’s almost like it’s… sentient.”

“It is,” said Darcy. “You’ve tapped into something you shouldn’t have. Went where you had no business going. If you could just—” Darcy’s expression went blank and her eyes rolled back. She placed a firm hand on Dalton’s shoulder. “Unnatural Defiler, your reign is over.”

“That’s homophobic,” said Karl.

“Your world is Mine and the final barrier will fall, releasing My soldiers, and his, into the natural world. The War of the Heavens has come. Witnesses, decide for which side you shall fight. Defiler, you have made your choice.”

Darcy lost consciousness and fell, hitting her head against the floor. Dr. Whalen sprang into action, kneeling by Darcy.

“Everyone, step back,” ordered Dr. Whalen. “No one touch her nor try to move her, she may have a spinal injury. Karl, call an ambulance. Edward, get Stanley out of here. Dalton, keep working on the program. Something tells me it’s of utmost importance you keep to it.”

Edward and Stanley made their way to the door. “Stan, I think it’s time to take you back to your ma’s. We’ve had a good run.”

Stanley stopped in front of the door and crossed his arms. “I want to say goodbye to Quentin. You promised I would see him.” His eyes welled up with tears.

“I’m sorry, Stan. It’s all fucked.”

Edward considered hugging him to console him, but decided against it. He didn’t want Stan to go soft. He scratched his beard and opened the door to find himself face to face with Chief Constable Glasgow, accompanied by six policemen. He slammed the door shut. He and Stanley leaned against the door as she pounded on it with her fist.

“Karl Schmidt! I know you’re in there,” shouted the Chief Constable.

Karl was on the phone, describing Darcy’s accident to the operator.

“He’s busy,” said Stanley. “So, fuck off.”

The door burst open, knocking Edward and Stanley to the floor. The bearded policeman reached for Stanley, who dashed to the back of the laboratory, fairly swiftly, despite his limp.

“Stanley Wexler! You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” said the policeman. He approached the boy slowly with his hands out, palms up.

“I told you it would be a mess in here,” whispered Chief Constable Glasgow to the ginger policeman. “Karl Schmidt, you’re under arrest for the murders of Quentin Campbell, Isidora Prentice, and Peter Nightingale, and for the kidnapping of Stanley Wexler.”

Trying to finish his conversation on the phone, Karl waved away the ginger policemen approaching him.

“Are you resisting arrest?” said the ginger. He grabbed the phone out of Karl’s hands and tossed it on the floor. He pulled Karl’s arms back and cuffed him.

“I was calling an ambulance! Can you not see the unconscious woman on the floor?” asked Karl. The ginger kneed him in the stomach.

“What did you do to her, you sick freak?” demanded the ginger.

“Nothing!”

The ginger kneed him again, this time in the sternum. Karl felt a rib crack and he exhaled sharply.

“He’s being very insubordinate,” the ginger told his colleagues. The other policemen rushed towards Karl, some stepping over Darcy’s body.

“All of you, get out of the way!” shouted Dr. Whalen. Her cry got the attention of Chief Constable Glasgow, whose focus turned from Karl to Darcy. She rushed to her unconscious body to assist Dr. Whalen.

“What happened here?” asked the Chief Constable.

“She fell and hit her head,” Dr. Whalen said. “She could die if she doesn’t get immediate medical attention. I’m a neurosurgeon, you can take my word for it.”

“I’ll call an ambulance right away. Your name?” asked the Chief Constable.

“Fanny. Fanny Whalen.”

While the Chief Constable called for an ambulance, Edward rushed over to the five policemen who were now taking their turns hitting Karl. Edward punched one in the nose, but another officer grabbed Edward from behind and put him in a chokehold. While the policemen were distracted by Edward, Karl kicked the ginger in the groin.

Stanley limped away from the bearded policeman, who followed him at a slow pace, wishing not to intimidate the child. Stanley stopped and reached into his pocket. He gripped his switchblade.

“You’re okay, lad. It’s time to go home now,” said the bearded policeman.

Stanley nodded. The bearded policeman held out his hand. Stanley flicked open his switchblade, cut the bearded policeman’s hand and took off to assist Edward and Karl. He stabbed aimlessly into the melee.

Dalton stood up on a chair, his back turned against the large, blank screen.

“Everyone, listen to me!” he commanded.

The chaos continued. Paramedics burst in to assist Darcy.

“That’s enough! Everyone, get out of my laboratory!”

The room went silent. The lights flickered. A crippling sense of fear filled the hearts of all those present in the laboratory. The paramedics and the policemen ran out of the room. The others slowly backed away from Dalton.

“Thank you for your cooperation.” Dalton smiled. Clearly, teaching university classes had allowed him to develop his leadership skills, he thought.

“Excuse me, Mr. Scientist,” said Stanley in a small, meek voice. “Did you write that on the screen?”

Dalton turned around. His hands trembled.

“No, I did not.”

On the screen was written, Go ahead, Dalton. Defy me. 

The words disappeared and were immediately replaced with a new message.

Evelyn Glasgow, do you still feel clever?

The Chief Constable looked around the room. “What’s the meaning of this?” Her voice quivered. No trick nor breathing technique could counteract the cortisol, norepinephrine and adrenalin flooding her sympathetic nervous system.

Despite all the rational justifications running through people’s minds, every single person in the room had an underlying feeling that the truth was something far beyond their comprehension. The laboratory went cold and seemed crowded, though eerily quiet.

Edward Reid, you’re like a desperate old dog that needs to be shot right between the eyes, the screen read.

Edward couldn’t find it in him to make a witty remark about the message. No defence mechanism could overcome the unsettling disconnection he felt from reality.

Hitler, how are those handcuffs treating you? You should know, the police left with the key.

Karl felt the handcuffs tightening around his wrists. Panicking, he tried to pull his arms apart. The cuffs tightened even more.

Perhaps Stanley and his switchblade could help. It can’t cut through metal, but with some determination, it can cut through flesh.

Stanley put his knife back in his pocket. He felt too numb to cry.

Poor good-hearted Darcy. It would be a shame if she didn’t pull through.

The lights flickered.

To make matters worse, something most unfortunate is about to happen to Dr. Whalen.

The lights went out.

“Where is Dr. Whalen?” asked the Chief Constable, noticing she was now alone with Darcy.

The servers hummed and vibrated increasingly, then stopped at once. A violent silence filled the laboratory. The screen shattered. Behind the screen was a dark, empty, eternal void.

“I’ve seen this before,” said Dalton. “This is where people go when they die.”

“Dr. Whalen, what have you got in your hand?” asked the Chief Constable.

All eyes turned to Dr. Whalen. It was a wire saw, an instrument designed to cut through skull bones.

The lights flickered again, revealing that Dr. Whalen’s eyes had turned yellow. A blank expression on her face was slowly replaced by an unnaturally wide smile.

“Cut, cut!” she said.

She lined the wire up against her forehead and dragged it from right to left repeatedly, cutting through her skin. A stream of blood poured down from her forehead, into her eyes and over her grin, colouring her lips and teeth red. As she cut through her skull, the sawing resonated like nails on a chalkboard combined with cracking and popping sounds as the bones snapped from the pressure, echoing in the otherwise silent laboratory. She reached her prefrontal cortex, and blood now flowed from her head down to her toes, her white lab coat now completely reddened. She persisted to cut through her brain until she collapsed upon reaching the motor cortex. The top of her head flopped open, exposing her severed brain.

While an overwhelming urge to scream filled the lungs of everyone in the room, an instinct froze them, not unlike that of a spider crawling up a wall who’s been spotted by the person intending to crush it and flush it down the toilet.

Karl’s eyes shifted toward the windows. The moon shone oddly red in the night sky, illuminating the laboratory. The lights flickered on and Karl caught a glimpse of a figure in the window’s reflection, standing behind Dalton. It vanished when the lights flickered off, and when they came back on, the figure appeared slightly closer to Dalton.

“Dalton, don’t turn around. Just look at me. But there’s something behind you.”

Dalton felt a presence, as if someone were peering over his shoulder. The chair shook as Dalton’s knees weakened.

“What on Earth could it possibly be?” Dalton muttered, not daring to speak fully aloud. The lights turned off.

“Funny choice of words,” said Karl. “I have this creeping suspicion we’re not in the realm of ‘Earth’ anymore.” The lights flashed on. The figure was immediately behind Dalton.

The lights went out. A chill crept down Dalton’s spine, slowly, as though a cold fingernail were tracing down each of his vertebrae. His chest tightened. His feet felt like two cement bricks, stranding him on the chair.

The lights flickered on. “I think you should get down from the chair and start walking towards me, and away from… him,” said Karl.

The lights went out. “Who is he?”

The lights flickered on. “Looks a bit like… an old man.”

The lights went out. Dalton felt a cold wind that smelled of sulphur brush up against his left cheek and was vaguely aware of a dark figure in his peripheral vision. His eyes shifted ever so slightly to the left, and they met the gaze of two empty white eyes only half an inch from his face. His instincts finally kicked in, and he prepared to dart away with the full power of his adrenalin. But a freezing, misty hand with jagged fingernails gripped his shoulder. The old man opened his pitch-black mouth, revealing his carnivorous, brown, rotting teeth while emitting a piercing cry.

And then Dalton saw nothing.