What Has He Done Now? - My Book

You can purchase copies of my book from any bookseller by quoting the ISBN number, but you can buy the book direct on Amazon by clicking on the link below. You have a choice of paperback or digital book from Kindle Books.

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/What-has-Done-Now-Childhood/dp/1527202739/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1486394815&sr=8-1&keywords=what+has+he+done+now

Another story from the forthcoming book

The Sickness

He was tired. That unbelievable, bone-aching tiredness that you sometimes get. He decided a good round tumblerful of single malt scotch was just what was needed. A benediction for a tired mind, and a kiss for a wearied soul. The gentle glug as the scotch poured into the welcoming glass was like music.

People just didn't believe him. They didn't believe that he was actually fighting for his soul. 'It's all in your mind Roger old mate' his friends said to him. Some had stayed overnight with him, but of course it didn't show then did it? This snide, sinister, energy-sapping spirit was like some kind of torturer. It deprived him of sleep. It hid in the shadows and showed itself to no one else. He never quite got used to that creepy sight. Just as he was falling asleep he would see the eyes floating in the darkness, close by his bed, then the sickly grimace. A row of closely packed together teeth. Almost needle-like. This would lurch him back into a terrified, sweat-soaked wakefulness.

Tonight he would face this. Tonight he would face it down – or die trying. He had no idea how to do it, or indeed what would happen; but this stopped right now. He didn't believe in crucifixes or the bible. He called the bible 'A book of fairy tales'. He knew that this was real though. He had seen it move things and damage things. He also knew that it was in some way part of himself. That night though, he had a bible beneath his pillow, and alongside it a kitchen knife and a small bottle of holy water that he had taken from the font of a local church. Well, in truth he had no idea whether it was holy or not, but it was a weapon. The irony hadn't gone unnoticed to him that the bottle he used had once contained whisky. 'Spirits for a spirit' he said to himself as he filled the half pint whisky bottle. What he was going to do with the kitchen knife he had no idea. It just looked violent and impressive!

That night he went to bed 'tooled up' with all his bits of kit. Right on time, just as he was dropping off, he saw the sickly white grin in front of him. Roger grasped the bible in both hands and in a flash, he screamed like a soldier on bayonet practice, and venomously shouted 'God is going to kill you' and lunged towards the face and thrust the bible into it. He heard a whine that sounded like someone standing on a poodle's paw. He heard something scurry behind an easy chair in the bedroom. Roger was onto it and had ripped the top off the whisky bottle and was throwing the water around in gay abandon. He saw it knock aside a small table and disappear into a built-in wardrobe. This was a part of the old house he had kept as an original feature. 'So that's where you live is it you cowardly, squirming little shit?' He had never felt quite as alive in years. He was fighting back. Now it was this squirming piece of darkness that was scared. Roger pushed the easy chair against the wardrobe door and soaked it with the remains of the holy water.

Roger left the house and booked into a hotel for the night to regroup. He got his first good night's sleep in weeks. The next day he rang in sick and took the day off work. He set out to find someone in one of the several churches in the district. Someone who wouldn't just tell him that he had been working too hard, or that it was all in his mind. This proved to be quite difficult! He had gone into the fourth church that day and had become a little bit impatient. Yet again he was hearing the same old questions and hackneyed litany. 'Are you a member of this church? Have you been baptised? Have you tried praying? Now this one was asking him if he had a history of psychiatric problems in his family!! Roger just let it all pour out. 'I always wondered what it meant to be a christian' he told the now, wide eyed cleric. 'I now realize it means taking round the collection plate and visiting old ladies, but the first time someone needs a spiritual defender YOU ARE A SHIT SCARED LITTLE COWARD' Roger flung the door open and was about to walk out of the vicar's office when he called him back. 'Meet me back here in two hours' he heard the vicar say.

Roger did as he was asked. He knocked on the vicar's door. The vicar opened the door and handed Roger a couple of aluminium flight cases. 'Here, carry these for me. We will go in my car' the vicar said. Roger didn't ask any questions and followed the vicar to his car. The vicar asked Roger for his address, and so he told him. 'It's 82 Fordham Street' Roger said. The vicar looked at Roger for a few seconds, before closing his eyes and quietly swearing under his breath. 'You do actually know what happened there don't you?' the vicar asked. Roger said that he hadn't a clue.

The vicar went on to tell him that Mrs Rogers had lived there. She was a parishioner of his. He then went on to tell him that Mrs Rogers had come to him and told him of the exact same happenings. 'And what did you do for her?' Roger asked. The vicar didn't answer. 'I said – what did you do to help. What did you do for her?' Roger repeated himself. Still the vicar said nothing. Then Roger saw that he was weeping. 'Oh don't tell me you did nothing...please don't tell me that' Roger said. The vicar told him 'We believed that she was going senile. Seeing things'. Roger asked him what had happened to her. Between sobs, the vicar told him that she had hanged herself in the little built-in wardrobe. Roger's blood ran cold. 'You do know that's where the sly little bastard lives don't you? He said. The vicar just nodded.

They both arrived at Roger's place. The vicar laid the cases down on Roger's bed and opened them. 'What's all this?' Roger said, as he surveyed the case full of electronic gadgets. 'Just because I am a vicar, it doesn't mean I live in the dark ages. These are the tools that I use to hunt ghosts with'. The vicar said. Roger didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Who was this person that he had invited back to his place? The vicar took out an EMF meter and started walking around the room. Roger just let him get on with it.

'How did you drive it back and into here?' the vicar asked whilst looking at the chair that was still jammed against the wardrobe door. It was now Roger's turn to feel embarrassed. 'I shoved a bible into it's face and screamed at it that God was going to kill it'. Both men looked at each other and fell into nervous but uproarious laughter. Their laughing was stopped immediately when they heard a regular thud, thud, thud noise coming from the wardrobe. 'It doesn't like laughter, does it?' Roger said. The vicar appeared deep in thought. After a little while the vicar spoke. 'I think we are dealing with a demon of some kind' he said.

Roger was now at the very ragged edge of his beliefs. Well to be honest he was way, way past the edge and into totally new territory. A year ago he would have been rolling around laughing – but not any more! The vicar went on to explain his theory. 'It is my belief that evil is a real force, and that evil can attract evil. If enough evil collects, it can turn into an existence. An entity if you will. A sentient being'. Roger was in no mood to argue. 'What do we do with it then?' Roger asked. The vicar told him that they had to try and break it back down into it's constituent components and banish it.

'Switch all the lights on and draw back the curtains. This thing hates the light' the vicar said. Roger did as he was asked. Roger laughed a forced laugh and said 'Not so tough now are you – bastard?' This brought forth another series of thuds from the wardrobe. 'Let's have a sing-song too' Roger said, whilst turning on the radio. It was tuned to his favourite channel of Radio 2. The thuds became louder. 'At least keep in time to the music you piece of nothing'. The entity sensed that this was it's requiem. It was it's funeral music.

It was then that Roger heard a voice in the room. 'Don't do this son. This isn't right' it said. He turned and saw his father standing there. Oh how he missed his father. Roger was about to move towards him when the vicar stood between them and blocked his path. 'What is your name then?' the vicar asked him. The ghost merely glowered back at him. 'That isn't your father, Roger' the vicar told him. When Roger looked again, he could see his father's face morphing into the needle toothed entity before finally dissipating. 'He is on the run. He will try these tricks. Believe nothing it says' the vicar said.

The vicar opened another case and took out a bible, some incense, two crucifixes, and a bottle of holy water. 'Wear this' the vicar said. Roger did as he was told. The vicar lit the incense and began incanting prayers. The thudding noise from the wardrobe had now been joined by the sound of dozens of voices. Each voice issuing forth screams and filthy words. 'Help me move this chair and then stand behind me' the vicar said. The chair was moved and the dorr was opened. There in the corner it sat. It was in some distress. There appeared to be something oozing from it. It looked like black blood. The vicar carried on incanting prayers and spraying the area liberally with holy water. The entity seemed to sort of implode, and make a noise a little like the squealing of brakes on a car. 'It's gone' the vicar said. The whole room seemed lighter. It was as if the room was filled with sunshine. Roger and the vicar hugged each other. 'I owed that bastard one' the vicar said, then laughed. Roger nodded and said 'We put a wrong to rights didn't we?' The vicar said 'God's peace be with you Roger'. He packed away his equipment and left.

Roger felt weary and emotional with the whole thing. He also felt elated. They had beaten it. It was gone. He took down a tumbler from the kitchen shelf and poured himself a good measure of single malt from a bottle he had been saving for a special occasion. 'If ever there was one this must be it' he thought to himself. He walked back into the living room and the glass fell from his hand. There in the corner he espied the gleaming, needle-like teeth. They were tinged with blood. On the floor beside it were pieces of the vicars bloodied clothing. 'Now it's my turn to play' the demon said.

© David Hayes

Here we are at last!

At last I have decided to put together a small repository for all my scribblings, adventures and any other business. I cannot say how often I will be updating this, but hopefully quite often