Timelock

By R.G. Knighton

Midnight: November 16th 1986

Deep underground in the Gothic vaulted repository of a world renowned British university a close knit group of friends conduct a bizarre and dangerous paranormal experiment. Their intent is to observe purgatory and prove existence of the afterlife. However disaster strikes and as a portal is opened a swarm of tortured, undead souls slip back into the living world
In the days that follow, the group are haunted by disturbing visions of violent death and execution until they are visited by a guardian of the afterlife offering to end their horror by repeating the experiment and return the dead back to where they belong.
Unfortunately one of them has no intention of coming back, the malevolent spirit of an ancient Egyptian necromancer named Toomak.
Thousands of years ago she was tortured to death and with her final breath cursed all of mankind, vowing one day to return and raise hell on earth. For millennia this powerful mage has avoided final judgement and now accidentally released she intends to fulfil her curse.

Armed with a stolen mystical amulet and granted satanic rebirth, Toomak travels back through time intent to divert a key moment in history. Tipping the balance between good and evil that will quite literally raise Hell.

Once again the small group of friends are called upon by the guardian, this time to save mankind. Do they have what it takes to defeat the ultimate evil, or will Toomak succeed and release the Antichrist?

Only time will tell.

A full-on action and adventure following one central character as she wreaks gory havoc across three-thousand years in a fast paced, time travel horror.

“Timelock gets my highest recommendation and will easily make my Top 10 List of best books I’ve read in 2013” -- Toptenbookreview.com

“R.G. Knighton is a rare writer -- I believe he is a natural talent. He commands a razor-edged wit and a wonderful sense of sardonic irony. His ability to place ordinary people into extraordinary situations is what gives this book a breezy kind of power that doesn't pretend to be anything but sheer entertainment. Devilishly clever, nutty, bloody, gory, funny and fun.”
5 stars -- Ken Korczak

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.G. Knighton
• Release date: Sep 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301492404

R.G. Knighton

R.G.Knighton was born and raised in Nottingham England in 1964. He has been married for over thirty years and has two grown up children.Former Garden Centre manager until 1993 when he sought a change of career and bought a Greeting Card shop in Derby which he ran with his wife until 2017.Now semi-retired due to health and concentrates all of his spare time into becoming a full time author.Inspired to write horror novel TIMELOCK by favourite authors Stephen King and Wilbur Smith. Passion for all things science and science fiction which helped to develop his second novel Hologram Dreams.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Carrion birds circled high in the cloudless sky, lazily surfing the hot thermals rising above the huge confluence of people gathered in the royal courtyard of the grand palace of Memnon. The high walled and gated square covered an area the size of a battleground and backdrops the sight of many a grand procession and close quarter sporting tournament. It even had tiered seating with private enclosures for important guests and the Pharaoh’s extended family.

Today it looked as if the whole city of Thebes had packed tightly together to witness the execution of Toomak, high priestess, shaman and necromancer for the royal family and former close friend of Memnon himself. For months the marketplace gossip has been of Toomak’s whereabouts as she had disappeared following the murder of the king’s only son Haspet. For twenty years her magus powers helped Memnon hold the throne of Egypt. Starting with success in the civil war and culminating in the defeat of Memnon’s twin brother Hakset whom Memnon still keeps in chains in the palace dungeons.

Her magical powers seem to have no boundaries, from conjuring up the great flood wiping out most of the enemy chariots threatening the gates of the city and culminating with the death of the usurper himself Xerses the Great. This tall and hugely muscled warrior once stood alone on the battlefield in front of twenty-five thousand of his own men, challenging anyone brave enough to fight him in solo hand to hand combat as a substitute for full scale war. To the victor, unity of the two crowns of Upper and Lower Egypt, to the loser death.

Xerses and his army had already defeated the Pharaoh of the lower kingdom and now threw down a second gauntlet, challenging Memnon to pit his crown of the upper kingdom against his own.

Storytellers frequently recall the tale of how his entire army laughed and jeered at the sight of a frail dark skinned old woman as she pushed her way through Memnon’s ranks of soldiers and walked towards the fabled king.

I see no soldier before me. Xerses cried, turning around with arms wide to lap up the adulation of his men.

Isn’t there anyone else hiding behind your whore mother’s legs with big enough balls to die like a man in place of this miserable old hag.

Memnon’s army murmured their disapproval of the insult, but under strict orders they remained in position. The Pharaoh’s pride was also stung as he did not want to appear a coward in front of his men, but his generals had already persuaded him not to take up the challenge for the sake of his people. Xerses was a true giant of a man and even though Memnon was an expert with the sword he stood little chance of success. The Pharaoh’s army also numbered less than five thousand, half of which were reserve fighters, thus making defeat inevitable. This unanimously agreed vote decided that Toomak’s magic had be the best option.

The sun flashed from the surface of Xerses’ highly polished sword while he passed the time practicing thrusts and parries as Toomak slowly approached and stopped less than five paces away. Both armies watched in silence while the only sound heard was the wind flapping the royal blue and gold pennant atop of a golden spear attached to Memnon’s chariot.

Xerses paused as though deep in thought while he stroked his pointed black beard, seemingly unsure of what to do next.

‘Should I the greatest fighter, hack down the feeble old woman and claim victory over the royal palace, or ignore the insolence, sound the advance and fight Memnon’s army directly, guaranteeing my status as a noble warrior?’

Before he had a chance to make up his mind it was Toomak who made the decision for him. She ran around Xerses chanting under her breath and pissing copiously on the desert floor, not caring if the pungent, hot liquid stung her legs and stained her white skirts. Xerses laughed heartily at the sight, repeated quickly by his men, who bashed swords and spears on the back of their shields in sycophantic amusement. Toomak continued to chant as she completed the circle and produce from beneath her tunic a lump of naturally occurring glass that she had found many years ago in the desert. Aware of its potential she employed one of the finest artisans in the city to grind it down and then polish it into a clear convex shaped lens which she now held high over her head to focus the sun’s rays down onto the urine soaked sand.

Xerses watched curiously as the beam of light heated the liquid and wisps of smoke began to rise. Suddenly the entire ring exploded into a curtain of flame trapping the warrior king inside. He tried to run, but for some strange reason he found himself unable to lift his feet from the ground.

Toomak danced around the flames as everyone watched the giant scream for mercy, but it was already too late. His golden-coated armour heated rapidly, speeding up the incineration process. Toomak stared in ghoulish fascination as the black cockscomb of Xerses’ battle helmet burst into flame. In a blind panic he grabbed at the cheek plates, wrenched it from his head and threw it to the ground, only for the skin on his palms and fingers to bind to the hot metal and tear away exposing the bare bones of his hands previously hidden beneath.

Any other exposed skin bubbled and popped before oozing over the shiny armour like melting cheese. Not one single soldier in his army ran to his aid, they just stared transfixed as Xerses long black mane fell about his shoulders, began to smoke and then erupted into a fireball. He fell to his knees and tried to scream but when his mouth opened the muscles on one side of his jaw detached from the skull and the lower mandible swung free like a pendulum. Xerses handsome features exuded liquid flesh and it drizzled onto the earth transforming him into a creature of nightmare. Every exposed muscle seared in the heat and as he began to cook in his own juices a cross-wind carried the delicious aroma of barbecuing meat back towards his men.

Toomak stared intently through the wall of flame, clapping her hands with glee as the jelly in Xerses’ eyeballs began to boil and ejaculate from their sockets before he fell lifeless to the ground. The final act came when Toomak decided to make a mock run towards Xerses men and laughed so hard she fell to her knees, pissing herself for real as twenty-five thousand men turned and fled in terror.

It was only then that she surreptitiously retrieved the now empty phial of flammable liquid secreted beneath her robes, keeping up the pretence that she magically pissed fire. With the ampoule hastily buried in the sand, Toomak stood up and turned to accept the cheers and adulation of Memnon and his army.

Memnon ordered the fire extinguished and whatever remained of the body transported back to the city and placed on display for one full moon for all-comers to witness what happens to challengers of the crown.

It would be three full cycles of the moon before Memnon allowed the rotting corpse stripped of its armour and thrown to the Nile crocodiles.

The remnants of Xerses golden armour would then be displayed in the palace to remind any visiting dignitary the might of Pharaoh’s power and To Memnon’s people maintain his position as a living God.

This saviour of the kingdom now resided in a dungeon. With her hands chained together and secured above her head as she leaned against a stone pillar in the centre of a cell. An opaque sack hastily placed over her head and secured around her neck stopped her hypnotising anyone within her field of vision to aid an escape.

Bird-like, Toomak tilted her head as she sensed the presence of someone standing very close to her in her cell. Inhaling deeply she instantly recognised the aroma of opulence.

What can I do to honour your presence Pharaoh Memnon, King of Kings? Toomak mocked from behind the coarse linen covering her head and the fabric billowed softly in and out as she spoke. Memnon remained silent as he crept around behind the pillar, pausing for a second to gather his thoughts before emerging from the other side. All the time Toomak listened intently for any sound made by the Pharaoh and even through the linen hood her bat-like hearing told her exactly of Memnon’s position. Apart from the sound of her own breath amplified by the confines of the hood, Toomak could hear the Pharaoh’s own laboured breath as he fought his instincts to explode with anger and strangle her where she stood. The prolonged silence lasted an age until Memnon finally asked,

Why did you kill my son?

His voice cracked under the strain of the question and Toomak paused while she decided how to answer. She knew that whatever she said it would not change her fate and pleading her innocence would only insult the Pharaoh’s intelligence. The fact of the matter was that she killed his son to protect Memnon as well as for herself. Toomak knew that Shusis, Memnon’s wife had been sleeping with the commander of the royal guard behind Memnon’s back and as the child grew it would become blatantly obvious to all but the feeble minded that Memnon was not the sire, causing a collapse to the dynasty. For her own self, the flesh from the heart of royal lineage (even if it was via Memnon’s wife who is also of royal descent) is a vital ingredient of some of the most powerful spells ever created. If it were not for a single drop of the infant’s blood spotted on the floor outside Toomak’s door, Memnon would not have ordered for the search of her rooms and discovered his child’s heart hidden within.

Toomak delayed her answer too long and Memnon angered at the insolence. He went for her throat, but changed his mind at the last second and instead he tore away Toomak’s ragged clothing, exposing her wizened and naked body for all to see.

Guards take her away for execution. The Pharaoh commanded. Two soldiers came forth, released her chains and dragged her by the arms into the hot afternoon sun. The deafening roar of laughter that accompanied Toomak’s procession to the platform was eased slightly by the fact that her head remained covered by the linen bag and she could not see the thousands of mocking faces. Catcalls and wolf whistles abounded as the guards forced her to climb up the ladder, further exposing her bony behind that did little to hide her private parts. The final embarrassment came as she stood on the top of the platform and one of the guards slid his broadsword under her empty dugs, tilted it and lifted the flaps of skin to exhibit her black withered nipples for everyone to see and scream with laughter. Toomak jolted herself free and silenced the crowd with a high -pitched ululation before her retort began.

How dare any of you godless children of whores stand here and mock me today. If it were not for me you would now be living as slaves under King Xerses the Great or died of starvation when the rains failed. I alone killed the king and I alone brought forth the rains. This is just a small part of all the miracles I have produced to save your pathetic skins. I will die today, but I swear to all the gods that someday I will return and bring with me an army from the underworld. Then we will feast on your living flesh and steal your souls. I curse every one of you to a slow and painful death.

The people looked uneasily at each other and disturbing murmurs spread throughout the crowd, however silence quickly ensued as Pharaoh Memnon took to the stage, looking every inch the embodiment of a living God. He accepted the crowd’s adulation as they watched him pose in his finest crisp white tunic contrasting the dark muscled outline of his freshly oiled skin. Raising his hand for silence a hush descended allowing him to begin.

Standing before you today is Toomak. The former high priestess, personal physician and close friend to the royal court of Memnon. She has been a valuable servant to this land and without her I would not be talking to you today; for that I am eternally grateful. All of these achievements aside, she has been accused and found guilty of the heinous crime, murder of my only son, Prince Haspet, heir to the two kingdoms of Upper and Lower Egypt.

Groans of disapproval resonated through the crowd, allowing Memnon time to clear his throat and maintain his demeanour despite the anguish felt over his son’s death. Once again he raised his hand and the crowd hushed allowing Memnon to continue.

There can be only one punishment for an offence such as this and no amount of accomplishments will absolve the perpetrator. The only succour I can give is that death will be swift and not long and painful as such a crime deserves.

Murmurs of discontent again rose from the crowd and for the first time in his life Memnon looked indecisive in front of his people. He had hoped for a quick beheading, bringing an end to the sorry matter but the people demanded more. A shout from the very back of the crowd quickly built up to a crescendo of voices as virtually everyone present chanted over and over,

Bird of prey, bird of prey, bird of prey.

Memnon raised his hand for silence and the crowd obeyed, but as he turned to order the guards to prepare the prisoner for beheading a small group near the rear started up again. He swiftly turned back to quell the crowd once more, but his glare was ineffectual and the chant quickly built into a deafening wall of sound. Memnon started to raise his hand again, but fearing losing the respect of his people he quickly lowered it and reluctantly accepted their will. Suddenly realising what was about to take place Toomak began to scream as the guards forced her onto her back and then bound her spread-eagled hands and feet to a large x-shaped wooden cross. Task complete they raised the cross up to vertical position and secured it to a post in front of a small waist high bench. In the pause that followed a slave ran out from the palace kitchens carrying a small dish of offal. She tipped the intestines out onto the tabletop and stepped back, bowing her head as Memnon approached.

Bird of prey, bird of prey.

The crowd had now lowered their voices and whispered in an intense fervour as Memnon nodded for the executioner to approach the condemned. Using a small knife sharpened to a razors edge he swiftly carved several small triangular holes in Toomak’s abdomen. She screamed loudly as he slid the blade under each symmetric design, carefully prising the loosened flesh away to leave weeping and bloodied wounds. They were not big enough to bleed profusely, but just sufficient to provide a sweet trickle of warm blood.

The crowd shielded their eyes as they looked skywards while all involved cleared the stage, leaving Toomak alone to her fate.

Slowly the three black dots circling high in the sky grew steadily larger as they spiralled down until it was clear to see their familiar broad winged outline. The executioner prompted the crowd to remain silent so as not to frighten the creatures and soon they landed heavily on the bench. Toomak sensed their presence, screamed once more and the birds immediately took to the air, some grabbing loose chunks of offal with their hooked beaks before takeoff. Fearing Toomak would continue to repeat this sequence Memnon ordered the prisoner to be rendered unconscious, which the executioner did expertly with a blow to the back of Toomak’s head using the hilt of his sword. This allowed him time to lift the hood high enough to place a gag in her mouth and pull it back down before she awoke.

The smell of unwashed and sweating bodies in the assembled throng added to the disgusting tableaux as everyone waited patiently in the heat of the afternoon sun. When the vultures returned to continue with their meal the scent of Toomak’s blood finally attracted one closer and it flapped awkwardly to her side, pecking eagerly at one of the wounds. Toomak jolted back into consciousness and tried to scream, but this time found she was unable. She twitched and jerked, trying to scare the birds away, but it was not enough as the heady fragrance increased their bravery. Repeatedly the vultures pecked at her flesh, digging a little deeper with every jab and tearing away a juicy morsel. Hungry for more gore the crowd watched eagerly as one of the birds managed to tear away a strip of skin from across Toomak’s belly. Even though Toomak was gagged she managed a guttural squeal loud enough to satisfy the blood lust of the crowd as the vultures probed even deeper. Eventually one of them worked its way beyond the abdominal wall, prising part of Toomak’s intestines back out through the widened hole, causing the birds to squabble over the succulent prize. Flapping their huge black wings and squawking the two vultures began a tug of war and danced across the table, extruding more of the sickly grey bowel through the laceration while Toomak’s body danced like a macabre marionette as they hopped up and down.

Eventually Toomak managed to worry through her gag and released a pitiful scream, but it was much too late. The ravenous birds ignored her high volume curses and proceeded to peck with gusto.

The repulsive display continued well into the afternoon and with their blood lust sated large portions of the crowd began to tire of the spectacle and wandered slowly away from the square. Memnon decided that he had completed his duty so he posted a guard and walked wearily back into the palace, his tortured mind wondering if any of the curses Toomak swore today would ever come true.

All through the night and early into the following day Toomak’ s screams and moans echoed through the palace as the vultures dug even deeper into her abdomen, tearing out her organs one piece at a time. Memnon tried to rest but he endured a fitful sleep, repeatedly dreaming of today’s events and the death of his son. To avoid any more nightmares he rose early from his bed, dressed quickly and decided to make his way back across the courtyard to take one last look at the woman he used to call his friend.

Chilling mists from the cold surface of the Nile drifted lazily across the square so Memnon wrapped his shoulders in a blanket and strode purposely towards the execution stage. Dismissing the guards he stared woefully at Toomak’s pitiful, limp body. Deciding to move a little closer he grimaced at the sight of hundreds of flies crawling all over her lifeless frame. As Memnon approached they took to the air, buzzing angrily at being disturbed from laying their eggs in the already putrefying flesh caused by the excessive Egyptian heat.

A single bloated vulture still pecked at Toomak’s insides, tearing away a fresh chunk of flesh and holding it tightly in its talons, while the massive hooked beak ripped away smaller edible pieces. Lifting its ugly head the vulture tilted his gaze to the sky and rapidly snapped its mouth open and shut, gulping the juicy morsel down its scraggy throat. Memnon watched with a heavy heart and he grimaced at the grotesque sight of smaller scavenger birds emerging from between the exposed ribs of Toomak’s chest cavity, each one carrying tiny morsels in their beaks and flitting quickly away from the pursuit of the larger birds shooing them all away. Most of Toomak’s skin was missing or torn away, exposing the tatty remains of scrawny muscle and sinew sticking doggedly to the blood stained bones. With all of her ribcage visible what remained of her intestines spilled out onto the bench and over the floor. This provided rich pickings for several river rats that had been enticed by the aroma.

Repulsed by the sight Memnon turned his back and began to walk away when he heard a voice softly whisper his name. In astonishment he swiftly turned back and peered closely at the hood still covering Toomak’s head. Very slowly the linen fabric breathed in and out proving Toomak was somehow still alive. Throwing all caution to the wind he untied the knots holding the hood to Toomak’s head and lifted it away. Even in her terrible condition she squinted at the bright sunlight while her vomit-caked mouth mouthed yet more words. Memnon could not hear what Toomak said so moved his head closer, placing his ear near to her lips. He probably wished he had ignored his curiosity and walked away as she whispered her final breath.

My spirit will never die; I swear that I will someday find the amulet of the ancients, unite with the underworld and return to wreak vengeance on you and the rest of the living world. You will all die screaming.

HUNTINGDON UNIVERSITY

CHAPTER ONE

6.30 am. Monday 17th November 1986.

Good morning one and all and welcome to the breakfast show on Huntingdon FM. It looks like it’s going to be a bright and sunny day so let’s kick off the next two and a half hours with one of my all-time favourites, Love me now, by Playtime.

George Harding’s tired body awoke from a dreamless sleep, annoyingly snatched from the arms of Somnus and back into the real world when his bedside alarm-clock-radio burst into life. It seemed only a few minutes had passed since he had collapsed into bed exhausted by the previous night’s events and he winced at the chirpy voice of the local disc-jockey who was far too loud and energetic for this time in the morning. Eventually he dragged his fuddled brain back into the real world, summed up the energy to roll over and snaked out his left hand to fumble with the buttons and turn off the racket. To his annoyance, all that he succeeded in doing was to clumsily knock the clock-radio from the top of the bedside cabinet and onto the floor. The impact had the desired effect by turning off the radio only for it to be replaced by the beeper alarm which did nothing to ease the thudding pain in the back of his head. Desperate to silence the painful din, George slid his body out from the womb-like environment of the warm duvet and reluctantly joined his clock-radio on the cold floor. It seemed to take forever as he randomly pressed every button on the small plastic box and at one point he even managed to turn the volume even higher, but suddenly to his relief the awful noise ceased. With his ears still ringing from the assault he sat silently pondering his next move. Pulling his knees tightly to his chest George wedged his chin atop of the bony joints and surveyed the current surroundings. It was still a very dark, cold morning and the illuminated display of the small electronic device shed a modicum of light.

As George’s eyes adjusted to the hazy-green glow, he suddenly realised how much discarded clothing had evaded the corner laundry basket and that the majority littered the bedroom floor. He continued to gaze sleepily at the far wall and at an old a chest of drawers, wondering how much money it had cost to build the pyramid of empty beer cans arranged on the top and the fact that at any given moment the precarious structure threatened to tumble down. All of these familiar bedroom features looking completely different when exaggerated by shadows cast upwards across the wall from the low angled source of light. There was very little else to look at and as the chill of the polished wooden floor numbing his bare behind, George rolled over and clambered sleepily to his feet.

Grabbing a chocolate brown towelling bathrobe from a suitably placed hook screwed to the back of the bedroom door, he put it on and pulled it tight around his skinny frame to stave off the frosty November chill. Matching the ensemble with a smelly pair of old worn out slippers he shuffled into the kitchen and turned on the flickering fluorescent strip-light hanging from the high Victorian ceiling.

A few minutes later and with a freshly brewed cup of tea in hand, George sat silently at the grey kitchen table and sipped at the near boiling liquid while he waited for his toast to pop up.

Slowly as the brain-fog cleared, he yawned and stretched while trying to piece together the events of the last twenty-four hours. He recalled images and snippets of conversation bobbing about on the surface of his sleepy consciousness, finding it difficult to distinguish fiction from fact.

Snapping back into the real world as two slices of toast popped up from his expensive chrome four-slice toaster, George stood up and shuffled over to the fridge for butter and jam. Picking up a side plate from the draining board, (still not put away from the last wash) his mind wandered back to the time his parents gave him the toaster as a going away gift. It seemed only yesterday that he stood silently in the hallway of his childhood home on his leaving day for university. Smiling at the memory George fondly recalled the sarcastic comments of his younger brother Mike.

Make sure you read the operating instructions carefully, we can’t have you going hungry. See here, place bread in the slot, push down handle while making sure the plug’s switched on, wait three minutes and magic! Bread goes in toast comes out. Now do you think you can remember all that or shall I go over it again?

Mike was still grinning and highly amused with himself as he walked outside with one of the last remaining boxes of books, leaving George and his father alone together. He cringed at the memory of the half-baked attempt his father showed at affection as they stood facing one another, embarrassed and silent in the hallway. Everyone else was outside finalising the packing of George’s old Ford Fiesta when his father began.

Your mother and I decided that this would be an ideal gift. Apparently you students survive on beans on toast.

They both smiled and George went to give his father a hug, but instead had to concede to the offer of a firm handshake. It was unfortunate that his father was unable to show his son anything closer in physical affection. He was a very good parent in all other aspects of his upbringing, wanting for very little and presents galore at birthdays and Christmas. However all that George wanted was a hug or a kiss on the forehead at bedtime, but George senior was unable. His mother on the other hand seemed to sense this and always seemed to overcompensate by trying to fill the emotional void whenever she could.

Back in the present and after fumbling for a knife in the drainer drawer, George spread butter and jam on his hot toast and then sat down to eat, hopefully settling his queasy stomach.

Within five minutes he was feeling much better and as he ran his fingers through his short brown hair, he reviewed his reflection in the kitchen window. Casting an overly critical eye on his pasty, red-eyed complexion suddenly became irrelevant when to George’s amazement, his image somehow appeared to melt and transform.

Outside his flat and down into the overgrown back garden, bizarre events were already underway. The Huntingdon area where George lived and studied had been enjoying a pleasant week of mild nights due to a gentle Southwesterly breeze, but unexpectedly the wind changed direction, bringing an icy chill in the early morning air. Akin to God opening his freezer door a frost began to descend, spreading its glittering icy fingers across rooftops before creeping through the streets and gardens.

A young fox had been rummaging through a torn bin liner full of food scraps that had been left out behind a local takeaway. It stopped suddenly, raised his head and sniffed anxiously at the crisp morning air. He instinctively uttered a pitiful whine, dropped his head almost down to the ground and with tail tucked between his back legs the creature skunked away into darkness; chastened by an unknown foe. Amid a collective fear sensed by many of the nocturnal creatures, a common garden spider scuttled into a niche in a brick wall as the morning dew on his newly woven web turned the gossamer strands to ice. This delicate network shattered instantly when caught by an empty carrier bag tossed up by a harsh northerly gust. The windows of the parked cars in the surrounding streets quickly frosted over in increasing severity the closer they were parked to the epicentre of George’s first floor flat. Suddenly a thick line of blue ice appeared from nowhere, traced rapidly across the garden and up the wall to meet the kitchen window behind which George now stood, transfixed by the mirage appearing before him.

Mid-way through his second slice of toast George picked up his half-empty cup ready to wash down his meal when a scream shattered the silence, confronting him with a vision of terror. He dropped his cup onto the table and stared unbelieving at the horrifying sight. Suspended in the inky blackness through the window, what should have been his reflection was now the distressing image of a young woman with her hands firmly tied above and behind her head to the top of a rough wooden post. The only thing covering her trembling frame was a filthy-black, one-piece jerkin tied at the waist with a thin leather thong. Her hair had been roughly cut or hacked away, revealing a visible scalp littered with bloodied nicks and cuts courtesy of an unsympathetic barber. George stared mute with horror as her tears streamed from puffy, bloodshot eyes while she gasped for air between anguished sobs. Suddenly the poor woman stopped as her gaze fixed upon something to her left and for George it was just out of sight. He was now on his feet, transfixed, silent and completely unaware that the dregs of his upturned mug of tea pooled at the rim of the table, had run over the edge and was splashing onto the black and white checkerboard linoleum floor.

The spectral woman suddenly began to thrash at her bonds, desperate to free herself from a new horror and this time she began to scream. The sinews in her forearms formed a relief against the blood stained skin caused mainly by the cord digging deep into the flesh from her futile attempt to escape. George watched in horror, completely unable to avert his gaze from the macabre tableaux unfolding before him. Wood smoke appeared from nowhere and as it drifted lazily across the woman’s face, she gagged on the acrid fumes snatching the back of her throat. Unable to wipe her nose, snot bubbles inflated and popped when her olfactory nerves reacted to the invasion attempting to rid her nasal cavities of the distress but only making matters worse by adding mucus to the mix.

The density of the smoke increased, completely obliterating George’s view through the glass pane. When it cleared the woman was no longer outside the window, but standing in the kitchen less than three feet away and the flat began to fill up with real smoke from the small fire that now apparently existed on the floor in the hallway. Random figures emerged through the walls, silently milling around one another while passing bodily through cupboards and chairs as though they did not exist. Although no one else seemed to be aware of Georges’ existence the young woman suddenly stopped straining at her bonds and stared at him directly. He immediately looked behind expecting to see what she was staring at but there was nothing but smoke. Between muffled sobs and coughs the poor wretch began talking to George, obviously begging for release. Although he did not fathom a word she uttered only a fool would fail to understand her desperate plea.

Working on instinct rather than rational thought, George looked around for something to help. Spotting the bread knife lying on the kitchen table, he grabbed it in his left hand and raised it aloft to slash the blade through the smoky air and cut free the bonds of the unfortunate wretch. To his disbelief the knife had no effect as it passed cleanly through the rope and even the thick wooden post. Regaining his balance George tried again but the result was the same, no physical form or matter existed. Like a hologram at the fun fair the image was there, but you could not feel it. Unexpectedly the woman moved her arm however this time her form appeared solid as it brushed lightly against Georges hand; he jumped at her touch and instinctively reached out to feel the warm flesh of her cheek beneath his fingertips. Surprisingly there was no response to George’s tender touch; perhaps she was unaware or cared not for the gentle contact as her gaze was now firmly fixed upon a hooded figure emerging from the darkness. To add to the unfolding horror a chant arose from an unseen congregation.

Amon Ra, Amon Ra, Amon Ra.

As the smoke began to clear George watched as hundreds of faces began to appear. Flickering visages in the fire light, each one transfixed on the figure of a man who faced them. He was dressed from head to toe in a hooded, sleeveless linen cassock exposing his bare muscular arms, each adorned with tight golden bracers around the wrists.

Amon Ra, Amon Ra

The crowd chorused louder with every repeat until the hooded figure raised his hands and instantly the chanting ceased. He turned to study the woman’s face and George was sure he looked at him first, or perhaps he was still dreaming.

Yes that’s what this is, I’m having a nightmare! He whispered to himself, but this was all very real and the fear he sensed coming from deep within his psyche far exceeded any experience he had felt in the past.

Two streets away Mary Callaghan walked briskly through the suddenly chilly morning air. Along the pavement shadows cast by her slender frame danced around under the glowing streetlights as she walked from under one to the next. Suddenly unnerved by a strange presence and the solitary echoes of her own footsteps she hastened her way towards George’s flat. If Mary had happened to turn and look behind her, she would have seen something else unsettled by the strange events. A young fox trotting across the road, head down and tail between his legs as he hurried away to safety. She did notice with some interest the line of ice running across the pavement and beyond this a layer of frost coating everything in sight. This curious effect she noted was not too dissimilar to a winter scene created for the production of a feature film.

Mary was a friend of George, she had known him since senior school, but he did not know of her existence until university when she introduced herself during fresher’s week. The thing was, Mary loved George; he did not know it yet but she was positive he would notice her eventually. The only problem was that George already had a girlfriend, his fiancée really, but Mary was sure she did not love him the way she did herself and it was only a matter of time before he came to his senses. Mary had flirted with him outrageously at every opportunity, vainly trying to get his attention and foolishly believed that it was paying off.

Nice an’ easy girl, don’t blow it. She whispered to herself, convinced the longer George and the ‘other woman’ remained apart the easier things would be. Fortunately for Mary, George’s fiancée still lived back in his hometown working in George senior’s hardware store, the place where the couple first met.

One of the main reasons for taking her degree course at Huntingdon was George and as soon as she knew the names of the other universities to which he had also applied, Mary did the same. For her this meant ignoring some of the much better seats of learning in hope that they would still be together. Fate intervened and much to Mary’s delight they were both accepted to the old red brick establishment of Huntingdon University. It was not Oxford or Cambridge, (which she would have been given a place had she only applied) but it was not too far down the academic chart that her parents, both Oxbridge graduates were not too disappointed.

As she turned the corner onto Triton Street she smiled at the road sign which now read Tit Street, some wag had whitewashed the r, o, and n leaving behind the rude but humorous notice. The temperature was now three degrees below zero and Mary could see the vapour from her breath every time she exhaled.

Wish I’d worn me ‘at ‘n’ scarf now! Mary muttered to herself, her ears glowing bright red in the icy air. To compensate for the missing attire she turned up the collar of her tweed jacket and stuffed her hands into the warmth of double lined pockets.

She spied George’s car parked outside the front gate to his flat and Mary had to resist the temptation to draw a love heart with their initials inside into the frost on the driver’s window, so instead she drew two anonymous stick figures holding hands.

The main doorbell rarely worked and aware of the early time of the morning Mary wanted to avoid knocking as she did not want to wake up all of the other residents. It was common practice for the students not to lock the front door and today was no exception. Silently as the creaking hinges allowed, Mary entered the lobby and crept up the stairs to George’s flat. Standing on the first floor landing she sniffed inquisitively at the musty, cold air. ‘Was that smoke?’ she pondered while softly tapping a fingernail on the filthy glass panel sited in the top half of George’s door. Waiting anxiously Mary cupped her hands over her nose and mouth, exhaling sharply and then sniffing at her breath to make sure that