The Deeper Roots of Evil

By David E. Gates

Eric Barber investigates his father's legacy, uncovering devastating family secrets and a malevolent force that haunts the village of Ropely. A force that seeks to destroy, in horrific, bloody and violent ways, his friends and all that he holds dear along with those that perpetuate the sins of lust and perversion. Eric must battle the evil and come to terms with his history in order to survive.

The astonishing sequel to The Roots of Evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David E. Gates
• Release date: Mar 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463713129

David E. Gates

David E. Gates has published several books and short-stories. His first book, Access Denied, is a true story.  A deeply personal and heart-wrenching account of becoming a father and having to fight the mother and Family Courts to see his daughter and also battles against the incompetence and lies of the Child Support Agency who seem hell-bent on ruining him, emotionally and financially.. It has garnered 100% positive reviews. The Roots of Evil, his first horror novel, is a graphic, violent, intense and gore-laden horror story. His second fictional novel, The Wretched, is an original horror story set in and around Portsmouth. David has made a documentary film about the battlefield memorials in Ypres, Belgium called Ypres – The Battlefield Tours and previously wrote film reviews for Starburst and Samhain magazines and interviewed the likes of Clive Barker, Terry Pratchett, James Herbert and many others. He has also written many short stories and poems, a full-length motion picture screenplay, the screenplay to a short film and in his spare time hosts a rock radio show. Also by David E. Gates: Access Denied The Roots of Evil The Wretched Omonolidee First Words Unzipped: The Mind of a Madman The Projectionist A Planned Demise The Ghost of Clothes Fixing the Faker The Christmas Carol Omonolidee - Morgado, Portugal, 2018. Two Sides of Vegas

Book preview

1

Eric, Al’ and Dave stood in the shop, looking at the pool of congealed fluid that covered the floor where Dorothy Dingle’s trolley, which was laid on its side nearby, had spilt its grisly contents upon the linoleum the day before.

Dave just stood, staring. He seemed almost catatonic. Even the clock chiming mid-day didn’t interrupt his state.

What the fuck happened here? Al’ asked.

Following the events of the previous day, they’d chosen to go to the pub and talk about it later. Several beers on, they’d decided not to get maudlin or try to work out what it was that had happened earlier that day. It had been unexpected and truly bizarre. Something they just couldn’t handle without a clear head. Even on the journey from Eric’s house to the shop they’d been silent, something that was a rarity when in each other’s company.

'Don’t’ she said. Dave said softly.

What? Al’ asked.

She said ‘Don’t’ Dave answered.

Don’t what? Al’ said. She’s a mad old woman, a witch probably. I mean what kind of nut-job carries around a dead baby in a trolley?

Do you think she meant what she said? Eric asked.

What, about it being your brother? Al’ responded. Don’t be daft. She’s mental, mate. I know you’re not as handsome as me, but you’re not that bad!

Eric smiled weakly in response to Al’s humour. Dave just stared at the floor where the foetus had fallen. He recalled how Dingle had scooped up the motionless form into her arms and then left the shop.

Let’s get this shit cleaned up, Eric said, moving towards the back of the shop to grab a bucket and mop. Dave, grab that trolley and chuck it outside.

Shouldn’t we report it? Dave asked.

Report what? What are we going to tell the law? Some mad woman had a stillborn in a trolley, which bounced off Dave’s big belly and sat on the floor of the shop before she whisked it into her arms and fucked off? Al’ said, surprisingly coherently.

Al’s right, Eric said, returning to the macabre scene with a mop and bucket in hand. They’d think we’re as mad as she is. He started mopping up the mess. Al’ saw that Dave was making no effort to deal with the trolley, his gaze fixated on the floor which Eric was still mopping up, so he grabbed it and, with his free hand, opened the door to fling it outside. He was stopped mid-swing by someone blocking the doorway.

Whoa! Al’ said, bringing the trolley back into the shop and settling it on the floor. Dave looked up from the mopping that Eric was mid-way through.

Butch! Dave said to the tall, slim figure silhouetted in the doorway. What are you doing here?

Hello, wankers! Butch said in response, as he stepped inside.

Alright mate. Eric said, continuing to mop.

I see you’ve moved up in the world Eric, senior cleaner now? Butch said.

Ha, ha, ha. Eric said sarcastically. He leant forward and shook hands with Butch who in turn shook hands with Al’ and Dave.

What brings you here then mate? Al’ asked. Not often we see you in the back of beyond.

I’m part of an investigative team, Butch replied. We’re here looking into some weird shit going on in the village. Eric stopped mopping.

Weird? Weird how? Dave asked, trying hard to conceal the concern in his voice as he looked toward Eric and Al’ for support. Eric, slowly and almost imperceptibly, shook his head at Dave.

There have been a couple of deaths. Have you not heard about them? Butch asked incredulously.

No. I’m just stuck in this shop most days. Eric said.

And if we’re not here, we’re at Eric’s or in the pub. Al’ commented.

Dave wanted to say something to Butch, but his mouth had become dry with a sense of mild panic over the fact that the weird experiences they’d been a party to recently were now possibly known to the police.

Deaths? Eric asked. Christ. No. There’s been some weird crap with the old bag Dotty Dingle, the local witch, but nothing more than usual.

Dotty Dingle? Butch asked.

Yeah, she’s kind of the warden of the will, for this place, Eric gestured at the shop. She checks I’m in attendance every day. Part of the conditions of me getting Dad’s inheritance.

Oh right. When was the last time you saw her? Butch asked.

Really? You’re going all Columbo on us and we’ve not even had a beer! Al’ said, grabbing a can of lager from the fridge and passing it directly to Butch.

Sorry, it’s the job. Butch said sheepishly, taking the beer and opening it, waiting until Al’ passed the others a beer each and they were all opened before he raised his in his hand to toast. Cheers. They all said in unison before nodding to each other and taking a hefty swig from their cans.

Never off duty eh? Dave said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before taking another swig.

Aye. Anyway, how are you all? And what’s this shit you’re mopping up Eric? Butch asked, losing the officiousness of his voice as he relaxed with his old friends.

Cooking oil. Eric lied as he finished drying off the floor with the now rinsed and squeezed-out mop head.

Don’t lie, Eric, Al’ said. Eric looked suddenly panicked, like a rabbit caught in the headlights after his friend had said it was okay to feed in the middle of the motorway. Butch is a mate. You can tell him.

There was a pause. For Eric, it seemed to last minutes.

I… Eric started.

Jizzed all over the place over Dotty Dingle. Al’ laughed. He’s always liked the older woman.

Dave nearly spat out the drink he’d held in his mouth as Butch guffawed loudly. The relief Eric felt was palpable and he seemed visibly relaxed despite the joke aimed at him that was clearly in very poor taste.

Eric pushed the bucket using the mop that was resting inside it to the back of the shop, being careful not to let any of the fluid that sloshed back and forth around the mop-head to spill onto the floor afresh.

Pub? Eric offered, as he returned from the rear of the shop.

Pub. Dave and Al’ confirmed as they drained the remainder of their cans.

You never say ‘no’ Gatesy! Butch said, smiling.

2

My consciousness grows weaker by the hour, despite the coming onset of spring which would normally revive me.

The sounds of the chains of steel that bit through me are silent now. Hacking at my rough-hewn skin, blistering my ragged bark, the pain tore through me like electricity through the earth when lightning hits as they removed my arms from my form and from the bodies I destroyed.

My appendages, torn from me like the limbs from the souls I ravaged, still lay scattered upon the green-covered earth. The bodies are gone. Many people I sense in attendance now. Frantic yet controlled to-ing and fro-ing from many of them.

I expected them to destroy me entirely for the havoc I wreaked upon the creatures that stand tall. But they have just left me, severely weakened, rooted here. Is this my punishment for what I’ve done? It matters not. The hunger for wreaking my revenge upon them is sated.

I need nothing more.

3

Denise looked up from her puzzle book in response to the doorbell ringing.

You stay right there, Buddy. She said to the boy she was babysitting whilst his parents were attending to things at their cottage.

Okay. Buddy replied, his attention remaining on the cartoons on the television as his temporary guardian stood up and left the room to attend the door.

I think your parents are back. Denise called out as she approached the front door. She pulled the door open and was surprised to see two police officers, one male, one female, instead of Buddy’s parents, stood in the doorway.

Sorry to bother you, The male officer said. We’re just looking into some recent events in the village and were wondering if you’ve seen anything unusual around the area?

Oh. Sorry, I was expecting someone else. Denise replied, a little flustered.

Have you seen anything out of the ordinary? The other officer queried.

Oh, no. Sorry. Very quiet here. Denise answered, restoring her calm.

Who is it? Buddy asked from behind Denise.

It’s just the police, checking everything’s okay sweetie, Denise said soothingly. You go back inside.

The first police officer bent down.

Hi. I’m PC Kempton and this is PC Watkins. He said in a friendly manner.

He’s our friends’ son. We’re, well, I am, I suppose, looking after him whilst his parents are sorting out some problems at their house. Denise said.

PC Kempton looked at PC Watkins then returned his attention to Denise.

Which house is that? PC Kempton asked.

Oakview Cottage, Denise answered. There was some kind of problem with the ground, Denise continued. Sub…

Subsidence? PC Watkins interrupted.

Yes, that’s it. John had to go back and get some important papers or something. Christina went with him. Denise said.

Are you okay looking after their son a little while longer? PC Kempton asked.

Denise looked around her to confirm that Buddy had returned to the lounge.

Yes. Absolutely. Why? Is there a problem? Denise enquired.

There’s been an incident, up at the cottage, I’m afraid. PC Kempton replied.

Oh my, Denise said, raising her hand to her mouth at the shock of what the police officer was inferring. Are they alright?

You might need to prepare yourself. A couple were found at the property. It’s not good news I’m afraid. PC Watkins said.

There’s been no formal identification. But initial signs are that it does look like it was the couple who resided there. PC Kempton confirmed.

Ron Kempton hated this part of the job. Telling people that their loved ones were severely injured or dead always left him with a strange feeling of guilt. He knew it was illogical. Some people referred to it as survivor’s guilt but Ron felt this was incorrectly applied to the feelings he had in these circumstances. It was usually after a disaster in which people who survived felt alienated and alone with questions such as Why me?, Why did I survive and not them? that produced such a sense of not belonging where they now were.

But his feelings were a little more perverse. Whenever he had to communicate to someone regarding their loss, he felt as if the circumstances of the tragedy were somehow his fault, or that the person he’d be telling would think it was as a result of his actions. He’d experienced it most severely when at school and earlier in his adult life when in jobs he’d held before he became a police officer.

If he had to notify someone of something, such as items going missing or windows being smashed, he had an overwhelming feeling that the person he was informing was thinking that he was, in fact, the prime suspect in the thefts or vandalism that he was reporting. He’d do all manner of things to try and belay that impression. Looking people directly in the eyes when telling them the news, ensuring his stature was not contradictory in any way and using specific language to simplify the statements he was making. He’d read somewhere that if someone called in sick and gave a long tale of woe, they were almost certainly taking a sickie and faking their illness to get time off. Keeping it simple lent more credence, or so he believed, to that which he had to say.

I best phone my husband. Denise said.

If you hear anything, or see anything unusual, please can you call us? PC Watkins said after noticing that PC Kempton seemed a little zoned out. She handed Denise a card which detailed the local constabulary contact number.

Yes, yes of course. Oh my. Oh dear. Denise said.

The officers nodded their goodbyes and turned away from the door. Denise stood for a moment, looking at the card and taking in the news before she closed the door and returned to the lounge.

Is everything okay? Buddy asked, as Denise entered and sat down on the couch.

What? Denise replied, clearly in a state of shock.

Is everything alright? What did the police want? Buddy asked further.

Yes, everything’s fine, Denise lied. They just wanted to check everything was okay. She sat uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa, staring ahead.

Buddy returned his attention to the television. ‘Some people just make no sense.’ He thought.

4

Dean Hobson climbed into the cab of his train as it sat in the sidings at West Ridley station.

His route today would be one he’d travelled many times. He smiled at the thought of the picturesque journey he’d take through many towns and villages, including Ropley, Newton, Hicksbury and Bishopsville as he would pilot the Countryways Trains service. The entire journey, ninety miles from West Ridley to Albany Ridge, would take just over two hours with the various stops en-route.

He ran through all the necessary checks before leaving the cab and checking the train out from front to rear, on both sides and underneath. All was as it should be and he returned to the cab, sitting in the driver’s chair, and waited for the signal to change that would signify his journey could commence.

After a few minutes, the lights changed from red to green and he enabled the engine to start. A low hum came from the electrics as the train gathered electricity from the live rail and filled the engine with power, which in turn distributed itself to the motors that ran the wheels and, as Dean pushed the lever in the cab to drive the train forward, started pushing the train slowly along the tracks.

The heavy vehicle, with four carriages, rolled onwards and across a set of points which aligned it on the track that fed trains into West Ridley station. Dean slowed the speed of the train to perfectly stop at the Four Car Stop sign, alongside the westbound platform.

He placed the train into a parked position and pressed a button. Throughout the train carriages, two pings sounded. A moment later, the doors to the carriages opened. He waited for the passengers to embark, the doors to close and the guard of the train to return the two pings signal to notify him that the train was ready to depart. He waited until the clock on the station platform said 12:48 P.M. precisely and checked the signal at the far end of the platform was green and again pushed the lever forward to move the train onwards. Within a few seconds, the train was clear of the platform and, as the speed increased, Dean smiled.

The best job in the world. He said aloud, as the train moved swiftly along the tracks and on into the countryside.

5

Al’, Eric, Dave and Butch entered The Molly Millar pub, situated on the outskirts of Ropley. The smell of freshly cooked lunches filled the establishment and Dave queried about getting some food. They’d arrived at the shop straight from having gotten up that morning and hadn’t had a chance for breakfast before Butch arrived and they were diverted.

Shall we eat? Dave asked.

Aren’t you fat enough? Al’ said.

I could do with something. Eric replied.

Not for me, Butch said. I can only stay for a quick one. I’ve got to get back to the village.

The barman came to their position at the bar having placed all the clean glasses he could locate back onto the racks before attending to them, despite the plentiful supply that appeared to already adorn the shelves.

What can I get you guys? He queried, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

Four pints of bud’ please? Eric responded.

Will you want any food? There’s currently a forty-minute wait. The barman informed them as he poured the pints.

Gatesy will have wasted away by then. Al’ said.

No, thanks. Eric said, taking each pint and distributing them amongst his friends as each was delivered to the bar. He handed the barman his credit card to pay for the drinks once all the lagers had been poured.

Do you want to start a tab? The barman asked.

Yes, please. Dave said loudly.

No. Thanks. Eric replied, giving Dave a steely look.

Cheers Eric, Dave said, raising his glass, prompting the others to raise theirs and repeating Cheers as the glasses pinged in contact with each other as they toasted.

They sat in one of the large booths away from the main area of the pub, where fewer people were sat and it was generally quieter than the hubbub of locals and visitors taking lunch.

So, what’s with all these deaths then? Eric asked Butch, trying to sound nonchalant.

It’s all very bizarre. Couple in a cottage ripped to shreds. A very serious car crash. A woman went through the windscreen, into the car in front, hitting the poor guy in it who, it seems, had one of his eyes gouged out. It’s very weird. Not your run-of-the-mill murders or deaths. There’s something very different about these demises. Butch told them quietly.

Weird, Dave said. In what way were they bizarre?

Well, according to the officers who found him, the man in the car looked like he’d been stabbed to death by sharp wooden spears. I haven’t seen the body but, apparently, the chief puked when he saw it. And he’s seen everything. He said something about the eyes having been torn from their sockets. Not to mention their heads being smashed together with so much force you couldn’t tell whose brain was whose. Butch continued.

What about the couple? Al’ asked.

Similar thing it seems. Though looks like a sexually-motivated attack with the same implements. Butch replied. I couldn’t get near the site because of forensics sealing the area. Something very serious gone on there. They took chainsaws in to ‘release’ the bodies.

Jesus. Al’ said in response.

I’m just doing door-to-door at the minute, along with a couple of my officers. Might generate some leads, might not, but we have to follow the process. Butch told them.

Do you have any suspects? Dave asked.

Not yet. But we’ll catch them. They always make a mistake in the end. Butch said.

They drank their drinks and talked about times gone past and raucous nights out and fun nights in at the house Al’, Eric and Dave previously shared.

I want to order a pizza… Eric said mimicking Dave.

…To smear all over my body! Al’ said in response to the time when Dave had tried to order food over the phone and Al’s loud interjection had caused Dave to burst out laughing so uncontrollably that he had to hang up before completing his order.

They all laughed and once Butch had finished his drink, being the last to do so, they left the pub and said goodbye to their visiting friend.

Let’s have a night out whilst you’re here. Dave said to him.

Yeah, good call. Eric said.

Will have to see how things pan out but I’ll be in touch. Butch said, leaving them standing outside the pub pondering on what they should do next as he made his way back into the village.

I’m getting some grub. Dave said and made off towards a nearby mini mart.

6

Dean watched as the countryside, which he loved so much, passed either side of the train as it sped onwards to its next stop. The tracks in front of him played out to a vanishing point in a blur against the interchanging rough grey-coloured ballast and sleepers that they sat upon.

He watched as rabbits, foxes and birds scattered away from the railway edges and into the seclusion and safety of bushes as the train passed hedgerows and fields on each side. He would sound the train’s horn when approaching certain overgrown areas to send the wildlife scurrying to safety ahead of his arrival.

A pheasant, moving slowly and almost desperately, sought to flee in the wrong direction and passed over the left-most rail. Dean readied himself for the inevitable and closed his eyes as the slow-moving bird was struck by the windscreen of the cab and the avian creature exploded against the unforgiving toughened glass with a dull thud. A mass of feathers and body-parts of the now-deceased bird passed over and past the train windows so fleetingly that passengers who saw the remains of it weren’t exactly sure what they’d seen. A greasy film covered half of the windscreen where the thing had struck the glass and Dean activated the jet-wash and wipers to clean it and restore his view.

Dean had seen various types of birds struck by the trains he’d driven. He’d been aware of other animals, rabbits and foxes and, one time, a small deer, disappearing under the front of the train as it sped from place to place.

People in the staff rooms had commented on how he’d been lucky, so far, not to have hit a person. One guy, Mick, spoke of how a driver, now retired, had worked for forty years as a driver and not had a single jumper, the name they gave to suicides that chose to jump in front of a train, until the day before his retirement. Another guy, Jim, talked about seeing something on the tracks in front of him when he was driving a train at night. When he’d gotten closer, he’d realised it was a man, naked and black, that was running along the tracks. He’d hit the brakes, but it was too late. He had an enduring image, a moment before the train struck the unfortunate fellow, of the man looking around, the whites of his eyes and teeth being the only thing visible against the dark backdrop as he smiled a macabre smile, directly at the driver. Jim shuddered.

I still have nightmares about that. Jim told Dean.

Who was he? Dean asked.

Don’t know. I heard he was one of the patients at the mental hospital, but they don’t tell us much. We get six weeks ‘trauma-leave’ to recover from it, and counselling, but they rarely tell us anything about the people that get killed. Jim said.

You find out a bit in the papers. Mick piped up.

Like that poor guy who had an argument with his girlfriend and jumped on the tracks saying, ‘shall I kill myself then?’ Jim continued. Only to be mown down seconds later by a non-stop high-speed going through. He didn’t want to kill himself. He was just threatening it to her. What a poor girl. She’s got to live with that image of him exploding in front of her for the rest of her life. She had bits of him all over her. Dean gulped. He didn’t much like gore or horror, except when he knew it was make-believe on television and in movies.

Other drivers described how they’d found body parts strewn down the track, sometimes as far as a mile or more away from the initial impact. They talked about how bodies were simply decimated when they encountered the hunk of metal travelling at speeds of up to a hundred–and-twenty miles an hour.

None of the drivers Dean knew had hit