E is for Exorcism: A-Z of Horror, #5

By P.J. Blakey-Novis

E is for Exorcism, the fifth book in an epic series of twenty-six horror anthologies. Within these pages you will find a collection of thirteen sinister stories from some of the finest independent writers on the scene today. Feel the terror as the possessed wreak havoc and good does not always triumph over evil. E is for Exorcism contains a variety of nerve-jangling stories that will make you keep hold of that crucifix!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Cape Publishing
• Release date: Feb 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201739768

Book preview

Red Cape Publishing Presents...

The A-Z of Horror: E is for Exorcism

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 Red Cape Publishing

All rights reserved.

Cover Design by Red Cape Graphic Design

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Interior Artwork by Art Autopsy

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A Grave Mistake

S.P. Oldham

Donald scuffed his way back to the hotel, hands in pockets, head down, watching each plodding step he took as if his feet belonged to someone else. The beer and the whisky chasers he had been drinking for most of the day had done their job. His cheeks felt flushed and hot, his eyelids heavy. Up ahead, his friends and fellow drinkers were loud; obnoxious even, slurring bawdy songs to barely remembered tunes. They were laughing and joking, jostling and ribbing, oblivious to the disapproving looks they were earning from people all around them.

Donald had been part of it all a couple of hours ago. Now he felt subdued and heavy, all the laughter gone from him. His head ached, not from the booze – he knew a drink-induced headache well enough to know the difference – but from some kind of, of...

His beer-addled brain struggled to find a word to describe the weight that now sat in his head. A darkness.

He had not felt right since the group had ducked into a quiet churchyard; the next best thing to public toilets for bladders swollen with booze. They had the sense to go to the back of the church, under the cover of some trees and out of immediate sight of the street. A couple of them had watered a large and ancient Yew, giggling like schoolboys.

Donald, his need great, stopped and unzipped his fly the minute he was out of sight. He focused on the arc of his urine as it splashed in a hot, steaming stream of ominously dark-golden rivulets, spattering to the soil at his feet, muddying his boots. The relief was near-blissful. When he was done he zipped up his fly, wiping his hands down his jeans. That was when he saw it.

His toilet of choice turned out to be the door of an old crypt. A skull and crossbones had been sculpted into it, tainted with years of dirt and soot, except for whiter streaks now, where Donald had just washed some of it cleaner. Part of the skull and one end of the crossbones was almost completely black. This was what first caught his eye. What was above it earned his complete attention.

A skeleton, partially hidden by the same black dirt that obscured the skull, was positioned at an almost jaunty angle. The legs were bowed, the ribs wide, no arms to be seen. The skull-face was, as all skulls are, missing features, devoid of all life; yet Donald swore it was looking right at him.

He took a step back, off balance. Behind him, his friends were re-grouping, making their way out of the churchyard. He was unable to follow them, suddenly rooted to the spot.

Words appeared below the skeleton; at least, that was how it seemed to Donald. He could have sworn they were not there before. Against his own will, he found his eyes tracing over the lettering, taking in their meaning.

'What lies beneath is best left buried,

God help the one who would disturb.

Bring dishonour or disrespect,

And you will take what you deserve.'

Impossibly, alongside the sculpted ribs there rose a bony hand, as if the arm of the skeleton had been buried in the brick itself and was now rising up from it. Donald stood paralysed as a single bony finger uncurled to point at him. The skull face turned into a frown, shaking to and fro as if in admonition.

Donald's mouth went dry, his palms too. His heart was racing as he sought to put right what he had done wrong.

I didn't mean to, he whispered fervently, I'm drunk, for God's sake! It was an accident!

A large hand clamped on his shoulder. Donald jumped, startled. When he turned to face Graham, he knew his expression was tight with fear.

Jesus! Graham laughed, What are you muttering about? Come on, the others are halfway down the road. I came back to get you, you little lost soul!

It was meant as a joke, but the words settled upon Donald's heart like ice. Little lost soul.

He tried to smile, but felt it was more a grimace. He looked back at the wall of the crypt. The accusing arm and wagging finger were gone, as were the words. He felt a coldness settle in his stomach.

He thought about telling Graham what he had seen. Graham would laugh. He would blame the drink, then tell the others. They would never let him live it down.

Perhaps it was the drink. Donald took a step toward his friend, swayed and nearly fell. Graham reached out a hand to catch him.

Aye aye! he laughed again, Can't handle your drink anymore eh? Come on, a brisk walk and a bite to eat will soon sort you out!

Donald turned, looking fearfully back at the morbid sculpture on the crypt door. The eyeless sockets in the dead face of the skull seemed to watch him go.

Everything was a blank after that. Donald had no recollection of leaving the churchyard. He didn't know if he had eaten or had a last drink with the boys. It was as if he was so inebriated he was semi-comatose; yet he was aware he was unaware.

The contradiction was both ridiculous and confusing. His friends had finally stopped geeing him up, losing patience with his slowness, so he plodded wearily back to the hotel, lagging behind them.

He became dimly aware of stepping onto gravel, the texture of the ground beneath his feet changing from hard, flat concrete to the crunch of small stones. Against all the odds, he had reached the place in one piece. He looked up, his head spinning. The large white lettering of the hotel name bore into his brain. The Resting Place. It had seemed a welcoming, relaxing name when they had found and booked it online. Now it had a horrible feel of foreboding. There is more than one kind of resting place after all, his mind whispered to him seductively. He wished he could shut it up.

It must have been Graham who helped him in through the door and up to his room. The next minute he was on his bed, fully clothed.

Then, nothing. He had fallen into drunken stupors many times before. It was like falling into the warm and welcoming arms of an old, forgiving friend. Enveloping, healing oblivion.

Not this time. This time it was as if his very being had been switched off. He had gone from dim awareness to absolute nothingness. Not even darkness. Simply, nothing.

A terrifying, vast and unnavigable nothingness. When he woke his eyes snapped open, wide and shining. As if he had been switched back on again.

But he couldn't see.

***

Graham sagged gratefully into his own bed, opposite Donald's. The rest of the group were variously sharing rooms. They had all quietened down by the time they got to the hotel, the long day and the copious amounts of alcohol finally getting to them.

Donald troubled Graham. Even through the fog of booze he knew something was amiss with his friend. He hoped that a good night's sleep might be enough to clear away the dark mood that had settled on him.

He turned out the lamp, ignoring his nagging intuition; the tiny, persistent voice that was telling him something was very wrong.

***

Donald wanted to scream that he was blind, that he couldn't see a damn thing, but his mouth didn't seem to be working; at least, not at his say-so. He was trapped deep inside himself, watching internally as his features arranged themselves into a smile. He didn't want to smile. He wanted to cry; he wanted to beg for help.

He could see Graham, sitting up in the bed opposite. He knew with every fibre of his being that the man was in grave danger. There was nothing he could do to warn him. He was a prisoner inside his own mind, his own body.

Whatever it was that had taken over him, it was a powerful, horribly dark force. Greater, stronger than him. Even as the would-be Donald turned to speak to Graham, the real Donald inside wished his friend would just leave. Just get up and go, get the hell out of that room.

How you doing this morning? Graham said. You had a skin-full yesterday mate, never seen you so bad. Hangover?

No, Donald's own voice replied. The word was slurred, sloppy. A tendril of drool oozed from the corner of his mouth. Graham's expression changed slightly, enough to show a trace of uncertainty.

You sure you're all right mate? You're still slurring.

Food, the would-be Donald said. I'm hungry.

Inside himself, Donald's skin went cold. Simple words. Harmless. I'm hungry. So why was his heart pounding?

He saw Graham get up, throw him a worried look, disappear into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Donald sagged with relief, Thank God for that! he told himself.

His body convulsed, locked in a spasm that threw his head so far back his neck would have broken, had he not been somehow possessed.

Blasphemy! a harsh, hoarse voice screamed into his ears, Blasphemy! There are no Gods! There are no Gods!

Donald felt himself physically shrinking, though he could not escape the sound. It reverberated in his eardrums, pricked at his skin, found its way to his heart. He froze, waiting for some kind of blow.

Nothing happened. His physical body relaxed, the spasm over. The would-be Donald got up, crossing to the locked bathroom door.

He looked through it.

He actually looked through the door; the wood and paint no hindrance at all. He could see Graham at the sink, brushing his teeth, his back to him. His friend looked horribly vulnerable, standing there in his boxer shorts and not much else.

His mouth hissed; a low, drawn out sound that somehow conveyed relish. It was a soft, quiet sound, yet Graham stopped his brushing, turning to look at the door, puzzled. After a few moments, he shrugged, turned back to the sink and rinsed off his toothbrush. He filled the sink with hot water, steam rising from the bowl.

Donald felt his physical arm rise, felt his hand bunch into a fist. He recoiled in shock as it smashed through the door with sickening ease, unable to look away as it lengthened absurdly, crossed the gap between the door and the sink. He saw Graham turn in alarm, saw his face contort into fear and disbelief.

Saw as the hand at the end of the ridiculous arm grabbed Graham by the throat, to pull him off his feet and slam him hard into the bathroom door.

He heard Graham's cry of pain and terror cut off as the arm repeated the move again, again and again. By the time it was over, Graham was hanging limp and lifeless from the huge hand, with all the animation of a rag doll.

Donald, utterly shocked, watched as the arm pulled the lifeless Graham through the bathroom door, the wood splintering, offering no resistance at all. He realised his body had somehow grown taller, and that he was now bearing down on his friend from height.

He wished he could have closed his eyes for the next part. He felt his own mouth open, so wide that the jaw dislocated on both sides. He felt his teeth sink into the soft flesh of Graham's shoulder, heard the tearing sound as the flesh came apart to expose the muscle and tendons beneath. Inside himself, all Donald could do was whimper a small 'no.'

Hungry! the would-be Donald said, taking another bite.

***

Father Mulllin sat in his customary corner of the dining room in The Resting Place. Sunday Morning breakfast, after discharging his duties, was one of the few of life's little pleasures left to him.

Into his cup he poured steaming tea from a plain white pot, added two lumps of sugar and a dash of milk from the little white jug, then stirred noisily. Drifts of conversation were coming to him from the table behind him, reminding him of his old life, before he took his vows. He set his spoon down, took a welcome mouthful of tea, and honed in on their muted conversation.

Their voices were soft not only in deference to other diners, but because of pounding headaches, he had no doubt. He heard them commiserate with one another on their hangovers, unable to prevent himself from smiling smugly.

He mentally chastised himself at once, recognising the arrogance in himself. He was about to take a second sip of tea, when a howl of desperation reached him from somewhere above.

Father Mullin put down his cup, his hand trembling. He looked around, checking if anyone else had heard it. It seemed not; they were all carrying on just as they were, nothing troubling their breakfast.

He heard it again, only this time not a scream, but something akin to a chant. A whispered, urgent chant; 'Dear God help me, please help me! Please, I'm begging you. Help me!"

This time, Father Mullin turned in his seat, scanning the room for the lost soul that was begging assistance in the middle of a busy dining room. To his confusion, the room remained undisturbed.

Puzzled, he began to wonder if he had imagined it. He hadn't slept well, these past few nights. Perhaps that was enough to...

For the love of God, no! Someone help! Someone help him! Graham! Oh my God! Graham!

There was no doubting it this time. He was not imagining it. The voice was real. He had to find who it belonged to; find a way to help them. Before he could move, fresh pleas for help reached his ears.

Someone was sobbing. Heavy and desolate at first, easing at last to nothing more than a few stuttering gasps. Then more whispering; 'What have I done? What have I done? The boys will never believe me, they'll never forgive me! What have I done??" More wracking sobs.

The ordinary everyday sounds of the dining room came slowly back to Father Mullin as if from far away. The mysterious voice had gone, yes, but it had left him shaken to the core. Someone here needed him.

He thought again about what the sobbing man had said. He had screamed the name 'Graham,' mentioned 'the boys.'

There was only one group in the dining room that could fit that description. His mouth dry, his face creased with worry, Father Mullin rose from his seat, crossing to their table on trembling legs.

Please excuse me gentlemen. I realise this may sound strange to you, but I think one of your number might be in need of help. In fact, I think he might be in some danger.

The men looked up at the priest in undisguised surprise. They exchanged glances, unsure how to take his interruption. At last, one of them spoke.

No disrespect Father, but if you're after saving anyone's souls, we're all way beyond help.

A ripple of appreciative laughter ran through the group, the men returning to their food, dismissing the priest.

No, I don't think you understand me. I am not interested in converting any of you; I really do think one of your friends needs help. I think his name might be Graham?

He spoke the name as a question, but he saw he had their attention at once. Eager not to lose them, he pressed on, I don't know what kind of trouble exactly, I don't even know where he is, in fact,

That earned him a few scornful looks. Nonetheless, it prompted discussion.

I don't know what he's on about, a fork waved in Father Mullin's direction, but you've got to admit it's unusual for Donald to miss a cooked breakfast. Graham too, come to that.

The speaker looked at Father Mullin, Our friend's name is Graham, yes. How do you know that?

The priest was at a loss for words. How could he make these men believe him when he hardly believed it himself? Words, sobbing, that no one else could hear? They would laugh him out of the hotel.

To his relief, he had no need to answer. One of the men checked his watch, pushed back his chair and stood, stretching.

Whatever, I think I should give them a shout anyway. It's getting late and I'm pretty sure they'll want to eat before we head for home.

Donald's probably still too hammered to face breakfast, one of them said, shovelling sausage and egg into his mouth.

We'll soon find out, the man said, giving Father Mullin one last, curious look before navigating his way round the tables and up the stairs.

Father Mullin felt suddenly foolish. The men had lost interest him. He wove his way back to his chair, sitting down, absent-mindedly reaching for his cup. Had he imagined it?

Bare minutes later, he knew he had done no such thing. A yell of horror reached the dining room, though this time he saw at once that everyone had heard it. His heart pounding, Father Mullin flew from the dining room, racing up the stairs. He muttered a silent, urgent prayer as he went.

Heavy footsteps followed behind him. Someone called for him to wait. He did not stop.

No need to ask which room it was. The man who had gone in search of his friends was standing just outside the open door of one of the bedrooms. His hands were raised, gripping his hair, giving him a look of helplessness. His skin was pale, deathly looking, his breath coming in huge, great gasps that seemed to steal oxygen from him, rather than give it.

Father Mullin stopped less than six feet away. He felt the others approach behind him and he held up a hand to stop them, not bothering to turn around. They halted without argument.

Father Mullin took a step closer, intending to offer comfort to the stricken man standing in the doorway. Before he