First Kiss, Last Breath Page 5

  But where had Glib disappeared to?

  Andy tried not to think that the demon might be loose in the world as he waited for a car to pass. He crossed the empty street, and noticed how the temperature had dropped. The chill seemed to reach down into his bones. He took a few steps and heard a sharp scrape behind him. He glanced back and a shadow moved at the edge of his vision.

  Andy started, his rucksack tumbling to the ground as he moved.

  There was nothing there.

  The street was empty. Andy’s stomach contracted. Normally it was people who made him feel nervous. Today it was being alone.

  Andy steeled himself, cursed beneath his breath and bent to collect his rucksack. Something scraped on the ground behind him again and he snapped himself upright. A rapid clatter followed, a tapping, like hooves pattering on concrete. By the time he turned toward the sound it had stopped. Still nothing there. He scanned the street and noticed a dark passageway between two houses. He could see maybe five feet in before the ginnel disappeared into total blackness.

  Had the noise come from there? Without removing his gaze, Andy took a tentative step away from the passageway.

  Thunder crashed across the sky and Andy almost lost control of his bladder. Cursing, he stooped to collect his rucksack, all the time not daring to look away from the ginnel. His fingers fumbled the edge of the shoulder strap.

  Another loud scrape sounded in the passageway.

  Andy drew in a sharp breath and gripped the rucksack. A scream erupted from the blackness and he was so surprised he fell backward onto his rear.

  A cat exploded from the passageway shrieking. A commotion followed behind it, another clatter of hooves. Andy cried out, grabbed his rucksack, and was up and moving before anything else could tear out of the ginnel. He ran as fast he was able and covered maybe a mile before he sagged to a wheezing stop.

  The rain came down hard without warning. It pounded him and made it difficult to breathe.

  Andy looked around. He could barely see through the downpour. For a moment he imagined it was like being inside a waterfall. A flash of blue moved at the periphery of his vision and he stumbled backward in fear.

  The demon was here.

  Andy stared harder but saw nothing through the rain. Cursing, he ran again, defying the burn in his chest and the ache in his legs.

  Was this it? Had Glib come for him, to take his soul?

  Andy pressed on until he reached the base of his hill. The rain slowed, faded to a drizzle. His home came into view and he stopped dead. He gaped, reality unraveling before his eyes.

  Grandpa stood outside the house. In one hand he held a shopping bag. His other was arched over his head as if to stave off the spitting rain.

  Andy stumbled, burst into tears. They slowed almost immediately. It wasn’t Grandpa. It was Mr. Masters, their neighbor. Andy stopped and wiped his eyes. He couldn’t believe he had mistaken the old man for Grandpa. It was a sickening mistake, a despicable trick of the mind.

  Mr. Masters saw him and scowled. “I’ve been looking for you, boy.”

  Andy didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t stop. He carried on walking toward the broken front gate.

  “Oi! I’m talking to you! You bloody rude boy!”

  Andy stopped, blushing. He glanced down the hill to see if Glib had followed him. The street was empty. He sensed the danger was no longer as imminent.

  “I’ve been knocking on your door all day. Where’s old Rowly? I have a parcel for him.”

  “A parcel?”

  Mr. Masters pulled it from the bag. It was a small box wrapped in brown paper. Normally the old man wouldn’t accept deliveries on behalf of his neighbors.

  “Yes the postman delivered it to mine because he couldn’t get an answer from your house.” Mr. Masters eyed him suspiciously. “Where is your grandfather? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  Andy didn’t answer immediately. He struggled to think of a suitable explanation. “I don’t know. But I can take the parcel off you, Mr. Masters. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

  Mr. Masters gave the house a disapproving once-over as he started to pass the parcel to Andy. He retracted it before Andy could grab it.

  “He’s not getting any younger, old Rowly, you know. It wouldn’t hurt for you to give the garden some attention now and again or even give that fence a lick of paint.” Mr. Masters shook his head contemptuously. “I’ve got a nephew about your age. He’s a lazy little pig too.”

  Andy stiffened, anger growing inside him.

  Mr. Masters glanced at the window to the sitting room then nosily whipped his head back for a second look.

  “The blind has been drawn for a few weeks now.” He looked back at Andy, his eyes narrowing. “Where did you say old Rowly was?”

  “I didn’t,” Andy said through clenched teeth. He resisted the urge to scream at the old man. His frustration, coupled with the fear of Grandpa’s death being discovered was fraying his last nerve. He could have happily thrown a punch in his neighbor’s direction, a boxer’s jab.

  The animosity spiked, vivid and nasty. It left him in an instant. Andy felt strange then, uncomfortable, as if something had changed. He snatched the parcel from the old man’s hands.

  “Oi! Well when I see him I’ll be sure to tell him what an ignorant little pig he’s raising,” Mr. Masters exclaimed. He muttered loudly to himself as he walked away.

  Andy watched him trudge up the path to his house. Something blue flickered in the old man’s front window and Andy’s heart sank. It disappeared quickly from view.

  “Mr. Masters!”

  “Too late,” the old man said without looking back. “Your grandfather will be hearing from me. If he’s any sense it’ll be the belt for you.”

  Andy watched in despair as Mr. Masters slammed the door.

  Had he seen Glib in the old man’s front room?

  Andy stayed there, despondently watching the house, half expecting a scream or some commotion.

  Nothing happened, so Andy reluctantly entered his house. The smell hit him instantly. It reached up his nose and yanked hard on his stomach. He placed a hand on his mouth and climbed the stairs to his room. He sat on his bed and placed Grandpa’s parcel in front of him. He stared at it, distracted. What if Mr. Masters kept knocking for Grandpa? Kept asking questions? Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing in the world if the demon was inside the old man’s home. Andy shook off the thought quickly, surprised and repulsed at himself.

  Andy’s focus flicked from the parcel to the Emerald Forest. There was still no Glib, but the mural was almost completely black where the poison continued to spread. The darkness grew. He miserably returned his attention to the parcel. He tore off the brown wrapping paper and slumped when he saw the gift.

  It was a set of silver-plated paintbrushes.

  Andy sat motionless. Grandpa must have ordered the brushes for him before he died. He stared at them, unable to move.

  If Glib was real, then it was because of his painting, nothing else.

  What if he did possess some power to link imagination to reality? Was that why so much of what he perceived didn’t make sense?

  Andy considered the door inside his head, the boundaries of worlds touching. He had brought Glib through, so what else could he make real? The possibilities were endless.

  An impetus grew inside him. He shifted, steadied himself. He focused on what he wanted more than anything else in the world, imagined an energy inside him, a limitless power to create.

  Pulse thundering, Andy collected his pencil, his paints, his new silver paintbrushes and paper, and headed down the stairs. He took up a position sitting on the floor in the hall and tried to loosen himself up. He was still unable to cross the threshold to the sitting room. It loomed above him, dark, stinking and forbidden.

  Andy stared at the armchair from the floor. He could make out the top of Grandpa’s head, a few wispy gray hairs and nothing more. His pulse softened. He raised his trembling hands before his ey
es. A single prospect burned him.

  If he could cause death then maybe he could create life.

  Andy didn’t need to see Grandpa. His brain didn’t work like that. He processed images from the bank in his head, not from anything before him, but for some reason it was as if he needed to be close to Grandpa for this to work. It was difficult for Andy to remember how he felt when he had sketched Caroline Harper. Possessed, that was how. He readied his pencil and stared at the page. When nothing came, a throbbing frustration started in his chest. The need to be inspired was a physical pain. He gritted his teeth and sketched Grandpa’s outline. Andy didn’t feel anything positive. There was no excitement, and certainly no thunderous momentum. It was a cold process, functional and uninspiring. His hand started to shake as he held the pencil over Grandpa’s blank face.

  Andy hesitated. This was it, the pivotal moment. He knew it instinctively. If this was going to be successful he needed to draw life into Grandpa’s expression. That was the key. Andy could try to portray a smile, maybe even capture the laugh, the wonderful throaty sound that hinted at Grandpa’s journey though life. Andy caressed the paper with his pencil until he began to settle, to find focus. He translated Grandpa to the sketch, but there was something implicitly dead about the eyes. That was the problem. The light in them was simply not correct. Andy’s pain worsened as he erased Grandpa’s eyes and started again. He drew and re-drew, all to no avail. No matter which angles he employed, no matter how he made the light hit them, he couldn’t make Grandpa’s eyes how he wanted.

  Although he was becoming frantic Andy wouldn’t be deterred. Each stroke of the pencil was more urgent than the last. It controlled him. He moaned as he sketched. It was a terrible wounded sound, like a tortured animal.

  The noise wasn’t coming from Andy.

  Horrified, he looked up from the sketch. The back of Grandpa’s head was twitching violently, the wisps of hair standing on end, electrified.

  Andy croaked something, but the sound was lost in Grandpa’s tortured cries. He grew dizzy. His hands shook harder. He tried to concentrate on the picture, on resurrecting Grandpa.

  It wasn’t working. Grandpa vaulted wildly in the chair.

  It sounded as if he was in agony, like Andy was the one turning the spit to roast him in the fires of hell.

  Andy looked back to the sketchpad. He had unconsciously drawn dark tears of blood rolling from Grandpa’s dead eyes.

  The screams were louder. They were inhuman, unrecognizable. There was a pain in them that defied nature.

  Andy stopped drawing. It was as if he was trying to force Grandpa’s soul into a rotting animal carcass, as if he was resurrecting roadkill.

  Defeated, Andy swapped the pencil for an eraser. Whatever he could do, whatever creative power he possessed, he couldn’t reverse death. If he continued, he had no idea what the consequences would be. He rubbed what little life he had created from the picture, weeping as he did so.

  Finally, when the page was empty once again, Grandpa fell silent and still.

  Chapter 10

  The lights dipped in the cinema and Andy’s heart shrank as if it was being squeezed tightly. He burrowed his back against the chair, squirming with discomfort before managing a sideways look in Nor’s direction to see if she had noticed. She stared ahead and his gaze lingered on her miserably. She had barely spoken that evening. When Nor didn’t say anything, he found the silence excruciating, a hammer thumping repeatedly against the inside of his skull.

  Was she growing tired of him already?

  Andy had missed college that day, his anxiety too debilitating after what happened with Grandpa. He had spent hours staring at the last remaining detail of the Emerald Forest not to be consumed by the black stain. It hadn’t provided him with any relief. He couldn’t shake the failed resurrection, couldn’t make sense of what he had achieved, no matter how often he replayed it in his mind. Grandpa remained at home, dead and rotting.

  A flash of intense light burned Andy’s eyes and his attention returned to the cinema. He was forced into a squint, raising his hand against the glare. This was followed by an explosion of noise. He slumped, felt like his head was tearing apart. The screen was alive. Burning daggers plunged into his eyes. He looked away into the darkness, but it was so dense, so overwhelming. Anything could be lurking out there, a demon perhaps, with pursed, hungry lips.

  Panic surged inside him.

  Andy looked again to Nor. She was smiling now, reacting to something in the film. What were they watching? Happy...something or other. A comedy about golf. He tried to remember the name but couldn’t. Cockroaches scrambled inside his head and a despicable shortness of breath scorched his chest. He kept his eyes locked on Nor, his placebo. He calmed, enough for the pain to lessen, enough for the pressure to ease inside his skull. He imagined what it would feel like to hold her hand, to feel her flesh warm and soft, firm against his grip.

  Would she smile if he kissed her? If he drew her to him in the darkness and pushed his popcorn aside so it tumbled over the seats in front. He found himself watching her lips, so moist, so inviting. She smiled and they shaped into something beautiful. She relaxed and they returned to normal.

  Feeling less anxious, Andy sat back, closed his eyes and sagged. He took a long blink and nodded.

  The screen blacked out and brought total darkness.

  Andy cried out and shifted in his seat.

  The screen flickered and ink-like blotches stuttered across the white canvas as if the film reel had spun loose from the projector. Static crackled loudly.

  Andy looked across to Nor. Her seat was empty. He panicked, whirled around and found he was surrounded by rows and rows of vacant seats. He was alone in the cinema.

  A bone-chilling shriek tore through the speakers and Andy fell back in his chair. He drew in his knees and hugged himself, terror pounding him. The shriek intensified. It was so loud, so chaotic that Andy pushed his hands against his ears, trying hopelessly to block out the terrible sound. It peaked and something burst painfully inside his skull. He withdrew his hands slowly and retched at the warm blood dripping between his fingers.

  Images appeared on screen. It was a bedroom, shot in a grainy, shaky style like a home movie filmed on a handheld camcorder.

  The shot closed in on the double bed. An old man lay crumpled beneath a gray blanket. His head protruded above the covers. His face appeared broken, the agony in it stark. One eye was collapsed back in its socket and the other wept a thin trail of blood. His skin was withered, his lips bluing. The camera lingered on the old man long enough to show him wheezing, to verify that he was alive.

  Andy choked when he recognized Mr. Masters. He couldn’t look away from the cinema screen.

  The camera swung clumsily to show a large wooden dresser. On it, splayed on all fours, was the old man’s ginger cat, Pru, a spiteful tabby with a penchant for spitting and hissing in Andy’s direction whenever he passed. A large blue claw pinned the squealing cat to the dresser. The screams were distorted, softened by the damage to Andy’s ears, but no less terrible.

  Mr. Masters whimpered helplessly.

  The shot returned to the cat. Glib towered above it, crystal clear, a pristine image within the amateurish footage. The demon was larger now, five feet or so. Two small brown horns protruded from the back of its bulbous head.

  Glib gripped one of the tabby’s paws. Pru’s screams of fear became cries of pain as the demon tore out one of its claws. Even with Andy’s bloodied ears it was an intolerable sound. There was something childish about it, an unadulterated agony. Andy watched in horror, akin to Mr. Masters, helpless as Glib tore out a second claw from the tabby.

  The demon reached down a third time. A dirty smile lingered on its black lips.

  Andy screamed and bolted upright.

  Nor studied him curiously then laughed. “You okay, sleepyhead?”

  Andy blinked at her in surprise then looked back to the screen. The credits rolled and the cinema emptied. He star
ed, delirious. There was no Glib. It had been a nightmare. He had missed the feature. He yawned and stretched out his legs, rubbing his hands across his face, not daring to consider the dream might have been reality, that the demon was torturing Mr. Masters and his cat at that very moment.

  Nor stood and, reeling, he followed her from the multiplex, where they waited shivering in the cold of the evening.

  Andy saw the pain in her then, as if for the first time. Nor’s eyes betrayed her. She was troubled, a shade of herself, and this ripped a hole in him. What if Glib came for her? How would he feel then? He fought off this notion and blushed as he remembered the Prozac. There were no demons. It was him. He couldn’t separate what was real from what wasn’t. That was why she was sad. He had nothing to offer her and it killed him.

  “I’m sorry, Nor.”

  Nor blinked. “What? Why are you sorry?”

  “For being bad company.”

  Nor smiled, albeit sadly. “Me too. If anything I owe you an apology. I’ve been elsewhere tonight.”

  “Oh?” Andy kept the relief from his voice. “What’s the matter?”

  Nor stiffened then visibly relaxed. “You want to walk me home? It’s not far from here.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Andy said then, unexpectedly–a reflex action–he offered her his arm. For one terrible moment Andy thought Nor would refuse it but instead she gripped it and leaned into him. With Nor at his side the bluster didn’t feel as cold.

  Nor flashed him half a smile and they started to walk.

  They were quiet for a while and Andy was content enough with this, the silence not as awkward with Nor holding him. It was nearly ten minutes before she spoke.

  “My dad has gone off the rails–completely.”

  Nor left it there, appeared to wait for him to say something. She couldn’t look at him. He tensed. If her father had hurt her, he’d–