On this wild October Evening

...As I return to the broken porch broken porch on this wild October evening, The old farmhouse, rest’s with its grey peeling wooden walls and its crumbing out-buildings, yet it looks alien to me. Even though the memories of this place haunt my soul. I look away from the congealed litter, stuffed in the corners by  the wind.  I look between cracked wooden floorboards, to see the dirt beneath.  I stare up and look through the blistered and buckled ceiling of the veranda, up into the house, into the dark of the attic.   I seek sanity.  It is an act of desperation;  an over tried method, that has  never really worked.  The ghost riddled memories crowd upon me, in a cycle of terrifying repetition again and again and again.
         On the horizon, whey coloured clouds roll over. They ripple over and upon each other, into an envelope of broiling darkness that gathers overhead. Across to my left, along the dark dirt road, that starts by the broken picket gate;  I can  see the yellow tape close to where I parked my car.  "There and no further" the taped line states, with words that even after ten years working with the local  cop's I never really want to read.
         To the right, slowly swaying along the edge of the dark  dirt road, stands the large old oak trees.  The wild wind whipping,  has  stripped them of their leaves;  their branches  are bare. Taught, like old spider’s limbs.  They groan  with the sound of old twisted rope  and whisper with menacing hints, discordantly played against the ice rain,  that lashes  against the dirty and partially broken window panes, with a dark,  hollow, drumming. In the growing twilight, their grey bark is  full of wrinkled  shadow’s, making  Faces, twisted  with age and some fathomless cruelty. They slowly turn towards me.
       I become  aware of a strange scratching sound. I look to where the sound was coming from. Though I can’t  be sure, I feel , deep in my gut, that, whatever it is , is  coming from  behind the old barn door. I turn towards the barn. The scratching gnawing sound happens again. Only this time I hear something else; something that sounds  disquietingly similar to the mirthless giggle of a little child. I feel  my heart begin to thump heavily in my chest.  I take  a cautious step forward. There’s  a clatter.  A howl.  A low moan. A sudden snapping, cracking of something heavy,  stamping  hard upon old dried cord-wood.
         I pause and hold my breath.
        ‘-Hello?...Is anyone there?’
I can  hear the subtle quake in my voice. I  want to call out his name. But  but,  I dare not, dare not speak.  I start to shake; as I  feel my nerves begin to shred.  so I tried to think  about  happy times, how once the sun shone warmly and how we four happy children -all boys- ran amongst these  farm buildings. The images don’t stay. They flee into the shadow.   I hear the padding and then the slapping of retreating feet.  Once again my nerves begin  to get the better of me.
         I stare at the old barn door. Not taking my eyes off it. Seconds pass.
         The world becomes  dizzy.  Colour  spots fly  in front of my eyes.
      There is a sudden explosion of noise. I shout a squeal  as my heart rises  into my mouth.  Suddenly  a form;  someone… or… something, almost half formed -moving far too quick to get an accurate description- dart’s  from the left,  through  open broken doorway,  then  back into the deep  dark recesses of the crumbling  barn. I try to take another step. But my feet  are  frozen solid  to the spot. There’s  something there… I can feel it… feel its’  malevolence  staring directly at me.  Its hostile animal eyes, full of hate  burning into me…chilling me to the bone.  I stare. Stare  Stare.
      ‘Mr Freeman ?’
      I jump  at the sound of  a  voice and suddenly turn.
      ‘Mr Freeman?’ this time her voice her voice sounded a little cautious.
‘Yes, yes, Richard Marcus Freeman… ’I stare at the petite woman in the tight fitting grey and navy dress that reveals  the right amount of cleavage and calf to keep my interest; so  I smile  warmly. She looks  about twenty, almost half my age.‘…but you can call me Marcus…and you must be… Ms Atherton?'I smile  and reach  out, with an unsteady right hand.
She takes  it gently. It feels warm to the touch.
‘Mrs Dianna Atherton…’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ I nod. Her hair is  platinum, the colour that Munroe wore so well; and it suites  her too.
'...likewise.'
        I smile  and hold here  her eyes for far too long. They’re  large, round and  forest green.  A   thought is contained.   A  secret  touch.
         She takes an uncertain step up onto the porch and walks  by me, leaving the delicate scent of Channel No 5 in the air as she passes.  She  walks  towards the crumbing entrance.   As she reaches  the door, she turns  and smiles   then she blushes  slightly as she looked away. Pulling her white handbag, that hung from her left wrist, closer to her midriff, before examining the deadbolt.
‘I, I  understand that you were sent here, to Boston, from  from New York? ’
I nod. '-yes, yes fiive years ago.'
‘-Personally I wouldn’t  have called you in, but but  I have come to understand that you have an “expertise” that that  Detective Sullivan considers useful...’Her voice sounds direct, forcing me to be more open with her than I want to be.  I also hear  the cynical slant on the word expertise and try not to let it bother me. But it does.
       Yes…’ I replied, feeling awkward ‘…We worked togethe-’
       ‘-yes, yes, he told me, the Etherton case in ’sixty three, five years ago now?’
   ‘-He told you? Yes, five years.’
My mind went elsewhere. Deep   into a brown, dirty cellar,  cluttered  with gritty magazines  and  filled with  terror.  A pale blue chair, and  a  man slumped  in the chair smiling at me with dead eyes.  The black barrelled  revolver   pointing directly  at  my face, and the words “Time to die mother-fucker!” shouted at me in a voice that rolled its way through me like a freight train.
I could feel myself shake a little.
‘-It’s supposed to be a-‘
‘-Yes, yes,  a black file…’ her voice sounds strained as she fights  with the dead-lock placed on the door. ’… Sullivan’s an old...' she growls as she fights with the lock  '...friend.   He recommended you when I called him, after I was set up as the investigating officer,  once we found… ahh.. ’ a  sigh  of satisfaction as the deadlock slips  back, with a thick click ‘…what we found.’
 I heard the mirthless laugher once more, I can’t  help myself. I turn  to stare towards the barn once more;  feeling the nape of my neck begin to tingle.
‘-Well… you better Follow me. ‘
 She pulls a  switch-blade from her white handbag,  to   slice  the hidden seal of yellow tape I had seen so many times before. Then  after putting   the knife away.  There appears  a flash light. Its clicked on, before  the door is pulled  fully open with a slow  creak. Despite the strong smell of corruption, the hall brought back happy memories,  of old metal trucks being pushed along black and white tiles, their tippers full of dust and rocks, while the scent of acid sweet lemonade and rich fruity laughter came from the kitchen.
Time slips  back as we almost collide.
‘Watch your step!' 
 I look down and took a step back.
         The naked body is  large. Its yellowing skin is distended abound the abdomen  which slowly slithers , writhes  and undulates , giving the disturbing appearance of being alive.  But…It is alive with those that feed off the dead. 
Dianna  puts  some vicks  under her nose  and along her top lip, the  she gives the container to me as she then, in a dull monotone  duly makes verbal  notes on the scene. 
 '-The throat had been ripped out, almost to the point of decapitation.   The left side of the face, the nose and the lower jaw, have been gnawed away by a…a…a  wild animal…where… where the eyes should have been are...'
  Are two cavernous holes. Glistening maggots slowly writhe; while plump black flies, with large red eyes, angrily buzz  in sharp darts about the room. The smell of death becomes terrifyingly  oppressive. My heart  thuds  sickly in my chest.  I want  to retch.  Nuzzled vomit and bile rises water fills my throat.  I gag it back.
 'We received a phone call at,  at  about  four this morning, from a, a  person unknown, stating there was - and I directly quote from the call “a cadaver found in suspicious circumstances at the Morrison farm.”  Cadaver, who says that?  Anyhow,  two patrol officers found this, taped it up  and called it in. I was called out here with Sullivan hour or two ago,  he suggested that I call you….The rest you know.
 ‘-You seem to be taking this rather well.’ Noting  her objectivity.
 ‘My father was a butcher, I’m used to slabs of meat. Rotten or otherwise.‘What do you make of that?’Dianna pointed with her torch towards the far hall wall.
Written in blood, were the words Mors! Nex! Angelus Mortis!‘it means-‘
 ‘-I know what it means.’ My words  are sharp,  ice riddles  me.
  ‘-Look…’ I  hear  strain in her voice, ‘…when Sullivan told me what happened, I couldn't believe it, I  I really couldn't. But, but  when he showed me the file-‘
           ‘-A file you’re  not meant to see.’
         ‘-You know, I couldn’t  have bothered…what did you have planned today? Another trip to the Rehab centre? The Church you go to? Even the employment exchange? If you can do what he says you can do-‘
 ‘-There’s only one reason that you’d call me.Or that Sullivan would have even mentioned me at all, and that’s because there have been others... Have there been? Other’s?’
Dianna tries to talk but falters.  She’s  rolled out of the way.
‘-I can tell you by simply looking in this room that there have been at least another five, all the same M.O , throat gouged , left to bleed out and all   called three weeks after the crime; and where were  they?   all of them circling this place. Like reference  points  on a map. I I also bet you can’t find any finger prints,  foot prints or any fucking thing to suggest that another person has been here. Then there are  the  words…’ I  point at the Latin,  ‘…written on the wall.’
         She stares  at me, I can  see she’s  pissed, but I’ve  had enough, yes she’s  sexy, but she’s  a condescending bitch that needs  to know what she’s  up against. ‘....What you want me to do is connect  the pieces for you.   You want me to…to  connect  with him… You want me find out what happened. But even if you do know, what I know, you couldn't arrest  the killer,  because there’s   no evidence to support your case.   You are   floundering in the fucking dark with no means of support. But  you want this case because of what it will mean for your reputation. What you don’t know, or seem to care about, the  collateral. How  I feel when I do this.  I’ll tell you something else for free. I was born here. I lived here, in this house , with my family and I know, to a  fine holy fuck   that if I do  this for you, you wouldn't want to know the answer, because the answer will break your soul.’
          I kneel  by the cadaver, shake my head, and rest my hand  just above  the undulating  chest.
          The world begins to spin.  Memories collide, explode into half seen images.   The four of us  in patchwork images  of burnt film. Their names  Tommy, Steve, Glen.   I.  Smiles,  laughter.   I skip in circles in the farm garden, Mum smiling, Dad smiling. A light in the sky, a light so bright that it almost blinds.  Mum screaming. My Dad, his face all bloody his eyes wild with fear  and hate. Tommy, Glenn Steve lying in a pile.  My legs running, running,  running in the dark.  Cars, I fall.  Cars driving almost over me.  Lights burning bright and then: laughter, cold, cruel laughter.  A hand …scarred…nails like hooks, skin like wet leather,  black, black  swollen lidless eyes,  millions of  teeth   in drooling lips  Snapping.  Coming out at me grasping, scraping.  A  hot foetid hungry breath longing for my flesh.  I feel myself scream.
        I open  my eyes, and roughly wipe the tears that  are smarting my vision with the arm of my jacket. A heavy sad sigh fills the air.  ‘His name... his name  was...was Terrance Brannigan... he was forty five years old;  he was a father of three girls and a step father to one boy… he was in love with his wife, but he was bored an’ looking elsewhere for sexual excitement.  He cheated in his mind, but not with his body, he was depressed because his mother died in January, and he had just lost his job at the tannery in Fulworth twenty miles away…  he had  no other means to support his family…he, he was a,  a sad,  lonely man, that didn't know the good he was doing… was enough to please the God he feared.' That’s  the body here.
          Dianna looks at me. Her eyes were open wide.
      ‘I know what you want...you want to do your duty and catch this monster. But you can't, you simply can't.  You can’t... He’s  going to trap you here,  in this  place with me,  for all eternity…  You laugh?  You  don’t know time… twenty years ago, something came here…. it took my mum, dad and brother’s…. It made me run…. The police thought my dad went mad, and he did, sort-of… But what that… thing left me with, was a gift. And  what a gift…  The gift of being able to see the last thoughts of the dead. It’s not a blessing… it’s a curse… and the thing that gave it to me is here…in the barn…. But  you have to understand, its too late.’ 
        I feel a  sad smile  curl on my lips.  I hear the thumping sound from the barn.   It’s  getting  louder and lounder.   I hear  steps  upon  veranda.  Hard low hollow breathing.  I don’t bother to turn. To stare.  I stand immobile. Smiling.  I see Dianna pull out her gun. She fires twice. She screams.  I feel a cold  gnarled  hard  hand upon my shoulder and begin to laugh hysterically, as  I  return   to  the broken porch on this wild October evening… The old farmhouse, with its grey peeling wooden walls and its crumbing out-buildings, looks alien to me. Yet, the memories of this place haunt my soul. I look away from the congealed litter, stuffed  in the corners  by  the wind.  I look between cracked wooden floorboards, to see the dirt beneath. I stare up and look  through the blistered and buckled ceiling of the veranda, up into the house,  Into the dark of the attic.   I seek sanity.  It is an act of desperation;  an over tried method, that has  never really worked.  The ghost riddled memories crowd upon me in a  cycle of terrifying repetition again and again  and agian 

(c) adh 2015