7:00 PM, Midnight (Chapter 3)

December 15th. Sunday.

It's tipping it down.

I don't have the energy to do anything today. Everything aches. I'm in a bad mood. I don't know why. I keep clenching and unclenching my fists, almost to a rhythm. I'm grinding my teeth. My head is splitting. All I can smell is cigarette smoke. And that thudding still hasn't gone away. I don't care what it is. I just want it to stop. Just for five minutes. Five minutes of quiet is all I need right now.

 

I need a shower. I'll be right back.

 

It was alright. Just a showerhead sticking out from the wall and a wide circular dial that you twist to get the water running. I think you're meant to twist it in particular directions to get different temperatures, but I got the same temperature either way; lukewarm. Not to mention the pressure was pretty weak. It felt nice though. The air was so warm that the water felt cold, and it woke me up. Not to mention how much cleaner I am; the water was almost black as it ran off me. I forgot how pale I was under all that grime.

 

I'm downstairs now, sitting on the floor by the rocking chair. 11:23 AM. The rain's easing up, and the sun's breaking through the clouds. It'd probably look nice if it wasn't shining straight into my eyes. I need to do something. I'm wasting time talking to you. Christ. I'm actually calling it "talking". It’s writing. Writing in a cheap little notebook from a cheap little counsellor who just wanted to see me gone so she could get her weekly payslip. All I’ve done since we moved is write. I don’t know why. It’s not like anyone’s going to be reading this. I certainly won’t be. What am I going to do? Publish it and make a million quid? You aren’t that sort of book. It’s just thought. Constant thought and noise that I have no interest in re-experiencing. It’s shit, that’s what it is. Shit. A mashed-up mess of thought and ink that just happened to be coming from someone in a slightly worse situation than someone else. Maybe that’s entertaining. Maybe it isn’t. At the end of the day, Ms. Wilson can get stuffed if she thinks this’ll help me. I can’t be helped. I'm beyond it.

 

Stop reading this.

 

It’s not for you.

 

Mum never was in the picture. Never knew her. Dad never spoke about her. Still doesn’t. If I didn’t have a basic idea of what the birds and the bees was, I’d just assume she never even existed. But Dad and I were always able to fend for ourselves, so I never complained. Whatever job he had was enough to sustain us. Rent was always cheap enough. Food was always cheap enough. Gas was always cheap enough. But we never had anything. Never decorated, never went out, never had friends over. I’d wake up, walk to school, go home, watch telly then go to sleep. Very low maintenance. Probably the only reason he even so much as tolerated my presence. I never got in his way.

 

Eyes shut.

 

So it turns out that the door in the larder does lead to a garden like I'd thought, a simple little square patch of long grass. A tattered laurel hedge at about knee height marks what belongs to the house. Beyond the hedge is just more grass. No flowers. No animals. Just an endless sea of brownish green sharply cut away by the pines along the horizon. I'm having breakfast. I won’t tell you what I’m having. It’s none of your business. I think I'm going to take a walk after this. I’ll go up towards the beach. Maybe I’ll explore that tower, see what it really is. I’ve got a prediction, something I was thinking about overnight. It’s probably a church. It makes sense. Old thatched village, no church in sight? No way. A big, shiny stone tower nearby, within walking distance? Must be a church. That’s probably why it makes me feel so weird too. They’ve always creeped me out. Probably my subconscious playing tricks on me or whatever.

 

Deep breaths.

 

I left at 1:03. I think. It might have been 1:08 or 1:09 but the screen on my watch is starting to break, so I can’t quite read it as accurately. The dirt road was still damp from the rain, but the hot air and sunlight were starting to dry it out. It was also relatively steep, and paired with the sun dipping in the sky as it began to set, it felt like I was about to walk right into it. The heat and the incline of the hill were killing me, and the air was too still to cool me down. When I reached the top, the sun seemed to be underlined by the clouds, a scattered collection of thin grey fingers that stretched and curled above the horizon. But I hardly looked at them. Because I could see it. Scraping the sights of my left eye. The church. That bastard church. Sitting in my head. Standing in the field. An ivory white monolith climbing into the air, reflecting a searing bright white from the sunlight above. I couldn’t hear a thing except white noise in my head and my heartbeat in my throat.

 

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

 

The base of the church was a square, with each side being 48 large paces long. The grass around it was brown, a huge patch of death that appeared to spread out from the church like a bruise. The ground was soft and damp. The whole area seemed to have a funny smell too, and paired with the heat and the still air, I was starting to feel queasy. There was a large black tree near the church; a deathly dry oak, with a crooked trunk and no leaves to speak of. Its branches swayed lazily. The garden also had these strange monuments lying around it. I think they were graves, but I'm really not sure. They were large, unmarked lumps of what might have been marble, lying on the ground but very much embedded into it. Each one seemed to be a sort of oval shape, and rounded at the top to make a dome. They ranged in size; I’d say the smallest was about four foot in length and the largest was about six foot, and they all seemed to be about the same width and height. Each one was tall enough to sit on, at least. There were 32 in total. These headstones were scattered all over the garden, mostly in little clusters but with some strays lying further away from each other. I counted the clusters first, then the strays. I'm pretty sure there were 32. The marble was aging though; all of the stones had definitely used to be white but several clusters had started yellowing, with one stray actually starting to turn brown. I guess they hadn’t been tended to in a while, and were starting to decay.

 

Does marble decay?

 

I'm not actually sure if it was a church I was looking at. It was too simple. Just a spire, stabbing the sky. Looming. The closer I got, the less scared weird I felt. I couldn't say exactly why, but it was probably because there was less for my imagination. Up close, it’s not particularly intimidating. Just big. And unkempt. There was even more decay?on its walls than the marble headstones, with deep patches of yellow and brown spread across the surface. The walls were covered in large, round bulges that swelled out like mumps. Each side had several thick, stumpy poles sticking out sporadically, caked in rust and bent down awkwardly at the ends. It didn’t take long to find out what used to be attached to them. A huge pile of rusted metal crap lay at either side. Old scaffolding maybe, weathered off by the storms. All of it looked sharp, jagged. Both piles seemed to be made up only of poles, but the rust was so thick and rough that I was worried I’d cut myself if I touched it. The church had no door. At least nothing that really resembled one. But at the very base of one of the walls was a small hole, blackened around the edges and just about large enough for me to crawl through.

 

A weakness.

 

I have this thing where I don’t really forget. My memory is pretty much photographic, and I can remember fine details really well so long as I was paying attention in the moment. So when I write, I can remember exactly how I was feeling when it was happening. Every single time I saw that church, I felt dread. Raw, paralyzing, hopeless dread. But then, seeing it up close, I saw it for what it really was. Just a stupid little monument. A big rock, put together with shoddy rusted scaffolding and mouldy marble, giving off a weird smell. I almost started to feel sorry for it then. And when I saw that hole in the wall, I only had one thing on my mind. All I wanted to do was go inside. I didn’t think, in that moment, that it was at all weird that a church would have no door, no sign, and no architecture beyond a simple marble spire. I didn’t think it was strange that all the space around it was dead, and littered with unmarked headstones. I didn’t think it was odd that the only way inside was a knee-high hole that almost tried to stand out. Because none of this is right for a church. And that’s exactly it. I don’t think it is a church. I don’t think those are graves. I'm not entirely sure if Thurton Quay is even a village. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know something’s not right. I’ll explain in a bit. You’ll understand It’ll be clear when I get there.

 

Patience.

 

I crawled through the hole. It was about three feet long at a guess. When I finally managed to get into the church, the inside was pitch black; a thick, almost tangible gloom, only penetrated by a gold ray of light shining from the ceiling. The ground was even more mushy than it was outside, and even wetter to match. The air felt loaded. I felt cold. That strange smell was back, and stronger too. Once my eyes had adjusted to the dark, I almost laughed at how empty it was inside. Because of course it was empty. There was nothing except another marble headstone in the middle of the floor. 33. This one was different though; whereas all the others had been yellowing with age, this was perfectly white and new. And whilst you could easily sit on the others and your toes would hardly touch the ground, this one was much shorter, reaching just above my ankles. I don’t really know what to make of that.

 

The aches I had from yesterday were starting to come back. I wanted to sit down, and the headstone in the middle of the room looked far too uncomfortable. So I just decided I’d deal with a soggy ass and sat down on the grass, my back against the wall and the sunbeam casting its light next to me. When I sat down, I felt something push against me from my back pocket. I reached down and dug out Dad’s old shitty lighter. I guess I must have picked up his jeans from the laundry pile without noticing and put them on. None of my clothes fit me anyway, I guess that’s why I didn’t notice. In the left pocket I found a crushed cigarette, the tobacco spilling out the end and the paper torn in several places.

 

Nothing ever tasted so damn good.

 

I don’t know how long I was sat there for. Five minutes? Ten minutes? Thirty minutes? An hour? All I know is I was wide awake for all of it. Not that I was doing much. I mostly stared at a particular point of the wall. It was the only part that wasn’t totally flat, but rather a lump about the size of my hand, at chest height. But what drew my attention to it was a faint, blood-red glow that barely shone through the stone. It gave off no real light, but it stuck out like a sore thumb in the blackness of the air. I got up, and had a closer look. If I put my eye to it, I could almost make out details behind the texture of the stone, but the smell was so awful I couldn’t do it for more than a minute without gagging. By this point I wanted to leave. The darkness was growing and I was starting to feel claustrophobic. But stepping away from the red glow, my heel planted itself on something small and hard wedged in the ground.

 

A pistol.

 

What the fuck happened here?

 

It was too dark to see it inside, so I grabbed it and crawled back out. The sky was dim but still blinding compared to the darkness I was just in. Once my eyes adjusted, I had a closer look at the pistol. It was a revolver of some kind. Pretty heavy too, but quite comfortable in my hand. Thumbing a catch above the handle grip let the top fold down. Doing that, 5 small bullet cases sprung out, falling softly against the dead earth. One stayed in the gun. Live. I closed it and put it in my pocket, walking quickly away from the tower. On my way out I tripped on my shoelace again, falling against the grass and rolling into that large tree, knocking the wind out of me. I leaned against it to catch my breath as I tied my shoelace. My whole body ached, and anger took a hold of me, balling my fist and smacking the tree, screaming until my voice went hoarse. The bark was soft, but I still hit it hard enough to bloody my knuckles. I must have beat that tree a hundred times. every time I hit the trunk, the branches shook violently. I was peppered in old twigs and bark by the time I was finished, and I only stopped because I had no energy to keep going. I fell down sobbing onto the grass and lay down. It was more comfortable than my bed at home. My heart was racing. I could feel the pulse shaking me. Rocking me. It was nice.

 

But still too damn hot.

 

I didn’t fall asleep, but I definitely zoned out for a while. I woke up in the middle of a deep yawn, when I heard a horrible gurgling from behind my head, far away. I got up and looked out, but I couldn’t see anyonething. The sky was blood red. Those long clouds from earlier had reached their way above me and were looming above the village like tongues. It was starting to get dark, and I wanted to get back to the house in good time. The full moon blazed a pale fever in front of me, bright white and huge, lighting the path back. That gurgling hadn’t stopped either, and every so often I would hear it struggle and retch as I made my way down the path. It was getting quieter though, so I wasn’t bothered by it. With every pace I took, the gun nozzle would poke itself into my thigh through my pocket, not permitting me to forget it. I wanted to let it go but it wouldn’t let me.

 

It was around 5:00 PM when I got back home. Dad wasn’t in the kitchen or sat in front of the telly, so I guess he was having a nap in his room. My breakfast was still with me, so I didn’t feel hungry at all. The telly was still sat in the living room where it always was, but something had changed about it. It looked hungry. In a momentary spur of curiosity, I went up and fiddled with the various dials on its back. None of them did anything except for one, located in the top left corner. After giving it a good click, I heard the dull whine of power and, stepping back to look at it, was instantly hit with a bright shining fuzz of static and a high-pitched wail. I watched the dancing lights on the screen. The hairs on my neck prickled. My skin caught fire. The light throbbed and pulsated, crawling through my eyes and tearing up my brain. I blinked. I still saw the lights. I tore my eyes away. My flesh cooked. I scrambled around the back of the television with shut eyes and, with a last flash of clarity before my heart stopped, managed to kill it. I sat down on the chair, catching breath in empty lungs.

 

A wash of nausea suddenly passed through me. I couldn't take it. I stumbled up the stairs and into the shower, retching as I fell onto my knees. I spat breakfast down the plug. Tore off my clothes. Felt the cold surface of the shower against my skin. I could still see the dancing static of the screen, burned into my eyes, crawling in my mind like maggots on a corpse. My empty stomach heaved and I puked again, bile splashing me as it hit the shower floor. I reached up and felt for a valve. I spun it, letting the cold water cascade onto me. I lay there, shivering, trying to clear my head, trying to end the torment.

 

I lay there a while. I didn't feel much better, but I knew there was no use sitting around. I looked at my watch. I think it read something around 5:40 PM. I can't remember. I got up and put my clothes on, not bothering to dry off. I left the shower, wincing in the light, my head still aching as I stumbled down the stairs into the living room. I saw the telly sat there, lifeless, defeated. It almost made me feel better.

 

Almost.

 

Almost.

 

Almost.

 

I'm so tired.

 

I went to the bedroom. Took my clothes off. Climbed onto the bed. Wrote this. The stench of old heat is clogging up my head. But there’s something else. I'm trying to avoid talking about it, but I can't hide.

 

My heartbeat. Still pounding from whatever shit that television did to me.

Thud Thud Thud Thud.

That awful thudding from outside.

Thud Thud Thud Thud.

They’re synced up.

ThudThudThudThudThudThudThudThud.

It knows my heartbeat.

Does it know me?

I'm so fucking scared.

I don’t know what's going on.

I don’t know what’s gone on before.

All I know is that we’re not the first to come here.

But I have a feeling we'd be the first to leave.