Strange Dominions: a collection of paranormal short stories (short story books) (8 page)

His strangle hold on the teenager eased. Pushing him against the wall and stabbing him painfully in the chest with his finger he threatened, “I don’t have time for this now, but you can be damned sure it isn’t over yet. Now get the hell out of my sight before I change my mind.”

Picking up the wallet he had absent-mindedly left behind, he took his leave.

That night Sam brooded in the darkness of his room, forlorn images of his childhood firing across the synapses of his fevered brain, his mind caught up on a maelstrom of internecine rage and murderous desire.

The pain in his temple was beginning to recede. He felt groggy and his eyes were leaden. The time had arrived to enter into his dreamscape before his father’s return.

He was not alarmed, sometime later, to find himself standing at the foot of the stairs with a large kitchen knife in hand; this much he had planned. The distant rumbling that rolled across the night sky and the intermittent flashes of brilliance radiating from the turbulent thundercloud overhead were, however, not of his making. They had come unbidden into his dream, as if by some unconscious directorship. The uncertainty of it thrilled him in a way he had never know and he threw caution to the wind, allowing himself to be carried along on a current of hypnotic indeterminacy.

A bolt of scintillating light crackled earthward, chasing the shadows from Victor’s room. In that briefest of moments Sam caught sight of his prey. The ridiculous sight of his pot-bellied father slumped naked across the bed, his flaccid prick poking out from between his thighs, brought Sam to a halt. Divest of his fatherly trappings, Victor presented an altogether sad and comical figure, an absurd antithesis of the fear-inspiring monster he knew and loathed.

He inched closer to the bedside, the breath he had held in check suddenly bursting from his tired lungs.

Victor stirred and Sam’s heart almost erupted from his chest.

What was he afraid of? There was no way his father could hear him, unless he himself willed otherwise.

He drew nearer, the lethal blade poised to strike. Then the moment was upon him, the blade driving deep into unresisting throat tissue. In a single stroke he severed the windpipe and carotid artery.

Victor’s eyes sprang wide in bemused horror. Like a fish out of water his mouth opened and shut mutely. He grasped futilely at the obscenely gaping wound to stem the crimson fountain that hastened his end as Sam looked on, his face a mask of psychotic amusement.

Sam had never seen so much blood, but he knew this was how he had imagined it and so it was. Rivulets of the stuff coursed down the walls and dripped from the ceiling onto the bedspread where Victor writhed in the final paroxysms of agony. It was all Sam had wished it to be.

Though all too brief, the encounter had proven extremely gratifying and Sam felt somewhat reluctant to return to the banal existence that awaited him in the real world. Nevertheless, he found consolation in the knowledge that there would be other nights and other scenarios to explore. Nothing was beyond him now.

Initially, he was not overly alarmed at his seeming inability to end the auto-hypnotic dream state. Under certain circumstances - such as his own, in which he had achieved a euphoric state - a time- lapse between command and response could occur.

Outside, the storm continued to rage, despite his efforts to quell it. Then it dawned on him with horrifying clarity that this was the selfsame storm that only hours earlier had almost kept Victor indoors.

He raised a tentative hand to his temple and winced. The pain was all too real and confirmed the bitter irony and horror of his situation.

A tidal wave of stark reality crashed in on him, sweeping before it any hope of salvation. Even the darkest labyrinths of his mind could not conceal what he had done. There was no awaking from a living nightmare, nor escape from the perpetual abyss of insanity that had fragmented his mind.

Eve Landru peered out of her window into the gathering dusk. The same shadowy figure she had seen the night before was there again, skulking behind the hedgerow that overhung the cemetery railings. Visibly shaken, she snapped shut the curtains as he pulled down the brim of his fedora and slipped deeper into the shadows.

Double-checking that every door and window was firmly secured, she took up her studies again, but the disquieting thoughts of her Peeping Tom persisted. After only a few minutes at her laptop she gave up on her thesis and pulled down the lid. It seemed pointless to continue when her mind was clearly elsewhere.

Shoving the laptop to one side, she leant forward and picked up the silver framed photo of her late parents. A solitary tear traced its way down her cheek as she stroked the glass.

Even the prospect of a good night’s rest was slim. Over the last several weeks she had been plagued by nightmares and she feared what new terrors awaited her. Only now could the twenty-year-old fully appreciate how isolated she had become. Her diffident nature and the recent death of her parents had left her friendless and alone. There was no one to whom she could turn for help.

The sudden blare of a passing car’s horn shook her from her thoughts.

‘What a mess,’ she thought as she took in the piles of discarded books scattered about her, “What was it you used to say, mom; ‘a place for everything and everything in its place?’”

Returning the photo to its rightful spot on the coffee table, she began the onerous task of tidying up after herself. Within minutes her chore was done and, reluctantly, she made her way to bed.

The next morning she awoke bathed in sweat and with the odour of urine in her nostrils. Even an early shower could not wash away her sense of debasement as she sobbed, pulling the sodden sheets from her bed.

There seemed neither rhyme nor reason for the nameless horror that pursued her through the labyrinths of her dreams. Even the recent appearance of her stalker could not account for her nightly terrors. They had begun long before she had even become aware of him.

Shortly before 8:30 a.m. she heard a gentle rapping at her door. Un-securing the safety latch, she opened up. Outside stood a tall, brindled haired man carrying a briefcase. He looked to be in his early thirties.

He smiled warmly, enquiring, “Miss Eve Landru?”

Eve regarded him with suspicion. “Yes. Can I help you?”

The stranger looked with pity on the careworn, young woman framed in the doorway.

“The thing is, Eve, I think that I may be able to help you,” he said, releasing the catches on his briefcase.

“I’m sorry, but whatever it is you’re selling I’m not interested. Now if you don’t mind I ha-”

“Oh, but I’m not selling anything. I’m merely conducting enquiries into this man’s whereabouts,” he cut in, pulling a worn photograph from the briefcase and handing it to her. “I think you may have come across him recently.”

“Yes. I remember him!” - looking again at the photograph - “It’s hard to forget those creepy eyes. He was here a few weeks ago selling religious tracts or something.”

Handing it back to him she added, “He was very pushy and wouldn’t leave until I’d bought something from him. He had a curious name, too…”

“Wormwood? Eli Wormwood?” he interrupted.

“Yes, that was it! You’d think I would’ve remembered a name like that, wouldn’t you Mr …?”

“Forgive me,” he said, “my name’s Kahn, Emile Kahn.”

Eve noted the lack of a formal title preceding the name. “Oh, so you aren’t from the police then?”

“No, I’m not,” He shuffled uneasily on his feet. “But it is true to say that I’ve been keeping my eye on you for some time now.”

Eve’s heart almost burst from her chest. “Oh, God! You’re the creep whose been following me around!”

A pre-emptive foot in the doorjamb stopped her from slamming the door in his face. He grimaced in pain, dropping his briefcase. “Please wait! You’ve got to understand, you’re in great danger!”

“Go away or I’ll phone the law!” she screamed, slamming the door agonizingly hard against his foot again.

Emile threw up his arms in submission, “Okay! Okay! I’m leaving, but that won’t stop the nightmares!”

She ceased her frantic assault. Maintaining a firm grip on the door she asked, “My nightmares? How do you know about my night-?”

“Because you’re not the first this has happened to,” he cut in. “There were others just like you. I tried to help them, too. They went through the same things you’re going through, and things are going to get much worse.”

“‘Others’? What ‘others’?”

Emile felt the pressure on his foot ease a little. He was beginning to make some headway. Stooping, he picked up several newspaper cuttings that had spilled from his briefcase and passed them through the crack of the doorway.

He heard the shuffling of the papers as Eve studied them, then her voice, “My God! All these women are dead!”

“Yes, they are and they’re all Wormwood’s victims. Look at the dates on the cuttings, Eve, they go back more than fifty years.”

He heard the rustling of papers again, then, “I don’t understand what this has to do with me though.”

“Look at their pictures. Don’t you see the uncanny resemblance between them and you?”

There was a long silence in which Emile pressed home his advantage, “Look, Eve, If I’d wanted to cause you any harm do you think I would choose to confront you in broad daylight and on your own doorstep? It doesn’t make sense. Surely that must tell you something of my intentions.”

“I … I guess so.” she said, uncertainly.

“Please let me help you, Eve!” he begged. “I’m the only one who can!”

Whether through lack of sleep, or an overriding need for human companionship, Eve stepped aside and ushered him into her home. Imprudent though her action was she still had the foresight to leave the door ajar. One wrong move and she’d be out of there in a shot.

As she showed Emile into the living room, he noticed the pile of books stacked neatly on the table.

She led him to a large and comfortable armchair. Strategically placing herself nearest to the open door, she took her place on the sofa.

“I see you have a fondness for Shakespeare,” he said, attempting to put his host at ease.

Here at least he had found some common ground in which to engage her.

“I’m writing a thesis on him for English Lit at the university,” Eve replied.

“I’m a Wheatley fan myself,” Emile admitted. “He isn’t as high-brow as the Bard, but he knows his subject matter.”

“Wheatley?”

“He wrote occult fiction, mainly.”

“Oh, I see. So you prefer horror then?” Eve was beginning to feel uneasy as to where the conversation was heading.

“Actually,” responded Emile, “my interest goes beyond mere works of literary fiction and that, in part, is why I’m here.”

The tension in the room had become almost palpable. Eve was now sitting on the edge of her seat, her heart racing, her gaze darting to the passageway and the open front door.

“Please, Mr. Kahn, just cut to the chase and tell me what you’re leading up to. Why does this Wormwood want me dead, and what have my nightmares to do with anything?”

“Wasn’t it the Bard who wrote, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy?’”

Eve became conscious of her fingers biting deeply into the arm of the sofa, her knuckles blanching white with the pressure. She made a concerted effort to relax.

“Well let me tell you;” he continued, “there are more things in this universe than you could ever possibly imagine. You need to consider the unthinkable, and all I ask is that you keep an open mind to what I’m about to tell you. Can you do that?”

Eve hesitated. “I think so; yes”

Emile sat forward, causing her to draw back. He held his hands up and settled into the armchair again.

“When Eli Wormwood was still a young man,” he began, “he was the youngest ever to hold a professorship in anthropological studies. He was the best in his field and considered by many to be an intellectual genius. His studies into the magical beliefs and practices of diverse cultures were unequalled, but at some point his pursuit became more than just a hunt for knowledge. He began to practice what he had learned, synthesising these seemingly disparate magical beliefs into a complete whole. Invading your dreams is child’s play to him and he is without remorse or pity.”

In a tremulous voice Eve asked, “But why choose me?”

“The victims of serial killers often share similar characteristics or traits,” he explained. “These women share the same physical characteristics as you. He’s singled you out simply because you look like the others.”

She began re-examining the cuttings in greater detail. “And the dreams, what part do they play in all of this?”

“Don’t most predators seek out the weakest of their prey?”

She nodded her agreement, separating one of the cuttings from the pile.

“Your nightmares have weakened you and have made you vulnerable to all kinds of physiological and psychological disorders,” Emile continued, “thereby making
you
an easy prey.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally looking up, “but your analogy is flawed, Mr. Kahn. The predator isn’t always responsible for its prey’s weakness, but simply takes advantage of it. Your telling me that Wormwood is responsible for my nightmares, that he’s manipulating them, and that’s impossible.”

“Not if he shares a sympathetic link with you.”

“Sympathetic link?”

“A telepathic connection, if you like. He uses a form of ESP, known as psychometry, to establish this link with his victims. Simply by holding something belonging to you he can gain insights into who you are; stuff he couldn’t possibly know by any other means.”

“You mean like the few coins I gave him?”

“It’s unlikely. The coins would have been handled by literally thousands of people before they fell into your hands,” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He’d need something more personal than that to establish the kind of link he has with you; like a ring or some other cherished possession.”

“Other than the money I gave him there’s nothing he has belonging …”