Until the End Read online

  These prayers were for protection. The more they fought, the less that could be done to them.

  They would figure out what to do once it left; for now, they had to stay alive.

  They could do nothing to stop it if they were dead.

  “God, the Father in Heaven!”

  “Have mercy on us!”

  “Holy Trinity, one God!”

  “Have mercy on us!”

  It wasn’t enough. Another scream accompanied another thrust of the arms, and Thea and Henry flew across the room

  This was only the beginning.

  This was The Devil just beginning to find its power and discover its abilities; it was the equivalent of a toddler learning to walk.

  Thea continued to pray but, inwardly, she prayed that Oscar would just walk through that door with the answers. That he would come in, saying he had it solved, and he knew what to do.

  No such event occurred.

  The scream ended.

  The creature inhabiting such a fragile set of skin and bone edged into the living room.

  Thea feared for her life. She feared for Henry’s. She needed to fight harder than she ever had before. Even though she was on the floor, even though she was hurt, and even though she was vastly overpowered — she had to do whatever she could to resist.

  “Holy Mary, pray for us,” she said, her voice coming out in a hoarse whisper.

  “Pray for us,” she heard Henry say from behind her.

  It approached. The once welcoming shadow of April’s posture changed to a heavy hunch.

  It reached April’s hand toward her.

  Thea clutched the crucifix. Threw her arms upwards, directed it at him, projected all of her energy into the resolve with which she held it.

  “For haughty men have risen up against me, and fierce men seek my life,” Thea said.

  April’s hand wavered, but it reached it out again.

  “Turn back the evil upon my foes, in your faithfulness destroy them!”

  Her arms shook and her voice broke but, even from her position on the floor, she did not give in.

  It paused. Looked down on her like it was taking pity.

  “This won’t stop me forever, you know,” it said. “Soon it will all be over, and I will not grant you the sweet release of death. I will keep you as my slave, and you will suffer forever.”

  “Oscar will stop you. I know he will.”

  It cackled.

  “Oscar is exactly where I want him.”

  It turned, walk out of the house, and the room fell silent.

  Henry crawled to her side like he thought it was over.

  But the end was only just beginning.

  31

  Oscar stood alone in the prison.

  It wasn’t just any prison.

  It was Gloucester Prison.

  Well, it was Gloucester Prison as it had once been presented to them. Actually, this prison had been taken over by an evil presence that had stopped Derek and the Sensitives from knowing what was really happening.

  They had all thought a sadistic governor and a girl’s ghost were the problems. Little had they realised that this place was overrun with manifestations, and the spirit of the demented prison governor had almost hung Derek by the throat until death.

  He looked behind him. Kaylee Kemple had gone.

  His next torment was about to begin.

  Yet, it didn’t seem that bad. He had already defeated this prison’s entities. He had already overcome it and saved Derek.

  It felt strange to be here. Despite how far he’d come, he couldn’t help but fall back into the person he was when he battled against the entities within this prison. A timid boy who lacked confidence in himself and in his convictions. He hadn’t even had the strength to tell April how he’d felt — and look at him now. He was leading what was left of the Sensitives.

  It’s odd, isn’t it? Never mind how far we have come, it only takes one old, familiar situation to make us feel young and stupid all over again.

  He stepped forward, and a small sound caught his attention. It came from a cell a little further along. It sounded like crying.

  He approached, peering in.

  An ageing man lay on the ground, huddled up in the foetal position. His body was thin and weak. His walking stick was across the cell. He was sobbing pathetically.

  “Derek?”

  It surprised Oscar to see him like this. Even at the end of his life, Derek had been dignified and strong. He was a wise man, a true leader, and one who always knew the right thing to do.

  Not Oscar, nor anyone else, had ever seen him cry like this.

  It was unusual, and Oscar remained cautious.

  “Oscar,” he said, reaching his hand out.

  Oscar edged toward him. Moved to his knees. Placed his hand on Derek’s forehead.

  He was burning.

  Oscar shook his head defiantly. He couldn’t let himself fall for such obvious trickery.

  “This isn’t you,” Oscar said.

  “Oscar, please…”

  “No, this isn’t you, I know it. You are in Heaven. I’ve seen it. You’ve spoken to me.”

  “Something spoke to you. Whatever Heaven needed you to see spoke to you. Don’t be such a fool…”

  “But why would you be–”

  “It’s forever. Reliving this moment forever. It’s happened so many times I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Again and again he comes, at the same time, with the same–”

  The creak of a door opening silenced Derek. His eyes widened.

  “I don’t believe you,” Oscar insisted. “You would never have been sent to Hell. They wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Who are they, Oscar? Who do you think cares that much?”

  Footsteps.

  “It isn’t true. You’re not in Hell. You–”

  “Derek Lansdale,” came a booming voice from behind him.

  He rotated his head to look, and there he was. The prison governor, Jackson Kullins.

  “You’re not real,” Oscar decided.

  “Oscar, don’t,” Derek whimpered. “Don’t make it angry. Don’t make it mad.”

  Oscar stood. This was exactly what he had to contend with. This was what Hell would try to do.

  He strode out of the cell and marched toward Kullins.

  Oscar put his hand on Kullins’ throat and pushed him back, pressing him against the wall.

  Derek still moaned for him to stop, telling him not to infuriate Kullins.

  Oscar ignored him. It wasn’t real.

  It couldn’t be.

  Otherwise every other time he’d seen Derek since his passing was a lie from Heaven. And that would be a torment he couldn’t face right now.

  So he squeezed his hand around Kullins’ throat. Squeezed harder.

  Kullins did not struggle.

  Flickers of his true form appeared. Claws. Fangs. Dark yellow and red eyes.

  Oscar strangled harder and harder still.

  A knife appeared in his hand.

  Where had that come from?

  It didn’t matter.

  He held the knife back and swung it into the gut of Kullins.

  Except it wasn’t Kullins anymore.

  He wasn’t in the prison.

  He was in his bathroom at home.

  Julian was laying beneath him, a knife in his gut.

  The knife Oscar had just swung.

  Julian could do nothing but live out the last moment of his life — a moment that had otherwise been unwitnessed.

  And he had to do it beneath Oscar, who had just killed him.

  32

  Hail lashed down like it was attacking the world; like nature’s true aggression had finally been unleashed. The cloud had frozen despite the heat, and the wind had carried sleet to Earth with a ferocity the world rarely witnessed.

  The Devil relished it.

  He held April’s arms out as he walked, lifting the head of his mortal body and feeling the sting on his face.
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br />   Behind him, his congregation followed. They had gathered, waiting for him to rise in power, waiting to be guided.

  It had all come to fruition.

  Millions of years of trying, and finally The Devil had arrived, finding his way into this world, ready to spread his carnage.

  As he walked, more followed.

  Each of them trapped in their fleshy prisons.

  But that wouldn’t be for much longer…

  He felt the power of Hell grow, coming to him slowly, bit by bit. Soon, he wouldn’t need this vessel to survive, and his followers would no longer need theirs. The Devil could break free of it and unleash his true form onto the world.

  They would flee.

  They would cry.

  And they would suffer.

  He was cast out of Heaven by a so-called loving god — which, by the way, was not a loving thing to do — and had been trapped in the fire ever since; left to rule the flames and evil of the world.

  He should have been killed.

  He should have been torn apart and stopped an eternity ago.

  But Heaven would not do such a thing. They would banish him, but they would be too good to end him.

  The pretentious, world-loving bastards.

  After he’d dealt with this world, Heaven would be next. He’d find a way to return, and he’d tear all those peaceful souls apart, just like he would with his human slaves.

  He neared a hill.

  He walked up its steep drop. The legs of his body ached, but he ignored it. He wasn’t used to mild pain like this, but it was temporary.

  The followers came, walking where he walked, remaining behind him.

  He rose to the top of the hill, and there he stopped. At the highest point. Looking out upon the world, upon the view. So many lights, so many buildings, so many cars.

  So many people.

  He enjoyed this immensely; watching the world he would soon be his. Watching the people go about their business without any idea what was coming.

  The weather continued its onslaught upon them. It commanded authority he would soon assume. It controlled these pathetic morsels and made them rush for shelter.

  Soon, there would be no shelter.

  Not from him.

  He rose April’s arms into the sky. All his disciples dropped to a single knee and bowed their heads in his direction. A circle of loyal supporters, ready to worship and do his bidding. He would keep them dormant until he was ready, ensuring they left the Sensitives to him alone to kill.

  It was happening.

  It was wonderful.

  It was glorious.

  And, as he closed his eyes and tuned into his senses, he could feel more awakening, more realising where he was.

  They were all on their way.

  33

  All over the world, they awoke.

  Some of them had already declared their presence. They had made the host they inhabited suffer. They had pushed the mortal soul out of reach and forced violence upon their victim’s families.

  Some of them had waited. Remained in the background of their human, dormant, anticipating the right moment.

  This was that moment.

  He was growing in power. He was calling them.

  It was time.

  The beginning of the end was upon the world, those that remained would soon succumb to the flames, and humans would no longer be the dominant species of this planet.

  Horace, a farmer in Cheshire with a wife and two children, sat at the table, eating his breakfast and reading the newspaper.

  He had no idea what lurked within. He’d heard whispers, seen things out of the corner of his eyes, but he had not been one to believe in superstitious nonsense.

  Now, Horace was pushed to the background.

  The demon within dropped the newspaper, picked up the fork, and looked to the wife, daughter and son eating their bacon sandwiches beside him.

  He stood. Raised the fork and stared at Horace’s wife.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, startled. She had never seen this look on his face before.

  He plunged the fork downwards, lodging it deep into the side of her throat, and retracting it just as quickly.

  Before the children could scream, he’d picked the son up by the hair and dug the fork into his belly, not once, but again and again and again and again.

  The daughter tried to run, but he grabbed her before she managed to get away.

  He stuck the fork into her neck and left it there.

  He walked onward, heeding the call, knowing he wouldn’t need this body much longer.

  Marion’s demon had not remained hidden. In her home in Calais, they had shackled her to chains in the basement while her family beseeched the local priest to help. They hadn’t slept, what with the screaming and the moaning and the screeching — all of which came from Marion, not the demon. The demon was playing with her insides, was rolling around her body, violating whichever organ it found, prompting Marion to shout out in pain.

  By the time The Devil had summoned his disciples, amalgamation incarnation had long since occurred. The demon had remained in chains to toy with the family; to make them believe they were safe, that they could help the wench this demon had infected.

  But, as they stood before her, the priest beginning his prayers, the demon within felt the power of its leader grow.

  It pulled one arm forward and took the chain out of the wall, then pulled the other and did the same.

  It swung the chains into the priest’s cranium. He collapsed, and the demon continued swinging the chains into the priest’s skull until it was completely smashed.

  “Marion?” the husband whimpered, wanting to run for safety, but resisting the impulse. He would not leave the woman he loved, so he tried to pull her off the priest.

  Fool.

  The demon stood tall and swung the chains until they were wrapped thrice around the husband’s throat, then pulled.

  The demon looked into the man’s eyes as he choked, wanting him to see Marion’s eyes as he died.

  Once his last breath ended, the demon stood, and walked in the direction for which he was being called, through the channel tunnel and into the British Isles.

  Chet, a pilot flying a private plane over the North Sea, on route from Denmark to Canada, felt it happen.

  As soon as the plane was passing over England, he directed it downwards.

  His co-pilot objected. Chet beat him to death with the fire extinguisher.

  The screams grew into a crescendo as the plane headed downwards. He took the parachute and leapt out of the cabin.

  He floated gently to the ground as a momentous flame grew from this terrible, most unfortunate incident. So much screaming then, suddenly, nothing.

  Chet, or rather, the demon inside of Chet, landed on a field nearby.

  He disconnected the parachute and walked.

  All over the world, demons grew in strength. They awoke, discarded their restraints, and dispatched of their victim’s families. They walked out of their homes and directed themselves to where their leader was waiting for them.

  Each of them waiting for the moment they could hardly believe was finally here.

  34

  Oscar’s eyes and Julian’s eyes were fixed, inches away from each other, like a trance had kept them together.

  Oscar’s were full of fear, consumed with terror at what he’d done.

  Julian’s were full of pain, gripped by agony; stuck in the moment of death as if it had been prolonged; like he was in slow-motion.

  Oscar hated it. He didn’t want to watch this. He wanted to look away.

  Yet, somehow, he couldn’t. It was like something was making him look, like two hands had gripped his cheeks and held his head in place.

  Julian fell so slowly you could barely tell he was falling, his face slowly melding into various contortions of suffering.

  Blood trickled like a river between Oscar’s fingers.

  In a sudden change of speed, Ju
lian landed on the floor of the bathroom and screamed, then did not stop screaming. His moans of anguish, his hollers of desperation — they just continued. The torture of dying vocalised in such a way that Oscar wished he did not have to listen.

  “You did this!”

  Oscar covered his ears.

  “You did this! You did it!”

  He could not block out the sound.

  “You killed me, you rat-bastard, you killed me!”

  Oscar paused. He remained in his state of despair, but something was gradually moving him out of it.

  It was something Julian had just called him.

  Rat-bastard.

  It sounded so… wrong.

  It didn’t fit with Julian’s voice.

  It wasn’t a term Julian had ever called Oscar, and Oscar couldn’t imagine Julian calling anyone else it. Julian saved many profanities for Oscar, but this was not one of them.

  “It’s not you,” Oscar whispered.

  He felt stupid for only just realising it.

  He had been in a prison then in his bathroom so quickly, yet he had accepted that as reality. He had accepted Derek’s suffering, had accepted that he had directly killed Julian, and he had accepted that it was all happening in front of him, slowly and tediously to draw out the suffering.

  But it wasn’t happening. It was all a lie.

  Yet, below him, Julian did not stop wriggling.

  Or, should he say, the thing masquerading as Julian; the image of him did not stop wriggling.

  He writhed and moaned and suffered. He died in pain, just as he had done in life, and even though Oscar knew it wasn’t real, he hated seeing it.

  Whether this was a performance for his benefit or not, this may well have been what it was like for Julian as he died.

  Then he realised — Julian did not die from stabbing himself in the belly. He’d slit his own throat.

  As if reacting to Oscar’s thought — to the point at which Oscar wondered whether his thoughts were still private — Julian took the knife from his stomach and placed it in the side of the throat.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t make me do it. Please.”

  He dragged the knife across his skin.