JOHN FINNIE (35y), AUGUST 2022, 09.44

The sunlight looked brighter outside, it made John's eyes tear even though it was a cloudy day. His old fucking eyes couldn't handle it. What a pathetic creature he was, he couldn't even walk, couldn't do anything really, and seventeen years of his life--gone within a blink--left him a pathetic corpse of a man. Blink... why did that word make him feel as if he'd just seen Samantha's breasts?

Marty was silent, pushing the wheelchair down the sidewalk to a place John remembered--the graveyard. The strange thing was, he remembered coming to this graveyard to watch Mam leave flowers on Dad's grave. But Dad was alive, it made no sense. The chatter of birds, the grey clouds above them, and the smell of the grass stirred something inside him, something he couldn't grasp. It slipped past him like a slimy fish. Had it been a dream?

'Urgh,' he grumbled, and Marty gave him a cursory warning glance. Yeah, he knew--no swearing, no complaining out loud. Dammit. What did they expect from him? Bags of rainbows and ponies? The dark bags under his eyes became more pronounced daily, and the unrelenting dreams tortured him at night. The dreams of the angel and the demon, of him screaming and dying a slow death. Was his conscience sending him a message about being a better man before evil destroyed him? He snorted. Fuck that.

The gravestone became larger and larger as Marty rolled his chair closer, and the memories ate at him, tore his conscience and his heart. Why did he remember Dad at a place like this? He could've sworn it had been real.

'Marty, did my Dad ever die?'

The look on Marty's face was answer enough. 'Mate, you know that's impossible. People don't just die and reanimate every day. Even your case is a miracle.'

'Yeah,' John nodded. 'I know, it's just... I remember this place. I remember Mam putting flowers on Dad's grave.'

A frown creased Marty's brow, and then it seemed a light went on in his head. 'You know, there was this thing you used to do at school. You said you could change time.' He laughed, shaking his head. 'You're a hoot, mate.' His eyes refocused and he looked at John with a smile, though it still looked off to John--Marty wasn't this old. He wasn't, dammit. The friend he'd known was sixteen and mischievous--not a bloody cop. The uniform Marty wore for the occasion didn't help either.

'You swore it was real,' Marty said. 'We cheated on tests and shit, and you almost had me believing this Blink thing existed.' For a reason John couldn't fathom, he blurted, 'Yeah, fuck that Marty. Fuck you and your stupid fucking theories ey?' Man, he wasn't supposed to swear. Marty lifted his hand and John cringed into the chair--he knew he deserved it.

No blow came. When John looked back up, tears stained Marty's face and he stared away at a gathering of people near a grave. Had John brought on these tears, or was it Marty's own bitter memories? He wanted to ask, but thought maybe he should keep his shitty mouth shut for a while.

And with the next breath he breathed, John felt as if a heavy stone came to rest in his chest. When he closed his eyes, he saw Charlie running on the grass, squealing and circling the shrubs that decorated the area, and he breathed the cool evening air of another memory. Reminiscence of the moments he'd taken for granted, the places and people he thought would never change. When he opened his eyes the ache was as fresh as the day he'd lost them. Damn that grass, and that grave in the fourteenth row, grave number sixty-five. That was where Dad had been buried. How the hell could he know that? Maybe he was crazy, but the ache was real. And losing Charlie hurt more than anything in the world--he had taken her for granted. God, he wished he could hold her hand again.

John realised tears wet his own cheeks, and snot had started dripping from his nose into his moustache -the results of his refusing to shave. He closed his eyes and wished he couldn't hear Charlie's voice in his mind, wished he wasn't here now. Seeing her grave... how would he cope? It was all so unfair.

Through tears and a pain deeper than the physical kind the morphine numbed, John sat and listened to the minister speak to the small gathering at Charlie's grave. The words were lost to him, and his thoughts went to getting morphine into his blood--that would numb this ache, that would save him from the darkness threatening to swallow his soul.

#

Grey stones stood at attention on the rolling pastures of the graveyard, hard as John's heart, cold and useless as his future. What did they mean anyway? Stupid rocks stuck in the ground over empty corpses--each person gone, each one lost forever. Charlie. John choked back sobs, but there was no morphine to help him escape this time. The tears kept coming and pain in waves wracked his broken body. Bright light gleamed somewhere, and he was dimly aware of Marty rolling his wheelchair forward, but what did it matter? Charlie was dead, and he could not save her. The world looked blurry from his tears and puffy eyes, and his limbs felt numb. Well, number than usual. Was that possible? He swiped at his face, dried the tears and snot on his sleeve.

A building came into view without tears blurring his sight--a grey building with a lot of steps. The chapel of remembrance. The thump of John's heart sped. For a reason he couldn't explain, he found himself begging, pleading, that Marty didn't plan to go in.

Stained glass windows shaped like diamonds towered to either side of heavy wooden double doors that stood wide open. An obelisk towered before the steps, the names of countless soldiers carved into it as a memorial of those who had lost their lives for Britain. That obelisk, and the chapel beyond the steps terrified him. It was a fear as illogical as a child's fear of the dark--why the fuck would he feel afraid of a church? How cliché. But there it was all the same.

'You know,' Marty said, 'I miss her too. She was family to me, John.' John jerked in his chair, and his hands started trembling.

'Marty,' he whispered, 'can- can we go?'

Marty was in his own world, talking about Charlie and staring at the church. The chair started rolling again, and as they passed by the obelisk, John's eye caught a name engraved in it.

'Thomas Farnsworth'

John's arms jerked of their own accord. Thomas--Tom? What did it mean? Why did he remember that name? Flashes of bombs going off and severed limbs splattering and flying through the air, mud and clouds of dust. John's legs kicked out, and Marty shouted, but it felt far away. The memory felt real. A man bled to death on his lap--a soldier with mud and blood on his cheeks and soaking his uniform. Tom.

John's eyes rolled back into his head.

'John!'

A stinging pain bloomed on John's cheek and he opened his eyes. Marty, Marty had slapped him.

'What the fuck, Marty?' John held his cheek with a twitching hand. 'Let's slap the disabled guy eh? What the fuck's wrong with you you fucking sleazebag of a shit cop.'

Marty slapped him again.

'You think every fucking time you slap me I'm going to do whatever you want, Marty?'

They locked eyes.

'Like a fucking dog?'

Both men stood breathing hard, with eyes red from tears.

'John.'

It seemed Marty had reached his limit. He clenched and unclenched his fists, then turned and ran one hand through his hair, the other on his hip. 'What am I going to do with you?' he said.

All John could see was that chapel, looming like a demon from hell behind Marty.

'Marty, let's go, please.'

'Why, John? Does the church make you uncomfortable?' There was a hardness in Marty's eyes now, a tightness to his jaw. He grabbed the handlebars of the chair and steered it towards a sloping pathway that led to the side entrance of the chapel.

'No,' John said, 'no it doesn't.' His voice squeaked at the end. He pushed back against the chair, as if that could help him get farther away. Why? He couldn't explain it, he just had to get away. As they got closer, his hands started shaking again.

'Please, Marty, I'm sorry for swearing, for- for being such an ass.'

Marty said nothing, and the chair kept rolling closer. John's leg jerked of its own accord, then full on spasmed. A spasm pulled his face, then his arms. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Grimsol! His eyes rolled back into his head and he saw the demon towering over him.

MARTY

'John?' Marty stopped the wheelchair at the top of the incline. John's leg kicked out again and he made a god-awful sound, gurgling and squealing mixed together.

'John, stop mucking about.'

Marty kicked up the brakes at the back of the wheels and walked around the wheelchair. As he did, he realised John was not mucking about at all. Something was very, very wrong with him. He saw the whites of John's eyes and foaming spit frothing from his mouth. His limbs jerked awkwardly, and he toppled from the chair and hit the pavement with a thwack, where he kept jerking like an epileptic child. His heart dropped into his shoes.

'John!' Oh god, he didn't know what to do. 'Help!'

Nobody was nearby. Shit, he glanced around and wished, for once, that a minister would walk through those doors. And just as he thought that, a man in a plain robe stepped from the shadows of the inner chapel. He held his hands before him, an elderly man with a smiling wrinkled face. For a moment he looked up at the sun and closed his eyes.

'Minister!' Marty yelled.

The man was startled out of his reverie, and when he spotted John writhing on the pavement, he gasped and lost all regality.

'Officer, how can I be of assistance?' He ran to John, and knelt at his side. 'John's flailing arms reached for the minister's throat and his eyes rolled, but he growled like a feral animal. The minister withdrew his hands, and a look of sudden understanding crossed his face. 'This, this is the word of the devil son.'

'The devil?' Marty didn't have time for superstition and poppycock. He needed to call emergency services, get an ambulance on the scene ASAP.

'Help me get him inside, son. Take his legs, and I'll lift him by the arms. I know just what to do.' The minister grabbed John's clawing hands and gave Marty an expectant look.

It made sense to get John out of the sun and off the pavement. 'Okay,' Marty nodded and grabbed John's kicking feet.

John was bloody heavy, and Marty could see the old man struggled to bring him into the chapel.

The interior of the chapel was dimly lit, with flickering candles in sconces against the walls revealing rows of wooden pews separated by a crimson carpeted isle that led straight to the altar. On the altar many candles of varying sizes danced below a massive wooden cross with a crimson cloth draped over its arms. Behind it a stained glass mural the size of the entire wall--floor to roof--towered, an artwork of great mastery.

Each time they crossed the shadow of another pew as they struggled down the aisle, it seemed as though John's tantrum intensified, his body seizing and jerking and flailing all the more. By the time they were four pews away from the altar, he'd started screaming a blood curdling scream that chilled Marty's bones. It definitely felt like something unnatural--something from a devil. He had to remind himself he didn't believe all that.

As they stepped past the last pews onto the altar, the minister let go of John's writhing body and ran into the shadows. What now? John's twitching legs were still in his grasp, and he clawed at the air, roaring, then cringing, then roaring again.

The man reappeared, and it looked as if he was glowing, but Marty thought it must be the sunlight hitting the glass panes of the artwork behind the cross at just the right angle.

'Now, officer,' the old man said, 'I need to get this into his mouth, then the ugly bit comes.' He held up a vial of vulgar green liquid.

'So you're medically trained?' Marty frowned at John as he spoke.

The minister smiled. 'Yes, something like that. Now...'

He bent down further than John's arms could reach and pointed. 'The teeth are the problem, usually. If he can, he'll bite us when we try to pour it in. I need you to restrain him if you can, but he'll buck and kick and spit and bite.'

It sounded horrid, and compassion for John rose in Marty's heart. He'd gotten sick of John's horrible attitude, but seeing him like this, it was torture. Alright, so to get the medicine in, he'd have to hold John down and make sure he didn't bite the minister. Easy enough, right? Like restraining a criminal. Kind of.

This felt wrong, but Marty walked closer, and with one nod at the minister, leapt on top of John. John hissed and spat at Marty's face, his eyes wide. With gnashing teeth, he growled and tried to claw at Marty's face, but Marty ducked, then grabbed his wrists. Then John bucked. How the hell could he buck and kick like that if he couldn't even walk? Either John had been lying about that, or something unnatural was going on here.

'Get off,' A deep, inhuman voice growled from John's wide mouth. It was not John. Marty nearly wet his pants. What. The. Fuck!

Someone screamed and Marty realised it was him--he was screaming. The priest got close to John's head, but he swung his face away like a naughty kid at crèche refusing his meds. Sweat dripped from Marty's forehead. For a disabled guy, John sure was fucking strong. He pinned John's arms underneath his knees and grabbed the sides of his face with all the strength he could muster.

John opened his mouth, probably to say something in that bone-chilling, horror drenched voice, but at that moment the minister tipped the vial into his gaping maw, and he swallowed and spluttered on the liquid. His limbs went slack.

JOHN

John became aware of his surroundings whilst his body twisted together with heaves that started in his stomach and tore up his oesophagus so painfully he pinched his eyes shut and wished for death. Something was clawing up his throat, he was sure of it. Between each heave there were a few seconds of respite in which he panted but couldn't get air. Something ghastly was in him, something that had to come out. Sweat dripped from his brow and he turned onto all fours, looking at a carpet under him.

Another heave of his body, and he was hacking like there was puke in his throat. He couldn't breathe! A tail appeared in his mouth. A fucking tail! Green and slimy. Fuck. A dizzy spell hit him, and he swore if he wasn't hacking away like this he'd have fainted, but now that the thing was in his mouth, his whole body contracted and pushed the foreign object out, refusing him the sweet bliss of death he wished for.

It tasted like death, a sickly sweet taste that filled his mouth and nostrils and scared him more than anything he could remember. What was happening to him? Was he dying? His arms trembled and his face burned. Someone slapped his back, and pushed. The thing in his mouth moved and squirmed and pushed his mouth to stretching point. Oh god, no. The texture of it was slimy and oddly hard against his lips, and it scraped against his teeth with each movement it made. He heaved, hands pushed at his abdomen and lower back, and suddenly the whole thing popped out of his mouth. The smell was even worse than before, and the thing that lay below him steamed and squirmed and hissed.

Fuck. He sucked in a breath, and with it the darkness swallowed him. Thank God.

MARTY

'Oh my god!' Marty shouted and jumped back. He ran past three rows of pews, and stopped in his tracks. Something was coming out of John's mouth--some kind of worm or... at least it looked like a worm, squirming and wriggling out of his mouth. He just wanted to bolt, but there was no use running now, was there. He wasn't a -

Had he just used God's name in vain in a church? He looked back at the minister who knelt next to John and said, 'sorry Minister.'

The Minister nodded and pushed with both his palms against John's back as John stood on all fours, lurching and contracting and heaving. Some kind of glow emanated from the minister, and though he was dressed humbly in brown robes, with tufts of hair above his ears and a shiny bald pate, he reminded Marty of an angel. Goosebumps rose on his arms. This minister knew what he was doing. He couldn't just run out on John like this, not after all they had been through together.

He steeled himself to what he had to do, and strode back to John and the Minister. On the opposite side of John's body, he knelt and pushed against John's back the way the Minister was pushing, but without meeting Marty's eyes, the Minister took his hands and placed them on John's abdomen.

'Push up and forward,' he said in a gentle voice.

Up and forward. Right. Marty gathered his strength and pushed with all the force he could muster. Something inside of John moved, and Marty reminded himself over and over in his mind that he couldn't run away now. The thing was almost out. He promised himself that would be the end, though he doubted that was true. Would the creature attack them?

Just as he thought that, he felt something give, and the thing plopped out of John's mouth. A worm of some kind, but as big as his arm. It squirmed and emitted a high-pitched squeal the likes of which he'd only ever heard in movies. And the smell! Like rotten socks and apples mixed with off cinnamon and dead bodies. Abruptly he turned and ran for the door, covering his mouth as bile, and then his stomach's contents, rose up. As he passed the open chapel doors, he grabbed the wall and spewed just past where the carpet ended and the sunlight touched the concrete.

He'd have to clean that up.

Another wave of spew came up and he wretched it out. For a minute he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and trying to calm his heart rate. What the fuck had he just witnessed? That was not natural. The man, whoever he was, had saved John's life from something he could never have imagined existed. Bloody hell, what a day. He'd been determined to help John become a new man--a better man. But this was more than he'd expected, and he wasn't sure it was good. 'Fuck,' he said, and wiped at his mouth.

When he turned around, he saw John collapsed on the carpet, lying on his back with his eyes closed, and the thing that had come out of him lying a meter or so from his head. It looked like a grey and black worm but was ribbed like a horn. Now that it had stopped squirming, it lay curved, like something you might find on an animal in Africa, and despite his repulsion, he wanted to touch it, see if it moved. Or shoot it. The second idea was better, but he'd have to move it out of the chapel before he could do that.

No, not out of the chapel. People would see it and wonder what it was. He couldn't answer questions now. Dammit. He glanced around and saw crimson curtains to the side of the altar, past the pews. Maybe there was a spot back there he could use. He walked back down the aisle, picking at his teeth with his tongue, and bent down to check John's vitals. His pulse and breathing were steady. Great.

Now for the worm thing.

Cringing, he stretched out a hand and poked it. It didn't move, and felt, for all he could say, just like a horn. A proper horn. Bloody hell. Where was the Minister? Was this a horn? He could've sworn it'd been moving and squirming a second ago.

Marty dragged the horn, which was heavier than he'd expected, past the crimson curtains and was relieved to find a large copper basin with water in it. He hoped it was holy water, and dumped the horn inside it. The water hissed and bubbled as soon as the horn touched it, and as it sank, a god-awful stink rose in vapours from the basin. Was that good? Where was the minister? He would know what to do. The uncertainty was too much. Marty's hand went to his holster, and he drew his pistol with shaky hands, pointing it at the horn thing. Any second now, he expected the thing to burst into action. Sweat dripped down his neck, onto his collar.

Nothing happened.

'Come on,' he said, 'this is nothing.' He adjusted his grip on the gun and edged closer. 'You got this.'

In his mind he counted back from five, and steadied his breaths with each slow count. When he reached two, he steadied his hands and aimed. 'One,' he said and pulled the trigger.

Water spouted out of the basin, and a mighty crack echoed around him. He was soaked in putrid water from the splash. With his gun still pointed at the horn, he leaned over the basin's lip. Nothing moved. The water settled, and he saw a crack in the thing, which seemed good. He jabbed at it with the butt of his gun, and at last allowed himself to believe that, whatever it had been, it was dead now.

He dumped it in the chapel kitchen and called for the minister, but nobody came, so he got the wheelchair from outside and went to get John, who lay breathing calmly inside. Now that John wasn't resisting, getting him into the chair was easy, and Marty made use of the seat straps to ensure he didn't topple from it as they went back down the ramp.

As he walked John back to the car, what had happened in the chapel seemed less real. Outside the sun had peeked through the clouds, birds chattered, and the wind hushed through leaves. It was a good day. Whatever had happened in there would stay secret, and hopefully it would change John somehow, if it had been real at all. Maybe Samantha would see a change in him now? Or maybe he'd be the same; who knew? Either way, he wouldn't be sharing this experience with anybody anytime soon. They'd lock him up in the loony bin for sure.

P.S. Dedicated to @MichaelJSullivan, whose stuff I was reading when I wrote this, and whose influence definitely helped me with setting the scene. Oh, and he is a pretty good writer, so I'd say you should head over to his page and read his stuff, maybe even buy his books *hint hint*

© Steve Ford and Joy Cronjé 2018