Long Chills Page 3

  And objects around the house began to mysteriously disappear. One morning in December, Rebecca noticed that Jasper was shaving with a new razor. When she questioned him about the whereabouts of his old one, Jasper grew defensive. “I reckon I just misplaced it, that’s all,” he said curtly. Also, the hand-axe she used for chopping kindling vanished without a trace from the stump outside.

  There was the matter of the bed linen as well. Sometimes when she did her washing, she would find some of the sheets filthy with mud and dank leaves, as if someone had gone for a nocturnal stroll and then climbed back into bed without wiping their feet.

  It was on a cold and snowy night in the middle of February that all of Rebecca’s fears and suspicions suddenly came to a head and she found herself lying awake in her bed, filled with a sensation of overbearing dread.

  Her hand moved to her husband’s side of the bed and found the space unoccupied. She rose and instantly smelled a sickening scent in the air. It reeked like spoiled meat cooking in its own fetid juices. Uttering a silent prayer, Rebecca stepped into the hallway and checked the bedroom of her children. Mitch and Millie were both gone. Their beds were empty and their blankets had been violently flung across the floor. She looked down the dark corridor and, from the kitchen, thought she heard the boiling of water… and the low, giggling mirth of an unsound mind. Then came the sharp slap of the back door slamming shut.

  Bracing herself for the worse, Rebecca Howell entered the kitchen. Despite the cold winter night, the interior of the room was sweltering hot. The stove had been stoked. A crackling fire raged within its iron belly. The narrow slits of the grate winked at her like crimson eyes, privy to some evil knowledge that she was thankfully ignorant of. But not for very long.

  As she walked nearer, Rebecca saw that her largest iron pot was on the stove and that plumes of acrid steam drifted from the bubbling waters within. The odor of cooking meat was stronger than ever and Rebecca fought the sickness that threatened to seize her. Taking a step closer, she peered through the warm mist and into the torrid waters beneath.

  Something danced in the dark depths – a couple of small, pale objects rising and falling amid the swirling currents. At first she didn’t know what they were. Then, as they rose to the boiling surface, she recoiled in horror.

  They were clumps of flaccid skin. Pale blossoms of lifeless flesh that had slipped from the understructure of human bones. The objects waved at her like disembodied gloves. Tiny nails, bitten to the quick, graced each fluttering finger.

  Rebecca moaned with terror. “My babies! What has he done to my babies?”

  She recalled the slamming of the back door and, from the darkness of the night beyond, again heard the low chortling of maniacal laughter. She grabbed a heavy stick of firewood from the box, then opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.

  It was a frigid night. The ground was inches deep with fresh snow and moonlit icicles hung like jeweled fangs from the eaves of the overhang. Rebecca breathed frosty plumes of winter air, then, raising the stick of wood overhead, stepped off the edge of the porch.

  And instantly felt her bare foot sink into the cooling sludge that had once been her husband’s brain.

  Before Rebecca could give way to the scream that rose in her throat, she heard the rasping sound of tiny voices.

  “Which one must we kill… next?”

  Then, from the dense shadows beneath the back porch, came the flash of sharpened steel and youthful bone.

  The Spawn of Arget Bethir

  He hungered.

  It was the dead of night and he found himself running. Running across the fog-laden pastures of the Irish countryside, swiftly, in a haste that he could only describe as maddening. Something drove him onward, past exhaustion, past reason. It was an inner force unlike any he had ever known in his young life. A force stronger than lust or even the draw of sin itself.

  A force possessed of an awful and ravenous hunger.

  As he ran, he felt the chill of the night upon his sweat-bathed body. He was naked. His bare feet fell upon the softness of lush clover, as well as the sharp hardness of stone and shale. Despite his discomfort and the shameful knowledge that he was unclothed, he continued…unable to stop, unable to halt his progress.

  The hunger nagged within his stomach like the ache of a cancer. It felt like something mean and alive, attempting to claw its way through the lining of his belly and into the open air. He unleashed a cry, but it was not of his own voice. It was something low and guttural. A sound that was best described as beastly.

  The mist that clung to the dips and rises of the moors was etched a soft silver by the brilliance of the moon overhead. He raised his head and stared at that great and perfect orb. It was full with nary a hint of shadow upon it. It seemed to reach down to him, to pull at the hideous hunger within and multiply it a hundredfold.

  He wanted to cry, to scream in torment.

  But, instead, he unleashed his rage and desperation in the only manner in which his brain could fathom.

  He howled.

  What is the matter with me? he wondered. Why am I doing this?

  But, deep down inside, he knew. And he loathed himself for it.

  He bounded over a low stone wall and continued, his feet drumming upon the earth, propelling him forward swiftly. The muscles of his body began to ache and burn, to twist and contort. Something emerged from the pores of his skin, coarse and bristling, traveling the length and breadth of his body.

  Soon, he was naked no more.

  Across a pasture he sprinted, eyes searching through the mist, seeking that which his sense of smell had abruptly located. He saw the lonesome form a second later, standing alone, forgotten when the others had been herded to shelter.

  With a snarl, he launched himself forward, springing upon the back of the lone cow. He felt the animal tense, then surge forward in panic. But it only took a few steps before it was dragged downward into a bed of damp clover by the fury and hunger of one damned by a curse as old as time itself…

  Ian Danaher cried out and woke up. Strangely enough, he found himself not in his bed, but on the cold stones of the floor.

  Weakened and shaking, the young man struggled to his feet and stumbled to his bedside table. He managed to light a candle with trembling hands. In the soft glow that spread across his room, he experienced a lingering remnant of the horror that his nightmare had conjured.

  As in his dream, Ian was naked. Sometime during his fitful sleep, he had cast his nightshirt aside. It lay in the middle of the floor, soaked with sweat and torn to shreds.

  Tentatively, he picked up the tattered gown and stared at it, feeling his body prickle with gooseflesh. In the candlelight, he examined his fingernails.

  Beneath them remained small white threads. He was alarmed that they had ripped the garment asunder with such desperation and fury.

  Quickly, he went to the wooden chest at the foot of his bed and retrieved another garment. Soon, he was clothed once again. But the flesh underneath was still damp with the perspiration of exertion and the fever of that awful hunger he had dreamt of possessing.

  Shamefully, Ian bundled up the torn nightshirt and concealed it beneath the mattress of his bed…as if hiding it from the eyes of his brethren. Perhaps from the eyes of God Himself.

  An oppressive feeling of guilt suddenly overcame him. Ian knelt beside his bunk and clasped his hands in prayer. “Heavenly Father, forgive me for the dark thoughts that slumber has cast upon me. Lord, expunge those awful images from your humble servant, as well as the unholy urges that they conjured. Please, Master, return to me the peace and cleansing of soul that you have blessed me with. This, in the holy name of Christ I pray… Amen.”

  He rose to his feet and extinguished the candle. Returning to his bed, Ian lay there in the darkness for a long time before sleep claimed him once again. In the black of night, his stomach grumbled.

  Deep in the pit of his bowels, a dull ache echoed. A distant ache from that awful dreamsca
pe he had occupied a short time before.

  Morning came. Ian attended breakfast, but ate little. Strangely, his appetite for food was gone. When he cast his eyes upon the meager meal before him, he felt sickened.

  The rest of the day was spent at his desk, laboring at the task he had devoted his life to. With tinted inks and quill, he embellished the gospel of Luke with a delicate hand. His specialty was illustrations and illuminations, while others about him inscribed the text in Latin through the use of elaborate and flawless calligraphy.

  He was drawing the opening letter to one of the chapters – an over-sized and lavishly decorated letter “O”, to be exact – when his mind wandered back to the hideous dream that had assaulted his slumber the night before.

  Ian could not seem to cast aside the disturbing images – and feelings – that the nightmare had brought in the dead of night. He considered himself a man of purity and devotion, not someone capable of such dark and dangerous imaginings…even subconsciously.

  Ian didn’t realize that the headmaster of the monastery, Father Liam O’Shaughnessy was standing behind him, inspecting that morning’s handiwork, until the priest cleared his throat disapprovingly.

  “I am not at all amused, young Ian,” he said gruffly, then moved on to the neighboring desk.

  Perplexed by the words of his superior, Ian looked down at what had drawn such a harsh remark. He was shocked to find that the reverent letter “O” had been embellished much too freely. It had been changed into a full moon with the hellish visage of a wolf’s profile overlaid in the center of the orb. The creature’s fiery eyes were directed heavenward, its jagged fangs yawning widely in a fearful howl of torment and hunger.

  And the horrible illustration had, undoubtedly, been drawn by his own hand! That evening, Ian stood upon the grassy moors to the west of the great stone abbey, feeling restless and a tad despondent. And, when he felt in such a way – somehow separated from God by worldly concerns – he indulged in the balm of music.

  As a brilliant sunset of gold and lavender streaked the Irish sky, Ian played his beloved bagpipes. The reedy notes of the instrument echoed across the lush meadowland. He clutched the object with its ornately carved pipes and its bellows of tartan-cloth like a lover, squeezing tenderly, kneading urgently at times, drawing forth the music of Celtic hymns, like the sighs and cries of a lover brought toward passionate release.

  Ian was well into his sixth tune, when he heard the drumming of horse hooves on the earth behind him. He turned to find Father O’Shaughnessy upon his favorite gray steed, taking the evening ride he was most accustomed to at that hour.

  “Tis good that we haven’t taken a vow of silence, Brother Ian,” said O’Shaughnessy with a wry grin, “or else I’d be forced to cast you from our midst.”

  “I am sorry,” apologized the young friar. “Did I disturb you?”

  O’Shaughnessy laughed good-naturedly. “Nay, not in the least. I rather enjoy your music. You play it with the skill and vigor of a seasoned Scotsman. It does us Irishmen good to know that someone within our gathering can best those kilt-wearing skinflints at something, particularly an instrument as complex as their confounded bagpipes.”

  Ian bowed his head. “I am humbled by your praise.”

  The headmaster’s smile faded into a frown of concern. “Whatever is the matter, young man?” he asked. “I know you well enough. You only play upon the moors during times of joy or despondency. From the troubled look upon your face, I would say it is the latter of the two.”

  Ian was quiet for a moment. Then he turned to his spiritual guide with haunted eyes. “Father…what do you make of dreams?”

  O’Shaughnessy rested both hands on the pomade of his saddle and shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes there is nothing much to be made of them. Sometimes they are merely nonsensical rubbish…refuse of the mind that should cause no concern a’tall.”

  “But what if they appear otherwise?” he asked. “What if they go against the grain of everything a man stands for…every good thing he has devoted his life to?”

  “Again, if you have suffered such dreams – or nightmares, as it seems that you may have – I would not agonize upon it so. Being men of God, it is common for one’s inhibitions to make themselves known in the form of passion plays of the mind. Are these dreams of a lustful nature?”

  “Nay,” Ian admitted. Much worse than that.

  “Then I would not worry myself over it very much,” O’Shaughnessy assured him.

  “I appreciate your counseling, good Father,” Ian said gratefully.

  “Remember, I am only a few steps from your own chamber if ever you need me,” offered O’Shaughnessy. He stared at the young priest for a moment longer, then turned rein on his steed and headed back in the direction of the rectory.

  Ian cast his eyes upon the fading light of the sunset, stunned to see that its soft and comforting hues had deepened into a crimson as dark and heavy as freshly-congealed blood.

  With a sigh, he cradled the bagpipes even closer to his breast and continued his mournful playing as the evening mist rolled in to blanket the moors.

  Once again, he was on the run, roaming the countryside in search for sustenance.

  He was no longer man, but rather a hideous hybrid of the mortal and the immortal. The change had come swiftly this time and not unexpectedly. He had relished the agony of reforming bones and cartilage, the stretching of muscle and sinew. As he moved along the dips and rises of the grassy moors, his arms and legs throbbed with pain as though they were open wounds.

  And that awful hunger raged within, driving him onward.

  Powerfully, he leapt over stone walls and deadfalls, searching out his prey. The mist parted as he reached the pinnacle of a wooded ridge. That glorious moon shone down fully upon him, bathing his fur in a silvery glow that only seemed to draw the ravenous hunger outward. It rose up from the aching pit of his stomach, past his pounding heart, and up his gullet into the coolness of the open air. It sprang, fully unleashed, into the open air as a long and soul-rending howl.

  He left the ridge and continued his nocturnal roaming. In a valley, he paused at a freshwater stream, dipping his massive head to take a drink. In the shimmering currents, his reflection stared back at him; the savage countenance of something torn between man and wolf. But the hue of his fur was not the sandy red color that he normally possessed. Instead, the coarse hair was as white as a winter’s snow.

  Onward he loped, his breathing deep and bestial, his eyes searching desperately. Once again, his nostrils flared and he located his lone victim.

  But this time it was not cattle.

  He tore from a stand of beech trees and found himself standing upon a cobbled road. Before him, standing stark-still and startled, was a form. A human form. It was a woman, her pale hands clutching at her cloak, pulling it closely about her in the evening chill.

  For a long moment, the two simply stared at one another. Then he sprang and landed upon her, dragging her earthward. The woman screamed out.

  Her voice filled his ears, shrill and full of terror. But he only laughed at her plight and drank her terror in like sweet nectar.

  In the moonlight, her face was revealed. Pale and freckled, wreathed by a mane of coppery red hair. Her emerald green eyes gleamed with fear…oh so delicious fear! He felt none of the compassion that a man of God should feel. No, only satisfaction and that bestial hunger that ruled him. All things of Heaven and morality had been cast savagely aside.

  He waited until her scream reached its pinnacle. Then he stared into the woman’s eyes – familiar eyes that had once held a kindred love for him – and, without hesitation, dipped his massive, slavering head toward the stark, white column of her throat.

  Ian woke on the cold, stone floor of his chamber…naked…shivering...bathed in blood.

  Unsteadily, as though he had barely an ounce of strength left, he crawled to the candle and lit it. In the muted glow, he found deep scratches on his arms and legs, bleeding freel
y. Wounds that he had apparently inflicted upon himself.

  “Oh dear God!” he moaned softly. “What has become of me?”

  He pulled himself to his feet with some difficulty. The savage power he had experienced in his nightmare was gone now. He felt as though every ounce of strength had been drained from his body. He stumbled to his dressing table and, taking a damp cloth from the basin, began to wash away the blood from his body. He examined his fingers. There were no tatters of cloth beneath the nails this time…only clumps of his own flesh.

  Ian was raising his face to the mirror, when he was mortified to find words scrawled upon the looking glass. They blazed accusingly at him, written in Gaelic in freshly-let crimson.

  ARGET BETHIR.

  He stared at those words for a long moment, unsure of why they were there…why he had put them there in his life’s blood.

  Arget Bethir, he thought to himself, reading those words over and over again. The Silver Beast. But what could it mean?

  Ian finished bathing himself, then dressed and lay back down on his bunk.

  But he failed to return to sleep for the remainder of that night. In the darkness, he laid there, his wounds aching, his mind puzzling over those strange words on the mirror, searching for an answer.

  Arget Bethir…

  The next day, Ian found it extremely difficult to concentrate on his work. The artistry that he had grown to cherish during his few years at the rectory now seemed to lead him toward boredom. It was as though he had lost his passion for the task he and the other twenty-four monks of his order had devoted their lives to. His thoughts continuously returned to the awful dreams he had experienced, to the freedom and wantonness of his nocturnal prowling upon the moors. Simply sitting there, confined to his desk with quill and ink at hand, seemed to bring out a restlessness that he was unaccustomed to. The abbey on the outskirts of the village of Kells began to feel less like a holy haven and more like a great stone prison from which there was no escape.