Part 18 by Peter Mackay

God. What had happened? There was blood everywhere. A dead man. Body parts. Was that a hand before his face?

Hard to tell, all covered in red. Everything was covered in red.

 

Luke began to wonder if he was dead too. A martyr, killed on God’s holy business, spreading the joyful word to the faithless. 

He had smelled it the moment the door opened. The stink of the ungodly, oh yes, there was work here for he and Mark to make this God’s house and to lead its people join the flock.

The little boy who opened the door to them. He had a holy light in his eyes, you could tell. He would take them to his mother, and together they would guide her to the light. It was all in the eyes, and Brother Mark had known. “Do you know God?” he had asked. 

“No,” the boy had said, and that was even better. A virgin page to write on, to find the way into his heart, his mother’s heart, his father’s heart. If there was a father…

But the Holy Father looked down and smiled on all His children, so that was all right. Everything would be all right.

It must have been the boy’s brother at the top of the stairs, looking up in expectation and hope as he cradled that, that thing.

Brother Mark had smiled then, he was always shining brightest when things were darkest. Last night, for example.

He had glanced at Luke, reassuringly. This was their work indeed, this was what they had been called for, this was where they would find glory and salvation and the one true light of the Heavenly Father.

“What do I do?” the boy had asked. Brother Mark was about to answer, when the other boy, the one on his knees already, had looked in puzzlement. “Sam, Sam!” he had called.

Luke smiled at the recollection. He couldn’t remember anything after that. Nothing at all. But here he was, in a warm red glow, holding Brother Mark’s hand again, and everything would be all right, wouldn’t it?

“Mark, oh Mark?” he called out. Time for God’s work. Time for glory and hallelujah.

His voice was a croak. How had that happened? “Mark!” 

He sounded like a dog with a harelip, and he hurt. God, how he hurt now. There was bitterness in his croaking throat, and wetness on his face and a stink in his nose and he couldn’t feel his legs at all to rise up and run from whatever angel or demon was now ascending the stairs, a smiting sword in its hand, to punish him for that sin.

 

Pat 17 by Fiona Wynn

Five miles away, in a small motel, Mary checked her bag for the umpteenth time. Wallet, keys, passport for proof of identity, photograph of her mother. Yes. She was ready. She couldn’t remember ever being this nervous, but finally she was going to do what she had wanted to do ever since she was old enough to remember. She was going to find her father.

 

Her mother had told her about her dad, Billy. She said it had only been a one-night thing, and that Billy probably didn’t even know Mary existed, but Mary had always felt something was missing in her life. Finding her father, she had decided, would help her work out who she really was. Even at the age of 34, she had never managed to settle down, never had a stable relationship, never managed to stay in a job for more than a year or so, and she placed the blame for this firmly on not knowing who her father really was, not knowing where she came from.

 

And so she had hired a private detective to track him down. It had taken three years, and all the money she had saved up, but finally she’d received the call saying where he was living. She’d screwed up all her courage and travelled to the right town, but arriving quite late had spent the night in a motel. And now she was about to set out to meet her father.

 

She walked up to the front door of the address she had been given, running over the carefully-planned words she had decided to say by way of introduction to whoever answered the door. She didn’t know whether her father was married now, or whether he had kids, so she had planned for every eventuality. Except for this one.

 

Mary stopped short as she realised the front door was ajar, and there was what seemed to be a handprint on it, in red paint. She pulled the door open further, shouting ‘Hello?’ as she did so, and gingerly crossed the threshold of the house. The carpet of the hallway sucked at her feet slightly as if it was damp, and when she looked down she saw more red paint all over the floor. Or was it paint? There was a metallic smell in the air, and Mary slowly came to the realisation that she was standing in a puddle of blood. Fresh blood.

 

Mary held on to the wall to stop herself fainting. Her pulse was racing as she tried to work out what she had just walked in to. And then she heard, from above, a strangled sound that was almost a voice but not quite. She shook her head to bring herself back to her senses, took a deep breath, and walked up the stairs slowly, dreading what she might find.

Part 16 by Jennifer Wilson

In a half-daze, but too scared to let his brother out of his sight, Joseph crept downstairs and watched as Sam calmly entered the living room, stepped over their father’s corpse, and collected the book. Somehow, he managed to avoid stepping in the spreading pool of blood, but it hardly mattered; Sam was already covered in enough gore for his actions to be obvious.

Unless, thought Joseph, people think he’s just an extra for a horror film. Sam looked cool and collected as he made his way back to the front door; you could almost believe the red stains were nothing more than the famous sugar syrup used in the film and TV industry.

For a moment, Joseph simply stood and stared, his body and brain arguing about the best course of action. Should he call somebody? The numbers ‘999’ danced through his mind, but what would be the point? It was too late for an ambulance; even with his limited first aid he could see that clearly enough. And surely all the Police would do was take his brother away; there would be plenty of time for that later. He thought briefly of their miserable aunt who lived the other side of town, but again, what could she do? Finally, he pulled himself together and realised the best thing for now would be to stick with Sam – perhaps he could prevent any more bloodshed, for one thing. The click of the closing front door snapped him from his thoughts, and he hurried out behind his brother.

Following behind, and staying out of sight, Joseph watched Sam plod along the thankfully empty street. If the situation wasn’t so severe it would be hilarious, stalking his blood-stained brother, diving into gaps in the hedges or ducking behind bins whenever Sam paused or got distracted by the sounds of the day starting to come to life. All the while, his brain was running wild as he tried to think of a plan. Sam could quite happily wander all day, not returning home until darkness started to fall, and at that point, authorities of some sort would definitely need informing of the day’s events. He could tackle Sam, catch him off-guard, perhaps try to contain him somewhere, but then, surely the best place for that would be back home, and he wasn’t sure how Sam would react to seeing the results of his actions. On the other hand, having him wandering round town with a knife didn’t seem the greatest idea either.

After a painfully meandering thirty minutes, Sam came full circle, ending up in the woods behind their house, and headed towards the boys’ den from their playing-out days; a hollowed-out giant oak in the heart of the trees. It had held such happy memories for Joseph, those carefree summer holiday days. Now, he watched his seemingly-unaware brother dust away the dried leaves, settle himself into the hollow, and open their father’s book.

 

Part 15 by James Wilson

Sam was still beaming even when the one of the two men keeled over. His hands tied, strapped to his waist like a strait jacket. His colleague could have helped but he was so frozen in shock that the only movement Sam could see was the light flicking across his irises, as his vision darted around the scene before him. He waited patiently for their answer but it never came. His agitation rose when one of them began to vomit.
Sam’s smile began to shrink when he heard someone breathing behind him. He turned hoping it was another man in a suit, come to tell him about God.
It wasn’t a man in a suit.
It was his father.

Sam was confused because his father was downstairs. William was lying in a pool of his own blood, his pulse had vanished and the knife had slipped deeply into his belly so how was he still alive? His father was standing perfectly healthy in front of him and his authority was still absolute.

William stared fiercely at his son, the eyes flared in rage unparalleled.

“You listen carefully Sam, and you listen good. This is your fault and you’re going to sort this shit out.”
“But…what….do I do?” Sam whimpered, his father towering over his frail form.

“You do what you’re good at. Kill them Sam. Simple as that. If you don’t well” William cracked his knuckles, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in heavily.
“Do you want to feel my fists?” William’s teeth were clenched like a vice, the words hissing from a small gap in his teeth. Sam obeyed his father’s orders.

“Who are you talking to Sam?” Joseph sputtered, his eyes red raw from sobbing.

Swipeswipeswipeswipe.
“Sam, what are you doing!” Joseph screamed in fear as his brother began to flail with his knife, the two men falling into the pool of vomit that had appeared only moments before.

Swipeswipeswipeswipe.
Sam plowed past them with the speed of a bull, his face unrecognisable in twisted anger. He landed on the patchwork doll that was held upstairs and continued his frenzy, carving deeply into skin and bone. Joseph looked in horror at the savagery that his, normally peaceful, brother could produce.

When his anger finally subsided, he got up from the mess he had made and began to plod downstairs.

The doll now resembled the food his neighbour’s dog was fed after a particular busy day at the butchers.

Joseph didn’t realise but his brothers own delusions had saved him. Sam followed his orders. “Leave your brother and don’t forget to grab my book.”

Part 14 by Moira Conway

Wrapping his fingers round the handle it felt good. He felt powerful! The knife was his friend.

Rolling William over he pulled it out and was fascinated by the rush of blood which made  a pool on the wooden floor. It was a rich deep red and looked like paint. He dipped his hand in it and made a perfect hand print on the white wall.

The doorbell rang. He wasn’t allowed to answer the door. The bell rang again. William didn’t move or shout as Sam edged his way warily out of the room watching him for any frightening movement, like when he was dead drunk and incapable, then suddenly attacked him for no reason. He reached the door, his heart thumping with fear and excitement. The front door had locks and bolts, which made satisfying noises as he turned  and twisted, clunking clicking and sliding.  He pulled the door open cautiously and peered out. Two men in smart suits carrying brief cases looked back at him. They smiled! He smiled!

There was a rush of clear fresh air. Sam liked the men they brought the outside world with them, a world Sam could vaguely remember, clean clothes that had been dried outside in the sunshine, and freshly ironed shirts. Their faces were smooth and clean shaven with freshly washed and neatly brushed hair.

“Good morning young man. Is your mother in?”

“Yes.” He said nodding eagerly.

 “Could we speak with her?”

Sam stood absorbing the warm feeling of being smiled at. These men would know what to do. Jo would be pleased with him.

“We want to tell her about God.” The man went on.

 “She’s upstairs!”

He pulled the door open to let them in, then disappeared into the dark hallway. They wiped their shiny polished shoes in the rag of a mat and tried to ignore the pungent smell of neglect.

Sam led the way upstairs. As they went they opened their brief cases and began taking out evangelical leaflets and a bible.

“Do you know God son?”

Said the elder of the two.

“No! ” said Sam mystified, why would he, he didn’t even know the people next door.

As he lead them up into the attic they began to feel nervous, it was dark.

“She’s here said Sam!” The men peer into the darkness and saw Joseph sitting on the floor in front of his mother then recoiled as they saw the horror of mangled womanhood cowering and moaning behind him.

“Here she is!” Said Sam smiling and indicating her with the bloodstained knife in his bloodstained hand.

 

 

Part 13 by James Tucker

 

 

‘That’s not mother, idiot.’

Sometimes, Sam’s moods shift quickly, especially when he realises he has made a mistake.

If William dies, who will make the video cassette ready to play each morning?

Joseph knows how, but Joseph is mean sometimes. Even worse, sometimes he tries to teach Sam things and gets annoyed when it doesn’t work. There are some things that will always be beyond Sam, just like he will never be able to reach the top shelf in the kitchen. Joseph does something with a chair that lets him get to that shelf. Sometimes, Sam hates Joseph. Joseph has already overtaken him in height, overtaken him in brains, overtaken him in daring. Until this morning Joseph was his father’s favourite, except when he misbehaves. Sam is good all the time.

Their father is scary, but at least he follows the routine. It was good making Dad sorry for everything bad he’d done, but then he went and spoiled it by going quiet. 

Programmes finish. Sam has understood that for a while, but it always makes him sad. Needing other people who can rewind them for him makes him annoyed. When they say that something he likes hasn’t been recorded and they won’t buy it for him, it makes him angry.

Sam tunes back in to what Joseph is screaming about now. ‘Of course that’s mother!’ and so on.

‘You never even knew her,’ he says. ‘I think I know my own mother. She just looks a bit like her.’

Sam goes back down the stairs. He remembers when Joseph was even smaller than he was, when he was more stupid. There was no door at the bottom of the stairs then, no screen of plywood fixed to the banister rail. The sun could shine into the hallway then. Joseph ruined all of that.

His father seems to have crawled across the room before collapsing again. His stained nails are now resting on the shelf next to The Hidden Properties of Blood and the Shadows that lie Beyond. That stupid book Dad keeps trying to make him to read, eternal youth and other rubbish, Sam’s own nightmare. Sam blames the book for a lot as well. He fumbles under William’s body.

‘But who else could it be? He’s kept her up there for years, hurting her!’ screams Joseph.

Under the body, Sam finds the handle of the knife.

Part 12 by Kay Wilson, PR Consultant

Sam was enjoying the sense of calm.   It was the first time he had been in the presence of his father without his pulse feeling like it was on a Formula 1 race track, each blood cell flying round his system, bouncing off his body’s inner walls.

 

A dull rattling began deep in William’s chest, followed by one of the loudest sighs Sam had ever heard.  A giant falling asleep.  But this wasn’t a giant.  This was a pathetic pygmy of a man and now he was gone.

 

To leave the knife in or take it out?  As Sam had never killed anyone before he had no idea what to do next.  Joe would know.  Where was he?  Then he heard it again, a woman’s muffled mumble and people scuffling on the landing.  He instinctively make himself quiet, invisible, before he realised it couldn’t be his father.

 

‘Joe. Joe.  Joe.’  Sam wanted to shout for his protector and never stop until he appeared.  He had to tell him the news.  Let him see the crumpled heap of non-humanity that had been their father.

 

His brother came down the stairs two at a time as if his life depended on it. ‘Sam.  What is …’  The words were choked back down to the pit of his throat as Joe saw their father’s stomach with a slit as wide as a joker’s mouth and the knife upright between its lips.

 

Curdled milk from his breakfast erupted from his mouth and out of his nose and he fell to his knees with shock.  His nose was inches from William’s black toe nail which had started to twitch.

 

Wiping his nose with his pyjama sleeve Joe instinctively scuttled away on his bottom to put some distance between himself and William’s body.  ‘What happened?’  His voice was a whisper.  Sam bent down and hugged his brother.  ‘It’s dead now.  All gone.’  Another TV cartoon started up again.

 

The moaning on the landing got louder making Sam drop his arms and freeze.

 

‘It’s Mother. Come.  Quickly.’   Joe stood up and pushed his brother out of the room and up the stairs where their mother sat supported by the bathroom door, half collapsed to one side.   Terror filled her eyes as they bounded up the stairs and she squashed herself back as hard as possible before she realised her tormentor was not with them.

 

The  wounds looked even more livid against the dusty floor.  She was like a patchwork rag doll, abandoned by the previous owner but she was alive. 

 

 

 

Part 11 by Victoria Watson, Writer

It slides in easier than Sam had expected. All the tissue and muscle and gristle parting as easy as his father’s lips did when a bottle was put to his mouth.

 

Sam feels the adrenaline course through his veins. In the background, the BBC news beeps its theme tune and Sam imagines it’s his dad’s heart monitor. That longer, final beep comes and Sam looks into William’s eyes. They betray fear. Sam thinks he sees a glimmer of pride in them, he imagines that, for the first time ever, his dad will think of him as a person, not a thing. Not some aberration like Frankenstein’s Monster. It wasn’t Sam’s fault, was it? It was probably thanks to his dad’s love of the booze, faulty sperm.

Yeah, Sam knows about sperm. Sam knows about a lot of things but everyone thinks he’s stupid. Just because he loves TV and sits giggling every day, people don’t take the time to care if he really is as stunted as they say.

 

He stands there, thinking all this, as his wrist flicks from side to side. The squelching noise is both repulsive and funny. Sam feels a slow smile split his face. He wonders whether he should say anything to his dad about why sticking this perfectly placed knife into his guts brings him such pleasure. Surely his dad knows? He must know abut the lurching in Sam’s tummy every time William lurks in the doorway? Thirty-odd years of fear and misery. Decades of wanting to see his mum, sensing that she was near despite William’s screaming protestations. 

Sam decides silence is the best way forward. Sam snaps out of his miserable memories when he feels warm droplets land on his hand. He’s confused. He glances down at the hand, clenched white around the knife’s long, black handle. He looks up at his dad again and sees that his tormentor is simultaneously sweating and crying. Drops of salty tears trace their silent path down his weathered face. His yellow, old before its time, face is no longer twisted in its usual brutal sneer. William’s mouth, slightly open, catches the tears that drip down from his wide eyes.

 

William looks like an old man. Sam feels the tiniest flicker of guilt rumble through his body. He’s just a man, a broken old man, Sam thinks to himself but as he considers withdrawing the blade from his father’s abdomen, a memory of his mum hits him around the head. He sees his dad disappearing, his hand gripped – much like Sam’s now – around a knife. He hears crying, screams, his mother begging.

 

 

Sam twists the knife again, he likes that sound.  

Part 10 by Allison Davies

Crash! The empty bottle hits the TV screen and Benedict Cumberbatch’s face explodes.  “What are you watching that shit for?” says William and, “He’s a ponce. Get us another bottle son.”

Sam is foetal in the sagging armchair.  “Do you want to feel my fists?” The words fly out like vampire bats from the red, wet hole in William’s face. Spittle dots his chin. “Well?”

Adrenaline kicks in. Sam’s up and through the archipelago of ashtrays, stains and fag packets that delineate the geography of William’s addictions on the carpet. He grabs the bag on the bench, looks inside and almost weeps with relief. There’s a single bottle left.  “Here Dad.”

He offers the whisky to William and hopes it’s enough to put the old fella to sleep for an hour or two. He needs peace. Time to think. He needs not to be living this life in this house with his sorry excuse for a parent. He needs Joseph. The pock marked metal of the carving knife grins at him from the bread board. Sam’s fingers tingle as the spectre of an idea drifts through his mind.

“Where’s your brother?”

“Dunno.”

William grabs him by the neck of his t-shirt.

“Where the fuck is your brother?”

“I dunno. Honest. I think he went out.”

Sam looks around the kitchen, registers greasy walls, broken crockery, a heel of bread sporting a three day beard. Despite himself his gaze flicks up to the ceiling to where he guesses Joe is hiding.  Lucky sod. He’s well out of it. Sam has no idea about recent events in the attic. Not yet. He’s sweating now. If his Dad spotted the eye flick he and Joe are screwed.

“Where?”

“See a friend.”

“Wha’ friend? He’s got none.”

“Said he wouldn’t be long”

Sam’s mumbles his words over a tongue made of wool as the urge for self protection kicks in. His fingers feel like they’re stuffed with rags as he desperately tries to unscrew the cap on the Highland Black.

“Have a drink Dad.”

William’s slack lips clamp around the neck like a newborn gumming at the teat. He gulps it down, greedy, the sound of every swallow like a kick in Sam’s gut. His stomach burns as if he’s the one guzzling cheap booze. William’s weak grey eyes turn glassy, he slumps against the table and Sam’s shoulders relax. This time it’s going to be OK. It really is. No one’s going to get hurt.

As if.

Overhead there’s a thud. Fuck! Not now Joe. In his father’s eyes, the searchlights are turned all the way on. William staggers to his feet and begins to undo his belt.

“You must think I’m stupid. Why do you keep looking at the ceiling?”

The carving knife tips Sam another wink.

 

Part Nine by Rebecca Innes, Bartender

The seconds drag by sluggishly, allowing Joseph’s repulsion to melt into concern and his cold-sweated palms to find their feeling again. His mind races to hatch some kind of plan before his brute of a father seizes the next move, but he struggles to scheme around a stalemate. It was the first time he had fully gathered the power of his father’s evil. He stomachs the surge of new emotion, sees an old dust sheet and begins there, pulling it from a forgotten lamp and draping it over his mutilated mother’s modesty. He thinks to himself that at least it’s something, a start.

 

Up close she’s not as terrifying as at first sight. Her skin is red raw, and her unskilled stitches have healed badly, some weeping an ugly mess, but her face is still familiar and in her pain and unconsciousness, holds something serene. Despite his lack of true memories, Joseph had spent hours creating his own fantasies when looking through his brother’s secret scrapbook and in every scenario his mother was a beautiful presence, elegant and calm. He had thought this a fitting personality for a dancer.

 

Violetta’s eyelids waver and open. She feels the rough sheet over her, sees Joseph smile timidly down at her with his bloodied and chewed lip, and for the first time since her pitiless sentence was passed, she dares to chance. She motions with her jaw toward the foot of the bed, where upon a dusty fishing stool lie the utensils for her surgery. Joseph is afraid to touch them but he knows what he must do. He picks the smallest, sharpest one and takes it to the ties around his mother’s wrists and ankles, wincing, as it’s necessary to draw a little blood. He is encouraged when she shows no reaction, having been hardened to a higher level of agony than this.

 

William finds himself on the bathroom floor. He blearily surveys the contents of a first aid kit scattered about him, and thelozenges of glass stuck to his self-inflicted wounds. His mind is chaotic with emptiness, thudding and droning with thirst and confusion. He blindly feels for a bottle – it doesn’t take him long to find one – and puts it to his lips, finding refreshment in the sting of the proof. He gathers himself heavily and lurches out, drawn to the noise and light escaping the living room.Sam senses the doorway darken and immediately shrinks, hoping he might not be noticed. He glues his eyes to the TV, the hairs on the back of his neck jolting. He is well trained to feel wary when his father lingers like this.