Burning Roses

Prologue Mist crawled along the main street, concealing puddles made by the incessant rain. Swirling tendrils drifted off into side streets, making their way silently, like messengers from another world. The mist flowed outward as it went, ever expanding, now bubbling and rolling as if it were a living thing, now spreading evenly like a river of blood. No place was safe from its approach. Fences were ignored, walls were climbed, even doors and windows were breached. There was no sanctuary in the little town of Wilton, nestling sleepily on the edge of Salisbury Plain. But then, the mist, in itself, posed no danger. * “DO WE REALLY NEED TO include this bit? I’m not even in it. And this is supposed to be my story.” “We discussed this. They need to understand where it all started. This is bigger than you now.” “You’re not making this up? I’ve had enough people lying to me recently.” “I’m not making this up. I never lied to you. Not my fault if it sometimes takes you a while to put two and two together. Hey, don’t swear at me under your breath. I can still hear you. Now carry on.” * ONLY A WEEK PAST, THERE had been two rather disturbing occurrences in Wilton. First, there had been the two dead cows. No cause for alarm, certainly, although Tam Denny, the farmer who had owned the beasts, had been understandably upset. What had gotten to the villagers was the fact that both cows had been drained of blood. The second thing playing on the villagers’ minds was the disappearance of Steve Denny, the farmer’s son. Steve had been out in the fields, the night after the cows had been found, making sure that nothing happened to the rest of the herd. Steve had been a strapping lad, the champion of the local boxing club, and he had taken his father’s shotgun with him, just in case. He’d been planning to go see the Rockin’ Vicars that weekend, but had considered this more important. Sometime during that night, Steve had disappeared. There was no sign of a struggle. No blood on the grass or shreds of clothing. Nor was there any sign of the farmer’s son. The local constabulary had been put on the alert. Throughout the region, posters were distributed, descriptions were given. Tam Denny had even posted a five hundred-pound reward for information as to his son’s whereabouts. But, so far, nothing had come to light. Now, a week later, the streets were empty. Some of the villagers were tucked away in bed, seeking the safety that comes from knowing that nothing can harm you once the blankets have been pulled over your head. Others, more courageous or more foolish, were still awake, but safely indoors. Their lights blazed defiantly, warning the creatures of the night that they were no helpless victims. As a further safeguard, their black and white television sets were turned up to full volume, in an attempt to frighten the night-stalkers with the sounds of car chases, g*n shots and screams of terror. The noise also served to hide the suspicious creaks and moans which came from the old buildings, and which had been known to keep more than one villager awake at night. But that did not account for all the inhabitants of Wilton. For thirteen men were not buried under their bedclothes. Thirteen men were not glued to the square box which dominated living rooms all over town. Thirteen men were, instead, gathered in a basement under the police station. This basement held no prisoners, or supplies, or anything within the normal day-to-day experience of the rest of the townsfolk. This basement held an altar. It was of black granite, standing strong and cold in the center of the room. The altar, like the basement itself, had been there long before the police station had been built above it. It had been there long before the village had been patched together by the local inhabitants. It had been there, some whispered, since the beginning of time, in those unimaginably remote ages before man had crawled out from the swamps, when dark beings had stalked the earth and carved lairs for themselves from the living rock. * “YOU DON’T WANT TO MAYBE bring in a touch of melodrama here instead?” “Just write it down.” “Can we go back and start with ‘It was a dark and stormy night’?” “Remember when I said I wasn’t going to eat you?” “Writing it down. No problem.” “Whose round is it?” “Must be yours. I’m very busy at the moment, writing things down.” * ON THIS NIGHT, WHILE mist prowled through the village, and rain beat down on the roof of the police station, thirteen men stood in a circle about the altar, their hands raised above their heads, their heads flung back in supplication. For these were the chosen ones. They had worked towards this night, preparing themselves physically and spiritually, cleansing their bodies as they fortified their souls. Now they were ready to begin the rites, to initiate the ancient ritual which would awaken the dark one from his ages-long slumber, and set him loose once more upon the earth. All preparations had been completed: their clothing had been cast aside, and their bodies smeared with animal blood. The sacrifice had been made ready on the altar – Steve Denny lay there, unconscious, his n***d body daubed with arcane symbols, his mind no longer present. Steve Denny was, in fact, no more. What lay on the altar was a living, breathing corpse. A receptacle awaiting its new master. Outside, the mist seemed to gather momentum, roiling and crawling more furiously than before. The rain beat down with renewed force, as if trying to match the mist in its anger. Thunder roared across the sky. Lightning flashed. In the basement, seven candles, the only illumination, flickered as one. The movement broke the trance-like state into which the thirteen had drifted. Their eyes snapped open, but glowed dull, lifeless. Their arms descended till they could grasp hands, forming a ring around the altar. One of their number detached himself from the others, moved towards the lifeless body lying on the slab. This one stood at the foot of the altar, his arms raised, looking down on the body formerly inhabited by the farmer’s son. “Let us begin.” The twelve dropped to their knees. Their leader began a low, whispered chant, which was picked up by the others, building in volume as it progressed. The chant was in an ancient, half-forgotten tongue, only hinted at in dark legends and in a few rare manuscripts. The candles flickered again. The moment was nigh. “Oh Nameless One,” called the thirteenth man, “hear us, Your servants! From Your ancient slumber we call upon You to awaken and come forth once more to walk among us! Hear our call, oh Mighty One, as we recite the words set down by Your most faithful devotees, in days long past, when last You ruled over men!” “Hear us, Ravager of Life, as we speak the words to break Your imprisonment, to end Your banishment, and to restore You to Your rightful place among, and yet above, mortal men! Hear us, Scourge of the Light, as we bid You... awake!” The candles leapt into agitated life, flickering to twice, three times their former height. Outside, the rain redoubled its efforts, hammering at every surface in sight. Thunder cracked and lightning whipped the storm, while down below the mist seemed to pour from the very air. Dense banks of vapour invaded the town, obscuring gardens and buildings as once it had obscured wet patches on the road. On the altar, the body of Steve Denny began to stir. His breathing became deeper and more rapid, and his veins began to pulse again with life. The chanters reached a c****x, the alien language echoing around the chamber. Their leader threw back his head. “Hear us, Nameless One! Come to us!” The body before him jerked spasmodically. The hands stiffened into talons, then, as the nails grew long and pointed, and strong fingers grew even stronger, they became claws. Similar changes were taking place at the feet. The whole body seemed to be swelling, growing, hardening, feeding on the darkness and becoming something that was more than human. Or something that was not human at all. Steve Denny’s face was changing, too. His mouth was widening, the teeth inside becoming longer, sharper. His ears were growing, becoming pointed at the top as the lobes vanished. The chant went on. The candles danced ever higher, casting strange shadows on the walls. Twisted creatures seemed to move in those shadows, slinking or capering as the whim took them. They seemed to add their voices to the chant, as it grew ever more frenzied and commanding. Outside, the storm had reached its peak. The night was ablaze as mist embraced the lightning which filled the sky, and the thunder formed a constant backdrop of crackling, booming sound. The time was ripe. Something had to give. In a basement below the police station in the main street of Wilton, something opened its eyes. Yellow slits gleamed in the semi-darkness. Yellow slits with vertical, black slashes for pupils. The chanting stopped.