John Sinclair - Back from Hell E-Book

Gabriel Conroy

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: John Sinclair: Horror Series Collections
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 348

Beschreibung

JOHN SINCLAIR. A Horror Series Compilation. Episode 7-9.

Episode 7. A LONG DAY IN HELL: When John Sinclair's dying body is brought to the emergency room at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, the unthinkable happens: Minutes after his death, he jolts back to life, screaming in agony. The doctors have no rational explanation for his recovery. But Sinclair didn't come back alone. There are voices in his head, and one of them belongs to Laura Cody, an eleven-year-old girl who is trapped with her brother in a crumbling mansion outside of London, about to be sacrificed to an ancient evil ...

Episode 8. THE TASTE OF HUMAN FLESH: When young Cordelia Barnes dies of a drug overdose, her body is brought to Abbott & Sons, one of the oldest funeral parlors in South London. But Mr. Abbott is no ordinary man. He is a ghoul -a c a foul and ancient creature He and his gruesome family live in darkness and feed on human flesh. Soon, DCI Sinclair is called to the scene, determined to wipe out the nest of ghouls. But Sinclair doesn't realize that his best friend is trapped under their lair, and that the ghouls are preparing a feast. The slaughter is about to begin ...

Episode 9. TO KILL A BEAST: Dr. Carl Barlow is a renowned physician at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. No one knows that he is dying from leukemia, that he is staring death in the face. He would do anything for a few more months on this earth. In his desperation, he experiments on himself and crosses a line that never should have been crossed. Soon, Barlow’s body is changing and he is thirsty for human blood. As Barlow stalks the streets of London, DCI John Sinclair has to face his most dangerous enemy yet ...

"John Sinclair" is the relaunch of Europe's longest running horror series. Originally conceived in 1973 by Jason Dark and still going strong, the "John Sinclair" novellas are firmly rooted in the finest pulp traditions: true page turners with spine-tingling suspense, exquisite gore, and a dash of adventure.

For fans of the dark visions of Stephen King, Clive Barker and the "X-Files" and the fast-paced action and globe-trotting excitement of James Bond.

Gabriel Conroy was born in Los Angeles, California, in 1967. After high school, he joined the armed forces and was stationed in Germany for several years. He discovered his love for writing while traveling through Europe. When he returned to the States, he studied Journalism at Los Angeles City College and UCLA, and currently works as a freelance journalist, writer, and translator. Mr. Conroy is married and has a dog and a cat.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

John Sinclair — A Horror Series

A Compilation

About the Author

Title

Copyright

A Long Day in Hell

The Taste of Human Flesh

To Kill a Beast

John Sinclair — A Horror Series

“John Sinclair” is the relaunch of Europe’s longest running horror series. Originally conceived in 1973 by Jason Dark and still going strong, the “John Sinclair” novellas are firmly rooted in the finest pulp traditions: true page turners with spine-tingling suspense, exquisite gore, and a dash of adventure.

A Compilation

Episode 7: A Long Day in HellNo one comes back from hell. Except John Sinclair. But he didn't come back alone …

When John Sinclair's dying body is brought to the emergency room at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, the unthinkable happens: Minutes after his death, he jolts back to life, screaming in agony. The doctors have no rational explanation for his recovery. But Sinclair didn't come back alone. There are voices in his head, and one of them belongs to Laura Cody, an eleven-year-old girl who is trapped with her brother in a crumbling mansion outside of London, about to be sacrificed to an ancient evil …

Episode 8: The Taste of Human FleshThey are as old as mankind. They feed in the shadows we've created. And they're about to step into the light …

When young Cordelia Barnes dies of a drug overdose, her body is brought to Abbott & Sons, one of the oldest funeral parlors in South London. But Mr. Abbott is no ordinary man. He is a ghoul -a c a foul and ancient creature He and his gruesome family live in darkness and feed on human flesh. Soon, DCI Sinclair is called to the scene, determined to wipe out the nest of ghouls. But Sinclair doesn't realize that his best friend is trapped under their lair, and that the ghouls are preparing a feast. The slaughter is about to begin …

Episode 9: To Kill a BeastHow far would you go to stay alive? How much blood would you be willing to spill?

Dr. Carl Barlow is a renowned physician at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. No one knows that he is dying from leukemia, that he is staring death in the face. He would do anything for a few more months on this earth. In his desperation, he experiments on himself and crosses a line that never should have been crossed. Soon, Barlow’s body is changing and he is thirsty for human blood. As Barlow stalks the streets of London, DCI John Sinclair has to face his most dangerous enemy yet …

About the Author

Gabriel Conroy studied Journalism at Los Angeles City College and UCLA, and currently works as a freelance journalist, writer, and translator. He is married and lives in LA.

Gabriel Conroy

BACK FROM HELL

Books 7 — 9

»be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Digital original edition

»be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright © 2017 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

Originally conceived by Jason Dark in 1973

Written by Gabriel Conroy

Edited by Amanda Wright

Project management: Kathrin Kummer

Cover illustration: © Timo Wuerz

Cover design: Thomas Krämer

E-book production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf

ISBN 978-3-7325-5370-9

www.be-ebooks.com

Gabriel Conroy

A LONG DAYIN HELL

John Sinclair: Episode 7

Longford-on-the-Thames, 18 miles east of London. 8:49 p.m.

Jimmy Cody was an adventurous boy. He had a remarkable talent for rule-breaking. He and his sister Laura were supposed to be in bed, not sneaking around a graveyard.

“You’re not scared, are you?” Jimmy said, an urgent whisper in the dark.

“Of course not!” said Laura. Right now, however, she felt a little out of her depth. Not scared exactly, that much was true, but uneasy.

A soft wind was blowing. Their footsteps were rustling through the leaves on the ground. Her older brother—older, but no wiser, she thought—had always been fascinated by the old cemetery. The marble tombs, overgrown with weeds, the stone angels that seemed to be watching your every move.

The cemetery was at the end of a dirt road, no more than a mile behind their house, and hardly anyone ever came here anymore. Except, of course, for Jimmy and his no-good friends. They liked to hang out here, Frankie and the others. They were trouble, Laura thought. A bad influence on Jimmy, that’s what Mom always said, and Laura was inclined to agree, even though she rarely agreed with Mom on anything these days.

“Jimmy …” she said nervously, “maybe we shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby!” Jimmy said, his voice a tad too high-pitched, a tad too loud. Then he stopped and looked around, alert, like a dog picking up a scent. He pointed at something in the darkness.

“There it is!”

“What?” Laura said. “I don’t see anything.”

Jimmy slowly approached one of the large tombs by the side of the path. A square, white marble pavilion. It looked, Laura thought, like a small house … a house for the dead.

“See that?” Jimmy said, and he was unable to hide the triumph in his voice.

“What?” said Laura, not entirely without suspicion.

Jimmy pointed to the rusted steel door at the entrance to the mausoleum.

“It’s open,” he said. His voice was quiet.

So it was. Just a crack, though. It didn’t seem all that remarkable to Laura. Still, the sight of the half-open door, that sliver of tantalizing darkness, deepened her sense of unease.

“So?” she said with a sneer.

“It wasn’t like that yesterday,” Jimmy explained, as if talking to an idiot. “Somebody must have opened it. I was here with Frankie and the others, we were messing around, and it was closed then.”

He looked at her intently.

“Someone must have opened that tomb,” he said, and Laura felt a chill run down her spine.

“So what, who cares?” she said and crossed her arms.

“So let’s go in!” Jimmy said. He was fourteen, a small, skinny boy with unruly black hair, and something even more unruly in his eyes. Laura was a year younger than him, but taller, more poised. She felt, unfairly perhaps, that she was well on the road to adulthood whereas Jimmy still had quite a way to go.

No, she didn’t particularly relish the idea of sneaking into an open tomb at night. And yet she was curious. Maybe just a little, but something was definitely tugging at her, some deeply rooted urge to explore, to cross boundaries that hadn’t been crossed before. She enjoyed reading books about famous explorers, like Edmund Hillary, the first man on Mount Everest, or Ernest Shackleton, who made it all the way to Antarctica.

Admittedly, snooping around cemeteries wasn’t quite in the same league as discovering a new continent, but still, it was an adventure of sorts. A delicious little adventure.

She looked at her brother and grinned. Then she slowly approached the metal door. Her steps were solemn, as befitted such an occasion. A new world awaits, she thought.

She placed her hand on the cold steel and peered into the tomb, but it was too dark, of course, and she couldn’t see anything.

And then she heard it.

The voice was barely a whisper, no louder than the wind.

She screamed. Her body trembled as she stumbled backward.

Jimmy stared at her, wide-eyed.

“Are you all right?”

“Did you hear that?” she asked. Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

“Hear what?” he said.

“That woman.”

He looked at her and blinked a few times. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

“What woman?” he said. “There’s no one here.”

“Jimmy,” Laura said. “Let’s go back. I have a bad feeling about this place.”

“Don’t be stupid. I want to have a look … everything’s fine.”

***

Jimmy Cody should have listened to his sister. He should know to trust her intuitions.

“Help me,” he said.

Together, they pulled open the heavy door. It made a loud screeching sound that seemed to vibrate through their bones.

“Let me have the flashlight,” he said.

She took off her pink backpack and rummaged around for the flashlight she had taken out of the drawer by the front door, where Mom kept the spare keys.

She handed it to him.

He turned on the light and shone it into the marble tomb. The beam crept over the dusty floor, then up the marble casket and then …

Jimmy gasped.

“What?” Laura asked.

He backed away from the door and pointed inside. Her gaze followed the beam of the flashlight, and then she saw it.

One of the marble squares in the floor had been removed.

“It’s some kind of secret passage,” Jimmy said excitedly.

They pushed through the open crack of the door and entered the tomb. Jimmy quickly walked toward the black, open rectangle, then went down on his knees and shone the flashlight down.

“Stairs!” he said. “I can see stairs leading down.”

Laura approached more slowly. She cast an uneasy glance at the large marble casket next to her. She wondered who was in it. And she wondered if she and Jimmy had any right to be here. This place, she felt, wasn’t for the living.

“Please, Jimmy …” she said. “Don’t …”

But it was no use. He simply wasn’t going to listen. He was, she felt, truly an explorer now. A little Shackleton.

“Let’s go,” he said, and without waiting for a response, he began descending the stone steps that led down into the darkness.

Laura followed him. She felt a wave of foreboding wash over her. As if someone or something inexplicable was waiting for them down there.

“Please, Jimmy,” she said. “Let’s turn back.”

He grinned.

“Have you been talking to Mr. Knock-Knock again? You know you’re not supposed to do that.”

“Shut up!” she yelled. “Don’t make fun of me.”

Jimmy had never been able to see Mr. Knock-Knock. No one could. Dr. Anderson had said Mr. Knock-Knock was simply her “imaginary friend”, perfectly common, apparently, in children that age. But she knew that wasn’t true. For one thing, she hadn’t invented him. He had come from somewhere else, but she wasn’t quite sure from where. Dr. Anderson said she would grow out of it, but she hadn’t. She still spoke to him, especially in her dreams. She wasn’t even sure if he was her friend. Not at all. He frightened her. Sometimes he showed her things, things that scared her. And then, just as unpredictably, he could be rather friendly and helpful.

Like that day three years ago, when Grandma’s wedding ring had gone missing. She always took it off when was baking, but on that day, no one could find it. Later that night, he came to her in a dream and he showed her where it was: at the bottom of the steps. That’s where they had found the ring.

And at that moment, Jimmy screamed.

He dropped the flashlight, and she was engulfed by darkness. It took her a moment to realize that Jimmy had tripped.

He had fallen down the stairs.

She saw the flashlight by his side, and she ran down the last few steps, toward him, unconcerned with her own safety.

“Are you all right?” she said, terror in her voice.

“I’m fine,” he said, but he didn’t sound fine. He sounded rattled, though he didn’t want to show it. “I just slipped,” he said with nervous laughter.

“Here … let me help you up.”

She grabbed the flashlight and helped him to his feet.

“Are you hurt?”

“Of course not,” he snapped, and then he looked around.

“What is this place?” Laura asked nervously. Her fingers were holding on tightly to Jimmy’s shirt. She was only a step or two behind him, afraid of letting go. Her breathing was quick and shallow.

“It’s where the dead people are,” Jimmy said.

They were in a large, rectangular underground chamber. There were stone caskets on both sides of the wall.

“I don’t think we should be here …” she said in a hushed whisper. “You’ve had your fun. Now let’s go back, Jimmy.”

“No, I want to see what’s here.”

“It stinks in here!”

Laura held her breath. The air inside the underground chamber was stale. It smelled, Laura thought, of centuries past. A thick layer of dust covered everything. She was thinking of Mr. Knock-Knock. Sometimes he warned her of danger. But now … now she heard nothing. He was unpredictable that way. She had never felt so alone.

They walked along the rows of coffins until they came to a passageway.

They carefully stepped over the threshold into the next room.

Laura shone the flashlight around, and suddenly her hands were shaking, her knees felt weak and she knew at that moment—by God, she knew—that they had made a terrible mistake.

“Oh,” she whispered.

They were in a large round chamber. Someone had drawn a five-pointed star on the ground. Unlit candles were all around.

And bones. Animal bones.

Laura kept staring at the large star on the ground.

“I think that’s a pentagram,” she whispered.

“A what?” Jimmy said. He was speaking more quietly now, all his boisterous energy gone.

Laura looked down at the ground, and she felt a knot in her stomach. She had seen something else.

“Chains,” she said. “There are chains on the ground.”

“What?” Jimmy said.

She swung the flashlight around. Much of the floor was covered with dead leaves. But they could still make out the steel chains that were lying there.

“What are they doing here?” Laura asked.

“Let’s find out …” Jimmy whispered, but he sounded hesitant now.

“I think we should go back,” Laura said.

“Let’s just have one little look …” he whispered.

Jimmy’s feet carefully pushed through the dead leaves as he went deeper into the round stone chamber.

“I don’t like it, Jimmy.”

He turned to her, grinning.

“Knock-knock, you’re crazy …” he said, his voice a lilting sing-song.

“Shut up!” Laura snapped. She’d always hated that song. Jimmy and his friends used it to make fun of her for believing in Mr. Knock-Knock. It was humiliating. She could feel herself blushing in the darkness.

Jimmy was looking at her, still grinning, as he took another step to the left. That’s when it happened.

He never saw the bear trap.

She heard a metal snapping noise, rusty and old, and then the sound of bones crunching. The steel claw snapped tightly around his tender ankle.

Jimmy fell down, and let out a long, shrill piercing scream of pain, unlike anything Laura had ever heard before. He collapsed on his side. His eyes were wild with pain and panic, his arms were waving, and it took him a moment to realize what had happened.

“Jimmy!” Laura yelped and ran toward him.

“Get it off me, get it off me!” he screamed.

She was clawing at the metal teeth, but they wouldn’t move. She saw blood seeping through his sock.

“I can’t!” she said, her voice rising. Sweat was forming on her forehead, despite the cold.

“Oh God, it hurts!”

She gave up trying to loosen the thing.

“I’m going to get help,” she said slowly, reasonably.

Her words brought a renewed wave of panic to his face.

“Don’t leave me!” he pleaded. “Please!”

“I’ll be right back,” she said firmly.

It was, she knew, the only thing to do. Get help. Get a grown-up.

Without waiting for a response, she grabbed the flashlight she had dropped and ran back, through the coffin-lined hall and toward the stone stairs.

She took the steps two at a time, her blood rushing through her body.

But when Laura Cody reached the top of the steps, her face dropped.

“No …” she whispered in terror and disbelief.

She realized, to her horror that someone must have moved the stone square back into place.

There was no way out.

Her small fists were pounding against the marble, but they only made the tiniest noises.

“Let us out of here!” she cried. “Let us out!”

Then she heard Jimmy’s voice echoing through the darkness. Pained, frightened.

“Laura, what’s going on?”

“We’re trapped,” she screamed, and the panic was rising up in her like a great, unstoppable wave. “We’re trapped down here! Alone!”

And at that moment, she heard a voice.

A clear, dark, human voice.

Someone was in here with them.

A woman.

“No,” the voice said. “You’re not alone.”

***

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, Smithfield, London. 9:24 p.m.

Joe Hastings and Ed Wilbur were emergency room technicians at Barts, one of the oldest and most prestigious hospitals in England. A great deal of suffering had occurred behind those venerable walls, much blood had been spilled, but it was also the site of many great medical advancements. Not that Hastings and Wilbur were particularly interested in that. They were simply doing their job, which, right now, involved waiting. It was a slow night. No stabbings, no car accidents … at least not yet.

Hastings and Wilbur were sitting in the nurse’s lounge, listlessly staring at the television.

An ad was playing. Hastings had seen it many times before. Two women in a beauty parlor, talking excitedly about skin care products.

“Oh my God,” one of the women said in a completely unwarranted tone of excitement. “I love your skin!”

“Why, thank you!” said the other woman, equally excited, her voice shrill.

Hastings sneered. He hated TV ads. So fake.

“Your hands are so soft,” said the first woman. “I can’t believe it. So … youthful.”

“Aren’t you sweet …”

“What is your secret?”

“A lady never tells,” said the second woman with a knowing smile. Hastings shook his head. He wished for a beer right about now.

A man’s voice came on, and talked about the “secret to perfect beauty, perfect youth.”

“Viktor Benedict,” said the voice. “Forever young …”

And then, with a click, the television was turned off.

Hastings turned to look at Wilbur, who held the remote in his hand.

“Bollocks,” said Wilbur.

“I was waiting for the game …” said Hastings.

“Why? So we can watch ’em lose again?”

“Last time they almost won!”

Wilbur scoffed and said, “Why don’t you make some coffee?”

“Why don’t you make it?”

And then, from outside the hospital, they heard the sirens. Distant at first, but getting closer and closer by the second.

They both knew what that meant.

“Looks like we’ve got one …” Hastings said and got up.

“Blimey,” said Wilbur. “I’ll get the station ready.”

“Wait, what about the coffee?”

There was no time for that. Joe Hastings and Ed Wilbur didn’t know it yet, but this night was not like other nights. Not even close.

***

They left the lounge and went into the lobby. Wilbur stepped up to the glass door and took a look outside. The night was cool. There’d been rain that afternoon. He could hear the sirens cutting like a knife through the darkness, and there was something inside him, some little voice that said trouble was on its way.

After a moment or two, he saw the ambulance come around the corner. The lights were casting surreal blue-and-red splashes on the ancient wall of Barts. The scream of the siren drilled into his mind.

“Here we go,” he muttered to himself.

The ambulance came to a screeching halt. The lights were shimmering on the wet ground. Wilbur waved Hastings over, and they rushed to the back of the ambulance. The game would be on by now, Wilbur thought. But it was better that way, they’d be spared the misery of having to witness another loss.

He reached for the handle and ripped the door open.

Assunta Chandrasekhar was on duty in the back of the ambulance, a heavy-set woman with short-cropped black hair. No sense of humor, Wilbur found, but otherwise a fine person, and a good doctor.

“What have we got?” he said.

She was already pushing the stretcher out. A man was strapped down on it, his face obscured by a plastic oxygen mask.

Hastings grabbed the right side of the stretcher, they both pulled and then the wheels fell out with a loud rattling sound.

“Cardiac arrest. White male, early thirties …” Chandrasekhar said.

“Heartbeat?” Wilbur said.

“Weak. Let’s go,” Chandrasekhar said.

Wilbur shone a small penlight into the man’s eyes. No response. Not a good sign, he thought, not at all.

The man’s face was pale, and his lips were almost completely blue. His veins were bright red underneath his white skin.

“Looks like sepsis,” said Hastings.

Wilbur nodded, but he thought: Not like any sepsis I’ve ever seen.

The man’s body was covered with scratches and bruises, and there was caked blood on the right side of his face.

They wheeled the stretcher in through the glass sliding doors, running now.

“Looks like he’s gone through hell,” Hastings said.

Chandrasekhar nodded.

“Took a beating, that’s for sure.”

“You should see the other guy,” said Wilbur with a grin, but when he looked at Chandrasekhar, he saw that she wasn’t smiling.

God, he thought. Lighten up. It’s only life or death.

Within seconds, they reached the station.

Hastings placed two fingers against the man’s neck and waited.

“Looks bad,” he announced grimly.

Wilbur reached for the stethoscope around his neck and listened to the heartbeat, or what you might normally call a heartbeat. All he heard was some weak fluttering inside the man’s chest.

“He’s not going to make it,” he said.

“That’s what I like about you,” said Hastings. “Your optimism.” Then he called out: “Dr. Barlow! We need help over here!”

The door to the doctor’s lounge opened and Dr. Joseph Barlow came out, looking groggy. He was a tall, heavy-set man with a leonine face and wavy gray hair, combed backward. It gave him the look of a stern professor. He pulled up his open pants.

Barlow noticed their quizzical looks.

“I’ve had too much coffee,” he said.

“Or beer,” Wilbur added, but Barlow and Chandrasekhar threw him withering glances and he knew to shut up.

“Nurse!” bellowed Barlow, his voice booming with the confidence of someone who’s been bossing others around for years.

“Can you hear me?” Barlow said, now yelling at the patient. No response.

One of the nurses, an overweight blonde woman whose name Wilbur couldn’t remember, came rushing up. She was relatively new here, and turnover was usually high. No point remembering names until he knew who was going to last and who wasn’t.

“Intubation!” yelled Barlow, but the blonde nurse was already a step ahead of him. Together with Hasting, she slid the breathing tube deep down the man’s throat.

Meanwhile, Chandrasekhar, God bless her heart, swung herself onto the stretcher and leaned her upper body on the man’s chest, pumping down hard with both hands. The blonde nurse hooked him up to an EKG. Every few seconds, a feeble little beep was audible. Nothing more than that.

“Not going to make it,” Wilbur said again, this time quietly, so as to not draw the ire of the others. But Hastings heard him and said:

“Want to bet?”

Wilbur nodded.

“Twenty quid?” he asked.

“Shut up, you two,” snapped Barlow. Then, to Chandrasekhar, he said: “Keep it up!” Chandrasekhar was pumping valiantly, and at that moment, Wilbur thought he heard the sound of a rib breaking. He grinned. Someone in medical school had told him once that it’s not a real heart massage if you’re not breaking any ribs.

“Wipe that grin off your face,” Barlow yelled, “and get me the damn defibrillator.”

Wilbur took off, and only a few seconds later came back with the machine, pushing it in front of him. He was panting now. Wilbur turned the defibrillator on. The humming filled the room. More nurses arrived, bringing a crash cart and other equipment.

“What happened?” Barlow asked.

“Police were bringing him in from Yorkshire. Arrested him, I’d wager,” said Chandrasekhar. “Then he started to hallucinate.” She shook her head, then said: “Oddest thing, he kept muttering about vampires.”

“Vampires?” Barlow said with sneer.

The EKG gave another small beep. It wasn’t enough.

“Charge to 120,” Barlow said.

“Yes, sir,” said the blonde nurse, and the humming intensified.

Barlow took the paddles from her and told Chandrasekhar to get off the damn stretcher. “Unless you want to be thrown across the room!” he added.

Chandrasekhar, her forehead now sweaty after the hearty workout, climbed off the stretcher. Everyone took a step back. A few years ago, Wilbur had seen a man still holding on to the patient when the paddles released their charge, and the man had flown five feet or so … 120 joules was a lot of juice.

Barlow put the paddles on the man’s chest and—wham!—released the charge.

The blond man’s body flinched. The EKG gave a sharp beep, followed by a series of short, unsteady bursts.

Not good enough, Wilbur thought. Things were looking up for his twenty quid.

He looked at the EKG. The heartbeat was still erratic.

“Again!” Barlow yelled. “160!”

The machine hummed, then Barlow yelled “clear” and pressed the paddles down. The stretcher was rattling. Again, the man jerked, and again, the EKG responded with a promising but altogether insufficient series of beeps.

Then it went flat.

“It’s not working, we’re losing him,” Barlow said. “Jesus Christ,” he grumbled. “Let’s bring out the big guns. 360!”

“Yes, sir”, said the nurse and turned up the dial to the max: 360, that’s as high as it gets. Any more than that and you’re liable to kill the patient. Not that it would have made much difference in this case.

“Clear!”

Barlow pressed the paddles onto the man’s chest, and the body tensed up, then relaxed.

This time, however, the EKG registered nothing. Nothing at all.

The line was flat. A forlorn flat tone filled the station.

Everyone fell quiet.

Barlow dropped the paddles and pumped the man’s chest, but the result was the same: flatline.

“Come on! Come on!” Barlow grunted, as if the man could hear him.

After two or three minutes of hard work, Barlow gave up. He was wheezing.

Not a man who exercises a lot, Wilbur thought.

“He’s gone,” he said. He should have been happy, he supposed, to be winning his bet, but he wasn’t. It all left a bad taste in his mouth. It always did.

Barlow’s eyes darted about frantically. He was still panting. A patient dying on his watch was, Wilbur knew, something of a personal affront to him.

“Goddamn,” he mumbled. “Goddamn.”

“You’ve done all you could …” Wilbur said.

Barlow nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“Turn the machines off,” he said. He sounded resigned.

“Yes, sir,” said Wilbur.

He flipped a few buttons, and the humming and beeping ceased. An eerie, haunted calm came over them.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Hastings said. “It’s never easy, is it?”

“What?” Barlow said.

“Losing one.”

Barlow shook his head.

“Don’t get sentimental,” he said. He turned to look at Chandrasekhar and said: “What was his name?”

“Sinclair,” she said. “John Sinclair.”

Barlow nodded curtly and looked at his wristwatch.

“Time of death is 9:29 p.m.,” he said. He glanced at the lifeless body of John Sinclair with something like disgust in his eyes, as if the patient had failed to meet his expectations. Then he shook his head and marched off.

“Anybody needs me,” he said, “I’m taking a piss.”

He went into the doctor’s lounge. The slam of the door sounded unusually loud in the room.

“Rest in peace, Mr. Sinclair,” said Assunta Chandrasekhar and pulled up the white sheet over the dead man’s face.

***

Longford-on-the-Thames, the Benedict Estate. 9:36 p.m.

It was starting to rain again.

Lightning crackled across the sky, briefly illuminating a black van that rumbled along a muddy road toward the main gate of the Benedict Estate.

The Benedict Estate. A large, old mansion, guarded by private security and modern surveillance cameras. The driver approached the gate and leaned out of her window. She had a crude face, and her dark eyes were gleaming. She pressed a button on the callbox.

After a moment, a metallic, distorted voice was heard.

“Yeah?” said Mr. Avery over the intercom, in his thick cockney accent.

“It’s me,” said the woman. “Agnes. I’ve got something. I need to see him.”

“Right-o,” said Avery. “He’s upstairs. With her.” He spat out the last word with something that resembled disgust. Or fear.

There was an electronic beep, and the electronic gate slowly swung open.

The van drove onto the vast grounds of the Benedict Estate. The place resembled something out of a dark fairy tale. A flash of lightning illuminated twisted turrets and the leering faces of stone gargoyles.

The rain was coming down hard now, beating mercilessly against the tall, narrow windows.

Behind one of those windows, the owner of the mansion, Viktor Benedict, was sitting on the edge of the bed, by the side of his pregnant wife. He was patiently trying to get her to eat her porridge.

He held the spoon up to her mouth, but her lips were steadfastly closed, like a petulant child. Olivia Benedict was not actually petulant. It simply hurt too much to eat.

“Come on, my dear,” cooed her husband. “Just one more spoon. The porridge will do you good …”

Viktor Benedict knew very well that a pregnant woman should be eating, to keep her strength up.

“Come, come, come …” he said.

He was a corpulent man, yet his movements were gentle, his features almost angelic.

“No …” said Olivia and ground her teeth together against a new wave of pain rushing through her body. She moaned. “It hurts …”

“I know, my darling,” said her husband, who, in truth, had no inkling what she was going through. It wasn’t him who was pregnant.

Her body suddenly spasmed. She arched her back, and for a brief moment her agony resembled something like perfect ecstasy. Viktor flinched back—he had always been the sensitive type—and dropped the bowl. With a dull thud it fell onto the carpet, spilling the porridge. Viktor looked wistfully at the stain, adding up in his mind how much it would cost to get the carpet cleaned properly. Then he forced a smile onto his cherubic lips.

“Oh dear!” he said with only a tinge of reproach in his voice. “Now look what you’ve done!”

Olivia Benedict was in her mid-fifties, a few years older than her husband. She was lying in a luxurious four-poster bed in the master bedroom. In fact, she was tied to it. Her husband was afraid she might try to do something to harm the child inside her. The bulge of her pregnant belly didn’t look normal, not at all. It was swollen beyond any comprehension.

“It hurts so much …” she said.

Viktor put his index finger on her quivering lips.

“Shhh …” he whispered. “My dear. It will all be over soon …”

He put his hand on his wife’s massive belly.

“I can feel our little girl …” he said. “Our little darling.”

As Olivia stared at her husband, something other than pain flashed in her eyes: a deep, primal fear. There was a shadow over her, as if she was terrified of whatever it was that was growing inside her.

“We should have never done it!” she whispered.

Viktor shook his head, the way he always did in board meetings. He was used to this quashing any dissent. This time, it didn’t.

“Don’t say that, dearest …” he whispered. It was more than a suggestion. It was a command. But Olivia’s thin hand reached for his, and she said: “We should have never called him … everything he says is a lie.”

Viktor smiled again, and patted her hand absentmindedly.

“It’s too late now,” he said. “We’re going to have a beautiful girl … our Elizabeth.”

The tender moment between husband and wife was interrupted by an insistent knocking on the heavy wooden door. Viktor sighed impatiently, then said: “Do come in.”

The door opened.

Mr. Avery poked his head in. Avery was security chief at the estate, a tall, skinny and unkempt man with a narrow, horse-like face and unwashed hair. A repellent creature, Viktor thought, but he had his uses, including absolute, unquestioning loyalty.

“Mr. Benedict?” Avery said. “Agnes is here. She’s got something for you.”

Viktor perked up “Is that so?” He turned to Olivia and said: “One moment, please, my sweet flower. I’ll be back presently.”

He got off the bed with a grunt, then went to the door.

He made sure to close it carefully behind him.

Outside, in the dark corridor, stood his servant, Agnes, a tall, bony woman in her sixties. Everything about her was stern. Her eyes were stern, her sense of dress, her gray hair, which she kept in a tight bun.

“Mr. Benedict …” she said with an unfortunate attempt at a curtsey.

“You’ve interrupted us,” said Viktor with a measure of iciness in his voice.

“My apologies,” she replied with equal coldness.

Viktor Benedict didn’t much like his servant Agnes. The feeling was mutual. She had worked for his father before him … the man who first built the Benedict beauty empire. Viktor had, in a way, inherited her, much like he had inherited this house and everything else from his father. And oh, how he had hated his father, always making him feel so small, so insignificant. All Papa had ever wanted was a grandchild … an heir. And Viktor Benedict, it seemed, had not been man enough to deliver on that front.

“What have you got for me, Agnes?”

“A boy and a girl,” she said. “Found them snooping around the family crypt. They ran straight into my trap.”

“How delightful!” Viktor Benedict said.

***

The room where Laura and Jimmy were imprisoned was brightly painted and filled with toys. Dolls, teddy bears, everything a child could possibly want. As they sat staring at their surroundings, lightning cut across the sky outside. The night sky lit up, ever so briefly, and the dolls and clown faces seemed, for a moment, demonically distorted.

The door opened. Viktor Benedict quietly entered the room. For a man of his size, he had always been able to move about with an astonishing degree of agility. The children didn’t hear him.

“Do you like it?” he said.

Laura gasped and turned around. Fear was naked in her eyes. Viktor Benedict smiled at her.

“Don’t be scared now,” he said in a tone of voice that was meant to be soothing. “Everything is going to be all right. This is my daughter’s room.”

“You have a daughter?” Laura asked. Somehow, the idea that there might be other children was comforting.

Viktor Benedict gave a small, humorless laugh.

“Not yet,” he said.

There followed an uncomfortable silence. Benedict seemed to sense their fear. He grinned broadly, thinking it would put them at ease. It didn’t. He conveyed as much calm and comfort as a grinning toad. He moved over to the toys. He picked up a plush animal of some sort.

“Oh!” he exclaimed with exaggerated joy. “Here, look at this little thing. Cute, isn’t it?”

He pressed against the plush toy, and it dutifully squeaked a few times. The sounds quickly died off in the gloomy silence of the room.

Benedict looked at the toy with puzzlement.

“I think it’s a rat,” he said.

“A hedgehog,” said Jimmy, correcting him.

Again, Benedict forced himself to smile.

“A hedgehog, of course,” he said indulgently. “What a bright little boy you are.”

Laura stepped closer to Benedict.

“We want to go home,” she said insistently. “Right now.”

Benedict cleared his throat. That part, he felt, was awkward. “Ah,” he stammered. “You see … that’s a bit of a problem.”

“Just let us go!” said Laura. “I promise, we won’t tell anyone what happened.”

“Please!” her brother added.

Benedict shook his head.

“I’m afraid you’re still needed,” he said.

“Needed?” Laura asked. “For what?”

“A sacrifice,” said Agnes as she entered the room. Her voice was flat and toneless, but her eyes had an odd shine to them.

Laura looked at her, aghast.

“What?”

Benedict grinned and waved his arms around, trying to somehow dispel the tension. “Oh, Agnes, hush!” he said. Then he turned to Laura and Jimmy. “Don’t listen to her, that old biddy.”

He looked at Jimmy’s bandaged ankle. The boy was holding himself awkwardly, his left arm leaning against the back of a tall chair. He held his hurt leg up a few inches, so that it wasn’t touching the ground.

“How’s your ankle?” Benedict asked.

“It hurts,” Jimmy said. “I think it’s broken.”

“Hm. Let me see.”

Viktor Benedict laboriously got down on his knees. The ankle in question was now right in front of him, but what to do? He was no doctor. He helplessly poked at it with his finger. The boy screamed and flinched away from him.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” said Benedict. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right.” He looked around helplessly, then took the boy by the elbow and gently guided him to a chair.

“Here …” he said. “Sit down … rest your foot.”

Jimmy hobbled along, then sank into the chair. His face registered a measure of relief.

“I’ll make sure you get some food,” said Benedict and clapped his hands together energetically. “And then we’ll see to your ankle. How does that sound?”

“We don’t want any food,” said Laura decisively. Viktor Benedict shot her an annoyed glance. His daughter would never act like that. He didn’t much care for girls like her. She probably always invented her own rules when she was playing with others. Bossy, that’s what she was.

“We just want to go home,” said Laura. “Right now! Our mother is going to be so worried.”

Benedict stood frozen and grinned at her. Then he slowly shook his head.

“I will call your mother and tell her you’re here,” he said, and he sounded perfectly reasonable. “She can pick you up. Let me do that right now!”

He turned on his heel and waved at Agnes.

“Now, please, Agnes,” he said.

“Of course,” said the bony woman.

They both marched out. Viktor Benedict closed the door behind him and locked it. The encounter had made him profoundly uncomfortable. He really didn’t like lying to people, especially children. They were so trusting.

***

Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. 9:40 p.m.

Wilbur and Hastings pushed John Sinclair’s corpse into the elevator. He was still lying on the stretcher that he died on. He was covered with a white sheet.

Once the stretcher was inside, Hastings and Wilbur stepped into the elevator as well. Hastings pressed a button.

They rode in silence to the basement, where the bodies were stored.

After a few seconds, the elevator doors opened with a hiss, and they wheeled the stretcher along the white-tiled corridor.

“Pity,” Wilbur said. “So young.”

Hastings clicked his tongue disapprovingly. He was in rather a bad mood, on account of losing twenty pounds to Wilbur, the imbecile.

Neither of them noticed the small, fitful movements under the white sheet.

Something was twitching.

Then, out of nowhere, a shrill scream of pain pierced the air.

Wilbur took an involuntary step back, nearly tripping over his feet. He stared at the stretcher. His face was white.

“My God …” he whispered.

“I don’t believe this,” said Hastings.

The body on the stretcher was moving. Clumsily at first, then with increasing strength.

The hands groped around and tore off the sheet.

John Sinclair, eyes open, lifted himself up. His mouth was open, gaping in shock. His eyes darted around wildly, then found the two emergency room technicians.

His mouth closed, then opened again.

It was, Wilbur thought, as if he was trying to form words.

And then he—or it—spoke. The voice was dark and distorted. It sounded like nothing human.

Sinclair started to struggle. He tried to get off the stretcher. Hastings, his eyes nervous, stepped closer and tried to hold him down. He didn’t know what else to do. There was no protocol for this. But it seemed reasonable to him that dead men shouldn’t be getting up.

He waved at Wilbur to help him. Wilbur stood frozen with horror.

“His eyes!” he said. “Oh God, have you seen his eyes?”

Hastings nodded. Of course he had. How could anyone miss that? They were black. Completely black.

The thing that had once been John Sinclair was struggling harder now, gaining in strength.

“Help me hold him,” Hastings pleaded.

“I’m trying!” said Wilbur as he rushed to Hasting’s side, but he came too late.

Sinclair jerked, and Hastings lost his grip.

“I can’t hold him …” he said.

Suddenly, the creature sprung from the stretcher, knocking Wilbur down.

The dead man started whispering in a language that neither of them understood. It sounded, Wilbur thought, like insects buzzing.

“Nurse! Over here! I need a tranquilizer! Now!” said Hastings loudly.

They heard footsteps, then a nurse came around the corner with a syringe.

“Give it to me!”

Hastings pressed the needle against the man’s arm. The nurse held his other arm. The patient was still struggling. He didn’t move like a normal person, Wilbur thought.

The stretcher was rattling, and the sounds echoed eerily through the hospital corridor.

“Hold him tight … There!”

As the needle entered his flesh, Sinclair screamed. The scream was louder than anything Wilbur had ever heard before. He put his hands over his ears, but that didn’t block it. Even years later, he would hear that scream in his nightmares.

***

Longford-on-the-Thames, the Benedict Estate. 10:12 p.m.

The rain was still pounding against the window, but inside the children’s playroom, it was dry and warm. A fire was crackling in the fireplace. An old grandfather clock was ticking.

Jimmy and Laura Cody were sitting at a large table that had been set up especially for them, their backs straight, like their mother had always taught them.

In the corner, an old fashioned gramophone was playing a soothing piece of classical music … except that neither Laura nor Jimmy felt especially soothed. At least, if nothing else, Jimmy was displaying a healthy appetite.

“Do you like it?” Benedict asked. He was sitting at the other end of the table, watching him eat like a snake watches its prey.

“Yes, Sir,” said Jimmy, with his mouth full.

His sister elbowed him.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said.

Jimmy shot her a glance.