Voice on the Wing

7: Of the Fae

Once over the threshold, we waited, listening. The voices were crawling into my head through my ears. I could feel them clawing at me as they tried to force me to move. Don't stop! Don't stop! Don't stop! I went to step forward but Dave stopped me. He shook his head. I shook mine in return, indicating we couldn't just stand there. His head shook again, slower this time, then he nodded.

We walked from the hall into the lounge to the right. The door was open. It always was. No matter how many times Dad said it should be closed to keep the heat in - we weren't born in a barn - the door remained open. He even threatened to take it off its hinges once. Mum told him that was fine, then he'd be able to stop moaning about closing it.

The hard wood floor I was used to had been replaced by a thick, light carpet. Mum always wanted one. She thought cream carpets were the height of class and could never have one with a child. Well, she had her wish. At least it cushioned our footsteps.

D.C. Philips reached under his jacket. A gun? No, a baton. in one hand and a small spray bottle in the other. That would be so useful against whatever might be ripping my parents apart. My stomach felt cold. My legs were suddenly leaden. The voices were quieter, still guiding but with a sense of sad respect. Respect for what? And why sad? I gulped, the sound loud in the quiet of the room. I was sure no-one else could have heard it, but my heart skipped nonetheless.

From the lounge, you could access the kitchen diner and utility room. If you stood over by the television, you could see through each room. A large, chrome refrigerator reflected the blindspot behind the door. The whole area was empty. I pointed up.

The bedrooms.

I was sure the dread of my five year old self having to climb the stairs to bed, knowing the beasts which spoke to me through the night felt greater now than it had then. In my mind, I had been terrified and took an age to reach the top. At the time, it was probably just the nerves of an uneasy child who knew sleep would be evasive. Now, however, I could feel that sense of dread building with each step. I was a child once more. I was going to a darkened room, the light banished by the blackout blind, and I was going to be haunted by ghostly voices. With my policeman in front, I took each step. I felt as if I might split in two, as the need to move faster brawled with the fear of my childhood revisited. One pushing me ahead and the other trying to drag me back.

A sound. A low growl that vibrated in my shoes and if the floor itself was grumbling. A strange wet noise like paint being slapped on a wall.

Red paint.

Dave held his hand up, telling me to wait where I was. No! If that was my parents up there, I needed to go. I had to help them! He shook his head and grabbed my shoulder.

Stay here! he mouthed.

Fine! I nodded and took a step back. My breath was ragged. My voices were suddenly insane, an insanity of sound assaulting me. Go! Go! Go! But I couldn't. I had to stay. I had to wait and wonder and hope, however futile that might be.

Dave handed me his radio. I understood - if anything happens, run and call for help. He pointed to the on switch, then made a stay gesture again. I gritted my teeth and raised my eyebrows. I didn't like it, but I'd comply.

He crept up the remaining stairs. I watched him. My mouth was dry. My hands were sweating. My nose itched but I daren't move to scratch it. Within seconds, he had disappeared from sight onto the landing.

I listened intently for any sign of what might be happening. I tried to hear beyond the voices, attempting to pull sounds in from through their discord. I couldn't. The outside world, aurally, had ceased to exist. I closed my eyes, trying to find my safe place. I could see it, just beyond my reach. I was mentally pushing back against their onslaught but they were stronger. A crash from above, the front bedroom, brought my attempts to an abrupt halt. I looked up, my body dropping into an instinctive, and useless against what might come, crouch. My voices had gone suddenly silent allowing the sounds of the house to rush in.

A scuffle and a thud. The ticking of the large clock on the mantelpiece of the lounge. A lamp breaking as it fell off the bedside table. The boiler in the kitchen springing to life as the timed central heating came on. A cry of intense pain from Dave and an inhuman roar which seemed to ball up fury and frustration and hurl it at my chest.

I stumbled back, grabbing the banister to stop my fall. The sounds from the bedroom ceased and I took a tentative step up. D.C. Philips stopped me taking any more as he was thrown over the short top rail, landing next to me. His eyes were closed and his nose seeped blood. I didn't, at first, notice the spreading circle of red soaking through his shirt from his stomach. As I reached forward, the animalistic shriek from the bedroom shook the house and my hands. Dave's eyes snapped open and he stared at me.

He coughed, blood spurting forth. I felt some land on my cheek.

"RUN!"

He coughed again, the sound gurgling through the liquid filling his throat.

I paused, unsure of my next move. My inaction seemed to prompt the opposite from whatever was upstairs. I heard the loud splinter of wood and the shower of door frame was followed by the darkening of the stairway. I looked up, dropping my arm from where I'd raised it to protect myself from the debris. At first, I couldn't see clearly. A combination of the absence of light and my brain not able to comprehend what I was seeing served to blur the sight before me.

Then my vision cleared. Then I saw. Then my nightmares became real.

One word chased the reason from my mind.

WOLF!

It was, must have been, a wolf, but I had never seen one so big. I'd never seen one standing upright and the look in its eyes showed a keen intelligence. And a hunger beyond the desire for a simple meal. What was it? Werewolf? No, don't be stupid. And I was certainly no Little Red Riding Hood. Red was so not my colour. Rambling. I was rambling. The creature watched me for a moment and I had the feeling it was waiting for something. Apart from trying to force my feet to move so I could follow D.C. Philips' advice, I had no moves or 'somethings' to make. At the thought of the policeman, I dared to break eye contact with the huge, black-furred brute. Dave was staring up, past me. His dead eyes - for I assumed they were dead, never having seen a corpse before - pale. I looked back up and gasped as I saw the wolf had somehow halved the distance between us. In one claw, it gripped a pair of dropping pink fluffed wings which seemed so completely out of place, it was almost naturally there. The wolf raised its other... hand... and pointed one talon at me. It opened its maw and I expected a growl to emanate between the fangs.

Instead, I heard whispers. Not my voices, but close enough for there to be some sort of kinship.

It descended another step, the whispers becoming louder. I felt myself swaying and tried to reach for the banister. My hand missed and dropped heavily to my side. I tried to blink but my eyes wouldn't respond. I tried to speak but my mouth refused to move. The wolf's mouth opened wider and I felt myself being swallowed by the night which swirled at the back of its throat. I was becoming drowsy. Dizzy.

Suddenly, its maw snapped shut and it lunged at me. In the same instant, the voices - my voices - became louder than I'd ever heard them and I was surrounded by light. Not a single, bright glow, but hundreds of tiny dots emanating a brilliance which, if I'd still had control of my body, I'd have covered my eyes from. As the wolf surged forward, I was lifted and dragged back. I fell backwards, carried by the lights. The front door was closed and we smashed through it.

The wolf howled and I heard the windows of the house shatter. It bounded down the stairs but it was too late. The lights had lifted me up high, out of its reach and were pulling me along. We rose above the roof and, as we passed the bedroom window, I couldn't help but see inside, through the lights, somehow picking out details I didn't want to see. Mum and dad. Torn. Bent in ways limbs were not meant to bend. I couldn't see their faces, but I guessed they were missing their eyes. I could see their stomachs...

I turned my head. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could ever have done. I felt as if my whole life - the voices, the murders, the childhood night terrors - was leading up to this point. It was as if I was being prepared or pushed along a certain path. All roads would lead to this point. My Rome was the massacre of my parents by... What?

wolfwolfwolfwolf