John Connolly - The Gates

Over the years, other bushes had been added to the garden. Mr. Mayer had even begun hybridizing, creating strange new flowers of his own. Now it was the experts who came to Mr. Mayer, and he would make them mugs of strong tea and they would spend hours in the garden, in all weathers, examining the rosebushes. Mr. Mayer was generous with both his expertise and the flowers themselves, and rarely did a visitor leave the garden without a cutting from one of the roses in his hand. Mr. Mayer would watch them go, happy in the knowledge that the sisters and brothers of his roses would soon flourish in strange new gardens.

Only one bush was not permitted to be touched, and that was the original one that Mr. Mayer had found in the garden. Now big and strong, its flowers were the brightest and prettiest in the beds. It was Mr. Mayer’s pride and joy. If he could have taken it to bed with him each night to keep it warm in winter, then he would have, even if it meant being pricked occasionally by its thorns. That was how much Mr. Mayer loved the rosebush.

Now there were shapes moving through the beds. It was foggy out, so Mrs. Mayer could not discern precise forms, but they looked big. Teenage trick-or-treaters, she thought,pretending to be monsters. Silly sods. Her husband would have their hides.

“Barry!” she shouted. “Bar-eeeeee!”

Oooh, he’d teach them a lesson, make no mistake about that.

Upstairs the Mayers’ son, Christopher, was putting together a model aircraft at the desk by his bedroom window. Actually, he was sort of putting it together. He had been distracted by a message from his sister on his cell phone. It had been a bit garbled, but a few words had stood out. Those words had been “monsters,” “Hell,” “demonic horde,” and “warn Mum and Dad.”

Christopher had not, of course, warned his mum and dad. He might have been younger than his sister, but he wasn’t stupid. If he started babbling about demons and Hell to his dad, he’d be locked up, or at the very least given a sound telling off. Still, Maria had sounded very serious about it all. If it was a joke, she’d clearly been doing her best to convince her brother otherwise.

He was mulling over all this, and wondering how he was going to separate two parts of a tank that had accidentally stuck to each other, when he caught sight of the figures in the rose garden. Christopher’s eyesight was very keen and, aided by a brief break in the fog, he had a different impression from his mum of the beings currently trampling his father’s beloved bushes. They weren’t trick-or-treaters, not unless trick-or-treaters had somehow found a way to grow seven feet tall, add spectacular horns to their heads, and contrive to make their eyes glow a deep, disturbing red.

“Crikey,” he said aloud. He knew that Maria hadn’t been lying. Maria never lied.

It was the demonic horde. There were really were demons here.

“Bar -eeeeeeeeeeeee!” Mrs. Mayer called for the third time, just as her son burst into the kitchen.

“Mum!” he said. “It’s-”

“Not now, Christopher,” said Mrs. Mayer. “There are people trampling around in your dad’s rose garden.” She walked to the end of the stairs and shouted, “Barry! I’m talking to you.”

“What is it?” came an irritated voice from upstairs. “I’m in the bathroom.”

“There’s someone in your rose garden.”

“I said-”

“It’s not people, Mum,” Christopher interrupted. “It’s things. It’s the demonic horde.”

“The what?”

“The demonic horde.”

“Oh.”

She walked to the kitchen door. “Barry! Christopher says the demonic horde are in your rose garden. They must be a band or something.”

“What? In my rose garden?”

They heard scuffling from above, and a toilet flushing. Seconds later, Mr. Mayer appeared at the top of the stairs, fixing the belt on his trousers.

“I hope you washed your hands,” said Mrs. Mayer.

“Washed my hands?” said Mr. Mayer. “I know what I’ll do with my hands.”

Christopher’s dad was a big man who had boxed at the amateur level until he started being knocked down too often for his liking. He now worked for the telephone company, and Christopher and his mum had once passed in the car while his father and another man who was nearly as big were together lifting wooden telephone poles, unaided by machinery. It was one of the most impressive sights Christopher had ever seen.

Unfortunately, while Mr. Mayer might have been the equal of most men, and was still pretty good with his fists, Christopher didn’t believe that he was fully aware of the threat currently making its way toward the house from the direction of the rose garden.

“Dad,” he said. “I think you should hang on for a moment.”

“Hang on?” said his father incredulously. “Hang on? There are roses at stake, son. Nobody, and I mean nobody, messes with my roses.”

“That’s just it,” said Christopher, his frustration growing. Didn’t anyone in this family listen? “It’s not a ‘body,’ it’s a-”

But it was too late. His dad had flung open the back door, and was preparing to unleash the full force of his rage upon the unfortunates who had trespassed on the most sacred patch of his little empire. His face was bright red, and his mouth was open, but no sound was coming out. Instead, he was staring at the enormous demon standing five feet away from him. It looked like a hairy black yak that had managed to stand up on its hind legs and modify its hooves with hooked claws. Along the way it had clearly decided that chewing grass was infinitely less fun than chewing something much meatier, so its blunt vegetarian molars had been replaced with sharp, white, tearing teeth. Its eyes were bright red, and smoke was pouring from its nostrils. It drew back its lips from its teeth and growled at Mr. Mayer.

“Right,” said Mr. Mayer. “Well, we’ll say no more about it, then.”

He closed the door and said, in a very small voice, “Run.”

“Sorry, Barry?” said Mrs. Mayer, whose view of what lay on the other side of the door had been blocked by her husband, and who was still under the impression that something needed to be done about the trick-or-treaters in their back garden.

“Run,” said Mr. Mayer, in a slightly louder voice, then: “RUN!”

A heavy body hit the back door very hard, rattling it in its frame. Mr. Mayer grabbed his wife with one hand, his son with the other, and dragged them into the hallway just as the door burst from its hinges and landed on the kitchen floor. Mrs. Mayer looked over her shoulder and screamed, but her scream was drowned out by a bellowing from behind them.

“It’s okay, love,” said Mr. Mayer, slamming the kitchen door, although he wasn’t entirely sure how much good that would do, given what had just happened to the back door. “Don’t be frightened.” He didn’t know why he was telling his wife not to be frightened, as there seemed a perfectly good reason to be very frightened, but that was what one did at times like this.

“Frightened?” said Mrs. Mayer, yanking herself free from her husband’s grasp and storming into the living room. “I’m not frightened. That’s a new kitchen, that is. I’m not just going to stand by while some bull thing destroys it.”

She moved with determination to the fireplace and picked up a poker.

“Mum,” said Christopher. “It’s a demon. I don’t think a poker will hurt it.”

“It will where I’m going to put it,” said Mrs. Mayer.

Mr. Mayer looked at Christopher, and shrugged.

“You have to stop her, Dad,” said Christopher.

“I think I’d rather face the demon,” said Mr. Mayer as his wife pushed past him. ‘You know your mum when she has her mind set on something.”