Sarah England - Baba Lenka - Pure Occult Horror

Thankfully she spared me the grunting loveless sex, and at that point I woke up. Stars glittered through the skylight, and it took a moment to think where I was. My stomach was aching a little. And despite the unnaturally cold air, sweat coated my face and chest.

I’m going to get ill again…

I popped a paracetamol to numb the worst of the headache, and immediately drifted back into the same dream. The man with the comical moustache was now lying naked and breathless beside her.

“Fucking English,” he said, ringing the bell for a servant. “They side with France and Russia. We will fight and we will win – we have two entire empires against Russia and France.”

She was smiling a false, bright smile that did not reach her heart. “And you will win, my love.”

Snatching the bottle of champagne brought in by a servant, he popped the cork. “To Prussia!”

“To Prussia!”

The image then shot to black, and a deep bass voice resounded in my head, repeating the words ‘All roads lead to the Black Sun’ over and over and over. All roads lead to the Black Sun, all roads lead to the Black Sun, all roads…

Those two days and nights of bliss were over. And after the first thumbtack sting of that new sore when I woke up, a host of others rapidly followed. It looked like smallpox. I lay back and closed my eyes. Opened them again, and there were more. This time on my hands.

Fuck! It was impossible to cover these. I had to go to work. Oh my God… Running over to the small sink in the corner of my room, I stared into the mirror. Shit – there was even one on my face! A huge fuchsia spot shaped like a spider was spreading across one cheek.

Fortunately, the uniform covered my arms, and I got to the nursing home without anything awry being noticed. What the hell was I going to do? I mean, what? What? The sister would notice for sure.

Give us work, give us work…

I had done. So hexing my grandad was not enough?

Give us work … more, more… always more… this will never stop… never!

I was scared, okay? Scared and desperate. And that fear triggered a primeval reaction that suppressed all rational thoughts, exactly as it had the day when at just seven years old, I’d stabbed another child with a compass. Only this time, it would be far more horrific than a compass stab.

Once you’ve crossed that line, it will become easier.

In the side ward at the very end of the corridor lay an elderly lady who weighed less than a small child. Of bird-fragile bones, with a mouth that gaped open in a toothless cavern, she was rasping her last.

That morning, I stood at the door.

There was no one else around.

Static buzzed in my ears, my footsteps hollow, heartbeat rapid as I walked into that room stealthy as a cat.

Immediately her eyes, half blind with cataracts, flicked open.

An icy wind blew in, and a shadow loomed over the far wall above her bed, larger than me, wing-shaped and raven black

Her tiny claw hands began to scrabble out from underneath the bedclothes, scratching helplessly in the air.

Oh, she’s looking for the buzzer.

A hand that looked like mine but seemed far away, picked it up and placed it out of reach, on top of the bedside cabinet.

My conscience then disconnected. And the deed happened fast.

From the nearby armchair by the window, Eva Hart took a discarded pillow, turned, then slammed it over her face and held it down hard, snuffing out the light of her life.

After a minute, maybe less, the tiny hands stopped flapping frantically. The temperature climbed back to normal. And the dark shadow on the far wall slipped away.

Every single symptom vanished. Immediately. And it wasn’t only the illness that had gone, but good health was now in abundance – I mean, I was practically bouncing! And despite the enormity of what I’d done, a filament of excitement fizzed inside, a sense that crossing the line had been a test passed, and would now be rewarded. I was a step closer. But to what? Because someone was definitely coming; they were on their way. The air practically sparked.

As promised, I met Nicky the following evening. I had this feeling, an overwhelming conviction, that with every passing hour the person who would take me to the next level drew closer. My hands shook while applying mascara, the intensity of anticipation so great I had to break off, turn up the radio and dance away the surplus energy. It wasn’t until sweat was pouring off that the overload abated, slightly, enough to resume getting ready.

We’d decided to go to a pub nearby. It had a beer garden out the back, and that summer night it was packed out. We didn’t know what to order, but Nicky said she’d heard lager and black was good, so we got a pint each of that, and before we knew it, we were laughing at things that weren’t funny and the multicoloured lanterns were zooming in and out of focus. She had on a white crochet top with shorts, and I was in a sleeveless denim dress. Both of us had makeup on, and while Nicky’s hair was in tight braids, mine was cut in layers that flicked out in flames around my face.

“Don’t look now, but there’s a lad staring at you,” she said.

I looked. Of course I looked. And she was right. Nor did he shy away when our eyes met. Instead, he held my gaze with laser intensity.

It didn’t register fully who he was until later because his frame was silhouetted against the lights of the pub, but I felt riding shockwaves of attraction, and my insides flipped. Why me? There were grown women in low-cut evening dresses, and tiny hot pants. And there I was in a Chelsea Girl denim dress and espadrilles – a kid, really, with Farrah Fawcett hair and black-cherry nail varnish.

Nicky was spluttering with giggles. Luckily, Ma Dixon had agreed she could stay with me that night, seeing as how Helen was a social worker and had set a ten o’clock curfew. It was such a happy night, my last one.

“Well, I’m glad you’re all right, anyhow,” she said. “I was so worried about you, especially when I heard about your grandad. I know he wasn’t nice to you, but even so… what a way to go!”

Go? So he died? Fuck me!

I’m not joking, this terrible thing happened then. A volcanic eruption of laughter nearly shrieked out. I had to keep my eyes down, focusing hard on blades of grass while desperately trying to think of something other than Earl Hart’s withered black cock, of how he had passed away from gangrene of the cock and balls… I wondered what they’d put on the death certificate. In the end, I couldn’t contain it any longer, and the mirth came spurting up in a fountain. It sprayed from my eyes, spluttered from the corners of my mouth and contorted my face.

Nicky shot around the table, thinking it was grief. She put her arms around me and muttered soothing things while my entire body shook with uncontrollable hilarity. By the time she pulled away, I was dabbing at my eyes and asking if my mascara had smudged.

“No, you look fine.” She went back to her seat, leaned across and squeezed my hand. “Are you okay?”

I nodded. God, yes. I was on fire. I felt as if I could conquer the world, like I’d overdosed on fly agaric or LSD. Not only that, but it was as if a channel of secret knowledge had opened up. I could have gone around that pub garden and told each person exactly who they were and what they were thinking. Their thoughts transmitted directly into my head, the collective chatter suddenly chaotic and massively overwhelming. Some had towering shadows around them, dark energy that sapped their light and inserted malicious thoughts… Put a shot in her drink… Say she was brave to wear a dress like that…