Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller
ENTER THE DEAD
by
MARK WHITE
Text Copyright © 2015 Mark White
All Rights Reserved
Table Of Contents
PROLOGUE
PART 1: SIGNS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
PART TWO: ENTER THE DEAD
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
PART 3: THE EVIL WITHIN
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
November 19th, 1984.
The boy opened his eyes and peered into the darkness of the room, lying deathly still to avoid disturbing whatever might be lurking in there with him. Initially there was only a black oblivion, a sense of being trapped in the depths of a windowless pit. Slowly, he withdrew his hands from beneath the stifling blankets and reached out, feeling for anything that might reassure him that he was in a safe place and not some horrific torture chamber or vile monster’s lair. Breathing silently, he forced his eight year old imagination back into its box. Now was not the time to inject life into the pages of the illustrated stories of werewolves and witches that he liked to read before lights out; stories that thrilled and scared him and often prevented him from falling asleep, until eventually his eyelids were so heavy they were no longer able to take the strain.
He soon realised that he was lying in his own bed; his eyes gradually adapting to the surrounding darkness, distinguishing the familiar outlines of the Superman and Star Wars posters covering the walls; boys’ posters that vied for precious space with his sister’s stomach-churning images of doe-eyed princesses and waiflike fairies.
Growing more confident, he sat up and afforded himself the luxury of breathing normally, reaching under his bed for the switch to his nightlight. His father didn’t like him using the light, believing that at eight years old his son should be ‘man enough’ to accept that there was no such thing as the bogeyman in the closet. Besides, it cost money to burn a bulb through the night, and money was something the Railton family had precious little of. Right at that moment, however, the boy couldn’t care less about the economics. He wanted the reassurance of light, and fast.
As he groped around for the switch, he noticed that the bedroom door was wide open, which was strange as both he and his sister preferred it shut. At first this didn’t overly concern him. It was only when he pressed the light-switch and nothing happened that he began to worry.
‘Lucy,’ he whispered, flicking the switch back and forth as if it might suddenly change its mind, conscious of his sleeping parents along the hall. He would rather confront a flesh eating zombie from one of his comic books than risk waking his father.
‘Lucy? Are you awake?’
He stared at the bottom of the bunk-bed above him, willing a response from his little sister. When none was forthcoming, he raised his hand and prodded the base of her mattress through a gap in the slats, pushing it up to disturb her sleep. Usually he did this merely to annoy her, but on this occasion his motive was quite different. He didn’t want to be alone. He needed someone to talk to. Unfortunately for him, the mattress lifted up all too easily. His sister’s bed was empty.
‘Shit,’ he said, unsure as to his next move. Like all brothers and sisters they were prone to the occasional fight, but they were as thick as thieves, having already suffered enough pain and misery in their few short years to last a lifetime. They looked out for each other, defended each other, lied for each other. Theirs was the kind of relationship founded on the mutual need for self-protection…the strongest kind of all. As cramped as it was, their room was their sanctuary, and by closing the door they could at least pretend that the outside world - the real world - was just a twisted figment of their imaginations. The door had no business being open. Especially at night.
Without warning, the hallway light came on, followed immediately by the sound of footsteps tearing along the hallway towards the top of the stairs. There was the briefest of pauses, and then the screaming began; raw, primitive cries that gripped the boy’s throat and pinned him to his bed. He tried to get up but couldn’t, terrified of becoming embroiled in whatever was going on outside his room. Instead, he could only lie still and listen to his mother scream, his survival instinct too powerful to allow him to move.
Then, with all the bitter venom of the possessed, he heard her howl the words:
‘What have you done? What have you done to my baby?’
Against all instinct, the boy leapt from his bed and ran out of the room to join his mother, whom he found slumped on all fours at the top of the stairs. He stopped when he saw her, momentarily uncertain that the person crouched in front of him with bedraggled hair and savage eyes was in fact his mother and not some wild banshee. She looked up at him with a hollow stare, before returning her focus to the bottom of the stairs. He shuffled the final few steps to her with trepidation, the natural curiosity of an eight year old boy outweighing the warning signs flashing inside him.
‘Mummy,’ he said, finally reaching her. ‘Mummy, what’s wrong?’
Little did this young boy realise that his life would never be the same again.
PART 1: SIGNS
CHAPTER ONE
Present day.
‘They’re just words, Sam. Just words.’
‘Easy for you to say. You don’t have to write them.’
‘It’s not my job to write them. I’m not the marketing man.’
‘I think you’ll find my official job title is ‘copywriter’.’
‘Okay, Mr Copywriter, will you please go back to your desk and write some fucking copy?’
‘I’m trying but…well…they’re not just words and you know it.’
‘Look, Sam, what I do know is that if we don’t have a signed-off website by this time next week then we’re all screwed. Chapman’s Design Agency can’t afford to lose the Pilko account. We need the work.’
‘I know that, Tom.’ Sam sighed and gave his boss a weary glance. ‘Is there anything else in the pipeline?’
‘The pipeline’s as dry as a camel’s shit-pipe. Business has never been so quiet; this recession is ki
lling us. We’re not the only ones struggling to stay afloat: half the design firms in London are suffering, and the other half are too proud to admit it. With no new business coming in, we can’t afford to lose the few decent accounts we still have.’
‘I promise you, Tom, we’re not going to lose the Pilko account, okay? When have I ever let you down?’
‘It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I need to see some progress in the next couple of days. More to the point, the Board needs to see some progress. They’re getting tetchy, Sam. They don’t know you as well as I do.’
‘The Board! I should have known this was coming from them. Since when have you given a damn about those guys?’
‘Since they warned me that if things don’t start improving around here they’ll have no other choice than to start looking at ways of cutting their cloth.’
‘You mean redundancies?’
‘You didn’t hear that from me, okay? But yes. They’ve asked me to draw up an options appraisal of cost-cutting measures, and the message was loud and clear: ensure all options are fully explored.’
‘Jeez, I didn’t think it was that bad.’
‘Well, I’m afraid it is that bad. Look, Sam, you’re the most talented writer this firm has ever had, so I’m counting on your best work here. There are jobs on the line if we lose this account. People are relying on you to deliver, do you understand?’
‘No pressure then.’
‘Bucket loads.’
‘Who would have thought that so much would rely on Pilko’s Pork Pies? We live in a strange world.’
‘Sorry to come on so strong.’
‘I suppose it’s nice to feel wanted. Don’t worry, Tom. I’ll get my head into gear.’
‘Good, I appreciate it. How’s Sarah?’
‘Eh?’
‘Sarah. The last time I checked, you were still married to her.’
‘Oh…her. She’s fine. By the way, I forgot to mention that we had a lovely time the other evening. Your Jane’s a fantastic cook.’
‘She has her moments.’
‘You two any closer to sorting things out?’
‘Not really, but we’re working on it. Burning the midnight oil at this fucking place isn’t helping, but what can I do?’
‘You work too hard.’
‘I have to. I need this job, Sam. More to the point, I need the money. Sometimes I wish I’d stayed away from management. The fucking stress…’
‘Lighten up, mate, it’ll work out. It always does in the end. Look, I better get back to my desk. I’ve got a deadline to meet.’
Tom nodded, placing a conciliatory hand on Sam’s shoulder.
‘Music to my ears.’
CHAPTER TWO
Even for ten pm, the train from King’s Cross to West Finchley was surprisingly quiet. Sam Railton rarely came home so late in the day. He was a nine to five man, a bona-fide clock-watcher. He may have been good at his job, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
There was only one other person in his carriage: a young, handsome man of Mediterranean descent. Wary of making eye contact, Sam focussed his attention on the text books in the man’s arms. Medical Ethics, Gray’s Anatomy for Students: books belonging to a future doctor. Sam briefly looked up at the man’s face, envious of his youth and the rewarding life ahead of him. The man returned his stare, causing Sam’s eyes to shift away and nervously focus on the aisle floor between them. Confidence was not one of Sam Railton’s most notable qualities.
The train arrived at West Finchley station and Sam made his way along the platform and up the steps to the high street. The buildings on this street were mostly shops and takeaways, their gaudy neon signs competing with each other for the handful of passers-by who were yet to return home. Sam ignored the signs, pausing only for a second to glance through one of the windows of the ‘Fox and Cub’ bar that marked the start of his street. It was busy inside, inviting laughter spilled out into the night air, beckoning him in like a Siren’s song. He couldn’t, of course he couldn’t, but that didn’t kill the urge. Even now, nearly fifteen years sober, the cravings persisted. Cursing himself for allowing such thoughts to enter his mind, he rounded the corner and hurried down the street to his house, forbidding himself to look back in case the temptation grew too powerful.
Like father, like son…the apple never falls far from the tree.
‘Fuck off,’ he hissed to nobody in particular as he opened the gate. Fortunately for him, only the neighbour’s cat was around to hear him.
The small, terraced house was warm and welcoming as he opened the door and stepped inside, removing his shoes and coat and heading directly to the lounge where he knew he would find Sarah.
‘Anything on?’ he asked, bending over the back of the sofa and kissing her forehead.
‘Not really,’ she replied, taking his hand in hers but keeping her eyes on the TV screen. ‘You’re late back.’
‘I know. Tom gave me a roasting so I thought I better show willing.’
‘Tom? That’s not like him.’
‘He’s majorly stressed out. The head honchos are giving him a hard time, and, well, you know what they say about shit always rolling downhill. I’m not the only one getting it in the neck. The pressure’s really on.’
‘You don’t do pressure.’
‘I know, but I don’t want them to think I don’t care.’
‘But you don’t.’
‘I do, a little bit. Either way, I have to pretend that I do, at least until business picks up again. Anyway, how was your day?’
‘Fine. The usual.’
‘Max okay?’
‘Sound asleep. Have you eaten yet? There’s some chicken casserole in the slow cooker.’
‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry. I think I’ll make some coffee and join you. Can I get you anything?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Won’t be a minute.’ Sam smiled to himself as he left the lounge and walked down the hall to the kitchen. Okay, so he might have a boring job - no, he definitely had a boring job - but he was lucky in other, more important ways. No matter how uninspiring his work might be, at least he had something to look forward to at the end of the day: a small but comfortable home and a beautiful, loving wife. And then there was Max, the apple of his eye. How the hell such an amazing boy could come from someone like him, with all his neurotic hang-ups and annoying habits. The boy was his strength, his raison d’être. He made it all worthwhile.
The aroma of chicken casserole was too inviting to turn down, so even though he wasn’t hungry he helped himself to half a bowlful as he waited for the kettle to boil.
You’re a lucky sonofabitch, Sammy-boy, he thought. There were times, when he was in one of his darker, more contemplative moods, that he almost convinced himself that he didn’t deserve a family, and that one day his luck would inevitably run out and he’d find himself back where he started: alone, paranoid, worthless. No amount of therapy – and Christ had he had some therapy – could prevent the occasional dark thought from sneaking through the barriers he’d fought so hard to build. Most of the time he was fine, but not always. The darkness was still present, would always be present, waiting to smother him and take all the good things back. As he grew older he was becoming more adept at heading the demons off at the pass before they reached him and sunk their teeth in, but he was always on his guard.
Given his past, he always would be.
CHAPTER THREE
He suspected there was something wrong as soon as he saw the young blonde waiting for him in his cubicle. He vaguely recognised her face but couldn’t pin a name to it. She couldn’t have been at the firm long as usually he was good with names, but she was certainly stunning to look at: short, cropped hair and the cutest button nose he’d ever seen. Slim but curvy, sexy but stylish. Hard to guess her age: early to mid-twenties but no older.
Fresh out of college, Sam guessed.
‘Mr Railton?’
‘Yes. Call me Sam. Do I know you?’
He reciprocated the gesture, enjoying the feel of her soft skin. ‘Nice to meet you. I don’t mean to be rude, but have I missed something here? We don’t have anything in the diary, do we?’
‘In the diary?’
‘A meeting, I mean.’
‘Oh, I see. No, I don’t think so.’
‘In that case…as nice as it is to meet you, Gabby, would you mind telling me why you’re here?’
‘Tom sent me. Wait…he told me that he’d spoken to you?’
‘Not to my knowledge. What about?’
‘About me helping you to write the Pilko website. As part of my training.’
‘Training? What training? I’m sorry but you’ve lost me. What’s all this about? Who are you?’
Gabby’s cheeked flushed as she sensed Sam’s irritation. ‘I’m the new intern,’ she explained. ‘I’ve only been here a few days; I’ve recently completed my marketing degree at Bristol Uni and am here to gain some experience. Tom took me on.’
I bet he did, the dirty pervert. That explains your looks. I bet the interview process was interesting - (okay, Miss Williams, how can you convince me that you’re worth taking on? There’s an awful lot of…stiff…competition around) -
‘Sam?’
‘Huh?’
‘I was saying that Tom took me on. Anyway, it’s been fairly quiet around here, so rather than sitting around making cups of coffee and twiddling my thumbs, Tom thought I might be able to help you. He said that you’re busy with the Pilko website and that maybe you could use some help.’
‘Thanks, but I really don’t need any help. I prefer to work alone.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Once again she reddened with embarrassment. Her smile, which earlier had brimmed with youthful exuberance and a willingness-to-please, straightened out as her gaze dropped to the floor.
‘Look,’ Sam said, feeling guilty for his bluntness. ‘It’s nothing personal, nothing to do with you. It’s my fault. I’m just not very good at working with people. Writers rarely are.’