His heart stopped.
It started beating again a second later, but Harry was still unable to catch his breath properly. Looking down at the glowing visage before him, He did not know whether to laugh, scream, or give up and die. It was, at the same time, the most wonderful and most painful thing he could have ever have hoped to have seen. He choked back a sob, tried to find words.
A painful moment without air passed and Harry finally managed to splutter one word. “Son?”
Cowering before him, lit by a rapidly fading glow, was his son, Toby. The boy had not aged in the year-and-a-half since his death and now stared at Harry with deep, soulful eyes.
“Daddy.” Toby’s voice was an echo, seeming to come from the walls rather than him. “Daddy, I’m scared.”
Impossible! An evil trick played by someone even eviler. Yet, somehow, Harry found himself speaking affectionately, “It’s okay now, Toby. Daddy’s here.”
The light around Toby had completely died. He looked like a normal six year old boy now. “You promise you’ll keep me safe?” The question bounced off the walls before it entered Harry’s ears.
Harry nodded. “Yes, son. I won’t let anything hurt you. I’ll keep you safe.” He reached down to Toby, ready to take him up in his arms, but the boy shuffled backwards, out of his grasp.
“No, you won’t,” said Toby. “You can’t keep anyone safe. Daddy was a strong man. He taught me to ride a bike and would buy me chicken nuggets whenever I wanted. You’re not him, you can’t be! He was strong, but you are weak. Weak!”
The final word did not echo; neither did it sound anything like his son. The word had crackled and hissed from Toby’s mouth like hatred personified. Tears fell from Harry’s eyes. His son was dead, but the words of this monster were still true.
I am weak, Harry thought. I failed you, Toby. I let you get hurt, and all I’ve done since is feel sorry for myself.
The apparition of Harry’s dead son was so accurate that it sent a chill through His bones. But it wasn’t perfect. Now, as he looked down at the hateful creature, Harry could see the lack of humanity in its eyes. The dark vortexes swirled with dark knowledge and twisted intentions. It was an abomination.
Harry backed away slowly. “I have to go now, Toby. I think you should go back to wherever you came from.”
The child looked at him with so much malice that Harry realised it was an entity far older than anything he’d ever encountered. It laughed spitefully; the booming sound filled the entire room.
“Running away is all you’re good for, Harry Jobson. You watched your family die and have been running away ever since. You are pathetic, wasting the life that He gave you. Death will be too good for you, but nonetheless it will embrace you soon. Leave this place Harry Jobson and be done with it. Your time is over. Reckoning is upon you.”
Harry didn’t understand any of it, but he knew he had to get away. By taking the form of his son, it was obvious the creature meant to drive Harry insane, plucking at his grief like chords on a guitar. He didn’t take his eyes from the DJ’s booth as he sidled backwards along the dance floor, but it didn’t stop Harry from noticing a new source of light growing behind him.
He spun around.
His heart stopped again.
Thomas Morris stood before Harry, slowly coming into focus as the glow around his image lessened. The man that took everything from Harry was now smiling at him like an old friend.
“Long time no see,” the apparition hissed like a serpent. “You’re looking…older.”
Harry said nothing.
“You really going to ignore me? With the history you and I have, I thought you’d have more to say.”
Harry spat. “I have nothing to say to you!”
The apparition laughed again. “You never were much of a talker. You prefer to let your actions speak for you, am I right?”
Harry shook his head. Whatever this thing was, it was not Thomas, and it could not hurt him. If it could, it would have done so by now, instead of dredging up things from the past. Harry stepped around the image of his enemy and headed for the exit.
Then hit the floor hard.
Thomas loomed over Harry, inhuman eyes filled with the same malignant intent that Toby’s apparition had. “You will pay for your actions, Harry Jobson. Everyone will pay. It is time for…retribution.”
Harry cowered on the floor. The thing had hit him, but how? Ghosts, hallucinations, apparitions: none of these things could manifest physically. Could they? The occult was not one of Harry’s strong points and he decided not to hang around to find out. He leapt to his feet and headed for the door.
Thomas shouted after him, words and tone both wicked with baleful intent. “You will die tonight, Harry Jobson. Death awaits you its cold embrace. Go outside and face it. Do not delay what is already certain.”
“Suck my balls!” Harry shouted back. It was a phrase he had never used before, but it summed up pretty accurately how he felt right now. He reached the door to the rear corridor and glanced back. It was something he knew would slow him down, but something he could not help.
Thomas was gone.
Harry sighed relief, but didn’t relax enough to trust the situation. He needed to get out of there, get to the others and tell them about the things he’d witnessed. He turned back around and faced the corridor.
This time his heart did not stop. He was becoming too used to the horrors of the night. Lying on the floor in front of him was his dead wife, Julie. Her body and face were battered and bruised, bones splintered and askew.
Like a car crash victim.
Harry looked down at the twisted form and listened to his heart scream. The final image of his wife’s dying form had always stayed with him, but never did he have to confront it face-to-face. Not since the night it happened.
Julie turned her head up towards him. Harry heard the broken bones scraping and grating against each other. She was the very personification of agony. “Harry,” she spoke in a condemning whisper. “Why did this happen to me? Why are you not with me?”
Harry shook his head. He didn’t have time for this. This wasn’t his wife. Whatever it was, he owed it no explanations. “Because you’re dead, Julie.” He stepped over the twisted, shattered body and headed into the corridor. “And I’m not.”
Chapter Twenty-TWO
Damien wasn’t sure why he lied; perhaps only because it was funny. Harry had made himself look like a right muppet in front of Steph and Damien couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. She ain’t going to shag you now, sunshine.
Was that why he’d done it? Because of Steph? Did the thought of her and Harry copping off together irritate him? Steph wasn’t like the usual girls Damien boned. She was strong, with a mind of her own, and took control of people in the same way he did. He admired that.
Fact that she’s fit-as doesn’t hurt none either. Too good for that drunk, Harry.
But it was more than simple jealousy. Damien had actually gained pleasure from Harry’s predicament and that was what troubled him most. Over the last few hours, Damien had seen that Harry wasn’t that bad a bloke. The guy’s heart was in the right place, and it turned out that he did have a backbone after all. Despite all that, Damien still couldn’t tolerate the way Harry always played the wounded soldier. Always making people want to come up and ask if everything was okay. Always moping and drinking himself into a stupor. Oh, poor Harry, they would say. That man is so full of pain and anguish, yet he still keeps going. What a guy!