No Way To Escape | Novel

CHAPTER 59: 'FEAR IS THE FODDER'

And then the dream broke. I could feel the pain and heat once again. Father Richard was still sitting by me. The pain in my arm had just got bitter.

'He is buried... just by the beginning... of–of the gravel path of the backyard', I mumbled to Father, trying to cope with the thrashing pain at the same time. 'Dig the place in, down to his body and call out to me... I had seen some small bottles of Paraffin oil in the kitchen. Shall do it.'

'What you wanna do? Communicate to me, Liam!', he asked me surprisingly.

'Just do what I say! I'll tell you later'.

'I won't leave you like this'.

'Someone has to divert them. They won't follow you. It stays with me. So I will try to restrain or divert them while you dig the earth. Just do it fast. I don't think my body can sustain enough to buy more time', I said, pulling out the matchbox in my pocket and handing it over to him. 'Take this'.

'Okay, okay'. Clutching the pack in his hand, he got up and limped to the back-utility room to get the spade. And then he hurried out to the backyard. I got up slowly and walked my way to the kitchen. Before getting in, I shifted a glance up to the balcony; at the broken railing. The coin must be lying just near to the edge – I thought.

After getting in, I went for the bottles. There were six of them by the sink; two-hundred and fifty millilitres each. Quickly, I gathered them together and started searching for a bigger bottle to pour them all into. There wasn't a single bottle anywhere; not even a bucket.

And then I recalled I had seen some old, big, empty canisters in the attic. Damn the fucking attic! Now I have to get there again! I had no other choice. Slowly, I walked out of the kitchen and looked up. For a moment the thought of fetching a vase instead of some vessel crossed my mind, but I had already destroyed the last one left onto the apparition's face.

The moonlight was brighter through the windows now. I slowly walked up to the stairs and started up. The creaking of the wooden floorboards didn't seem louder than my heartbeats. The pain in my forearm and ribs was at its peak now, having planted a constant grimace over my face. As I reached up, I glanced at the coin, shining brightly under the moonlight falling over it. For a moment I seemed to be moving in its direction and picking it up.

But – Why take the burden first, before a hefty shoulder? – I thought. Avoiding to pick up the coin, I trudged up to the attic stairs. I never wanna come in here ever again! Grasping my arm tightly, I stepped up, and then a step, then another step. I was imagining someone standing up right there by the window, giving me a characteristic dead-stare.

But as I reached up, I saw no one. The attic was devoid of any soul. But am still not out of it yet. I located a canister on an old work-desk. I was just about to walk further when –

'Will you find solace doing this?'. I heard a woman's voice. It echoed across the room. It was not of any Warwick, I suppose. My heart skipped a beat and I stopped altogether. I ran my eyes across the house; only to find no one. I gulped and started muttering in my mind – Fear is their fodder... Fear is their fodder...

Holding my pain and fear back, I straightened up and rather than trudging or limping, simply walked further and picked the container up. Before turning back, I was sensing some danger, honestly. Still, I turned around as if there was nothing and that was the first time I felt so happy to be wronged! All empty.

Bye-bye, you bitch.

I was running out of patience now. I started running down the attic stairs, holding the bottle in my hand. But as I was about to reach the last step, a woman approached me. She seemed to have appeared just by the stairs. My rush came to a halt and I sealed my lips to avoid screaming out.

A middle-aged, skinny woman, she had a deep, severe wound on her cheek and her nose was broken. She seemed to be mentally unstable as she was staring down at my boots and was playing with her hair through her fingers. She had a curious look over her face.

'What are they made of?', she asked suddenly, still staring down. I didn't want to reply her. I wanted to turn away. I braced for the run. 'Tell me... What?', she asked again. My lips felt to be trembling terribly as I uttered out, 'Hi-hi-hid... Hide'. I bit my lips.

She scoffed and looked up at me. 'How wrong you are! This is the cattle you feed upon. You feed upon them for ornaments, you motherfuckers!...'. And then before she could complete, I ran down and then past her to the stairs leading to the first floor. I was about to flight downstairs when I realised I had to fetch the coin from the balcony. I turned back and got to the balcony. She was just standing there while going on wailing, 'You feed upon them, we feed upon you! You feed upon them... We feed. Upon you!'. Her voice was so loud! I fetched the coin, shoved it into my pocket and then started downstairs.

As I reached the kitchen, just by the stairs, her voice stopped altogether. Panting for breath, I looked back up but she was gone. I gave out a sigh of relief and barged into the kitchen. I got to the sink, opened the lid of all the bottles and started pouring all the Paraffin into the canister.

After I was done pouring down all the Paraffin into the canister, I shrieked with pain as someone's teeth sank into my left shank. As I looked down, there was a man down there. He had dug his teeth in and was masticating like a zombie. The man looked old and wore a vest and jeans. The hair on his head were grey. I kicked his face through the other leg but he didn't seem to be done. Losing my balance, I thrashed down on my back while constantly yelling and trying to kick his face away. 'Fucking hell, Ah!... Get the fuck away from me!... The fuck! –'.

His bite was too deep. His teeth seemed to be like those of a hungry hound. His eyes were closed. I could see fresh blood flowing out through my trousers, onto the floor now. I was going on kicking his brow through the sole of my boot ferociously while bearing the immense pain. The thwacking had made his forehead ooze out something like a mixture of tar and pus instead of blood. Finding no other way, I stopped kicking him and just tried to relax. I took in a deep breath and just tried to ignore it. I needed to suppress my fear. It was the fear in my mind, with physical pain added to it, which was opening the gates for them. I tried to fend off the pain and just laid down, relaxed.

It went for, like, 2-3 minutes. By then, it was all numb down the knee. As I opened my eyes slowly, the man was gone. But there indeed was a pool of blood around my leg. I looked up at the sink. I could still see the canister. Sitting up, I reached my hands down to the trousers and then rolled it up to the knee. That scoundrel had chewed down his teeth to my bones at some parts. It had all happened for real, after all. To neglect the loss of blood, I pulled out my jacket and tore off both of its sleeves. Then I tied them over my wounded shank, one above the other.

You submit, you die with a framed suicide. You not, you are tortured to death.

Clutching the edge of the sink, I got up. Leaning against the sink, I realised that all the victims of The Warwick's were being commanded to kill me now. I had to be faster. It had to be done as soon as possible. I clasped the canister tightly in my hands and turned around.