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Tuesday, 22nd of December, 1953. 6:01 p.m. The fog was growing ever thicker as the black 1951 Triumph Mayflower ambled its way down the winding country roads.
A dark 1950s thriller where Terrence and Bernie hunt a runaway girl in the eerie town of Copperport, uncovering sinister secrets.
Key Takeaways
- The mission to retrieve Molly is fraught with danger and moral ambiguity.
- Bernie's war experience and physical presence add tension and intimidation.
- Harry Sullivan wields significant power and expects absolute obedience.
- Copperport serves as a mysterious and possibly supernatural setting.
- The story blends crime thriller and horror elements effectively.
What the video covers
- Set in December 1953, Terrence Up and Bernie Koko travel to Copperport to retrieve Molly, Harry Sullivan's runaway goddaughter.
- Bernie is a large, intimidating war veteran with a scarred face and a mysterious past.
- Harry Sullivan, a crime boss, tasks Terrence with finding Molly and eliminating her boyfriend, Michael Tapper.
- The story explores the tense dynamic between Terrence, Bernie, and Harry, highlighting loyalty and fear.
- The journey to Copperport is marked by ominous weather and foreboding signs.
- Copperport is depicted as a small, grim town with a dark undercurrent.
- Terrence carries a P8 pistol, emphasizing the dangerous nature of their mission.
- The narrative hints at supernatural or horror elements as the story progresses.
- The transcript includes detailed character backstories and atmospheric descriptions.
- The story builds suspense through dialogue, setting, and character interactions.
Full Transcript — Download SRT & Markdown
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Twisted brambles threatened to reach out and slow its progress. And as he sat there slumped in the passenger seat, Terrence Up could only think what they might be doing to the car's paintwork.
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Not that he particularly cared. It wasn't his motor after all. The car slowed to a halt.
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"About bloody time," came the low, deep grumble from his companion, seated behind the steering wheel.
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Bernie Koko was a frightening figure, a huge beast of a man. He must have stood at least 6'5" at his full height. And some would just guess what with his huge barreled chest and broad hulking shoulders.
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He was just as wide as he was tall. It wasn't, however, only his size that intimidated people.
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Bernie served in Libya and Egypt during the war. And although he never liked to talk about it, everyone knew what had brought him home early.
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The right-hand side of Bernie's face was a massive scar tissue that stretched from below his shirt collar to where his hair would have once been.
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The ear on the right side of his head was missing, and over his right eye, he sported a black patch.
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Colleagues would joke about what might be underneath it: a pale white eyeball, a ruined empty socket, or perhaps it was just a perfectly normal eye, and he just wore the patch to look even more frightening than he already was.
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Nobody had ever actually asked the monster of a man, though. Nobody was that brave.
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He doubted even their boss, Harry Sullivan, had seen beneath it. Terrence pulled himself into a more upright position and peered through the windscreen.
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They'd stopped at a junction in the road, and ahead of them stood a sign that read, "Copper, 2 mi." Bernie's large bear-like hands gripped the steering wheel, and he began to turn it as he accelerated towards the direction of the sign.
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"Good," Terrence muttered. "We might even be back for Christmas at this rate." He smiled, something that always seemed to give him a slightly sinister demeanor.
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"Mom always puts on a good spread for Christmas Day," replied Bernie as he squinted out into the gray, gloomy darkness that enveloped them.
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"Hopefully, I can get the train up to see her in time."
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"Well, the sooner we get there and find Molly, the little sooner we'll get back," stated Terrence, his voice dripping with animosity as he slumped back into his seat.
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It had been the previous night that Harry, or as he generally insisted on being called, Mr. Sullivan, had summoned him over to his house.
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It was a homely terrace near Bethnal Green in which he lived with his mother, Mavis Sullivan, a portly woman with a kind, caring smile.
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But she was well known to take no nonsense. Even Harry knew not to raise his voice to her or speak out of turn, lest he feel the wrath of her wooden spoon or slippers.
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Harry adored his mom. She had brought him up alone after his old man had passed away from tuberculosis back in 1931.
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Harry had been only 8 years old then, and he had watched his mom work her fingers to the bone to support them both.
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Now at the age of 30, he had carved himself out a small empire in the East End with prostitution, narcotic, and protection rackets all running through his club on Cambridge. He threw.
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Terrence had found himself sitting on the sofa in Harry's living room, enjoying the warmth from the burning coal fire, a delicate china cup of milky sweet tea held in his hand.
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Mavis had handed it to him almost as soon as he'd come in through the front door as she fussed about how he looked like he was losing too much weight.
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Harry burst into the room soon after he'd arrived, an unlit cigarette hanging limply from his mouth as it clung to his bottom lip with all its might. "Terry," he bellowed as he strode across the room, his stocky frame moving with purpose before he dropped his considerable bulk down into an armchair.
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"I appreciate you coming over at such short notice," he continued, rearranging himself to be more comfortable as his white shirt stretched tight across his ample belly.
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"I got a job for you, son." Terry ventured a sly half smile at that.
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He was barely 8 years younger than Harry, but it was just the way he was.
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He liked to make out he was much older than his years. He thought it gave him some kind of extra gravitas.
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"Always a pleasure, boss," Terrence replied. "What do you need?" Harry Sullivan sat back in his chair with a long sigh.
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Reaching over to a dresser beside him, he took hold of a small box of matches and, striking one, lit his cigarette.
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He waved out the flame and tossed the spent match into the fireplace as he took a long drag.
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"It's my goddaughter," he said, blowing out a cloud of gray smoke. "She's done a runner."
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Molly asked Terrence as he sat forward. "She's just a kid. Where would she go?"
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"They grow up fast, Terry. I can tell you that much," Harry replied with a grunt.
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"She's 15. Been hanging around with some Jack the Lad from the West Country by the name of Michael Tapper."
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A dark look fell across Harry's face as he continued. "I told her, Terry, I told her she was not to see him no more, or I'd have him tied up and tossed in the temps. And what does she do? She pleading well ends up running off with him."
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"Do you know where they went?" Terrence asked coldly. Harry smiled then, a glint in his eye. "Oh, I know where they've gone," he said with a malevolent smile.
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"Stupid little left me a note. They've gone to some backward little hole called Copper Port. It's where he comes from, apparently."
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Terrence drained the last of his tea and stood up. "All right," he began, placing his cup upon the small coffee table in the center of the room.
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"You want me to go and fetch her back for you? Can't see that being a problem."
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"Yeah, well, she might not want to come back, ungrateful little cow." He paused for a moment to enjoy another lung full of smoke.
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"And you're not just bringing her home to me. I want you to find this Tapper kid and bury him somewhere he won't be found."
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Terrence was just about to speak out again when Harry stood up. "And I'm sending Bernie with you."
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Terrence failed to hide the sudden herd from his features. "That's not really necessary, boss."
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"I'm sure it's not," Harry replied. "But I want this done fast." He has a certain way of getting people to do things without much of an argument.
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"With a mug, that is no wonder," scoffed Terrence. But the look that fell across Harry's features was stern.
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"Remember, Terry?" he said, pointing a stubby finger at him. "The man's a bloody war hero. He deserves your respect."
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Harry sat back in his chair, taking another long drag on his cigarette. "And besides, he'll probably pull your limbs off if he hears you talking like that."
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With that, Harry moved over to a dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Reaching inside, he took out something wrapped in an old piece of cloth and handed it over to Terrence.
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Terrence could feel immediately what it was, but opened the bundle anyway. In his hands was an automatic P8 pistol.
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Swiftly, he recovered the firearm and slipped it into the pocket of his suit jacket.
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"I want her back, Terry." Harry held the younger man's gaze with a fierce expression.
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"Do not let me down." The following morning, Bernie had pulled up outside his home and they had set off together.
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The drive had been long, and Terrence had spent a decent portion of it asleep in the passenger seat. He really didn't have much to say to the burly brute behind the wheel anyway.
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He never really struck Terrence as the intellectual type. Besides, he found the man's broad Yorkshire accent grating at the best of times.
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Finally, they were greeted by a simple sign to the side of the road, announcing that they had indeed arrived at the town of Copperport.
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They drove through the house-lined streets until eventually coming to what looked like a town center.
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Among the houses, there were now shops, pubs, and all kinds of different places of business.
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"What do you reckon?" grumbled Bernie as he sl...
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Pull up over there, he said, gesturing over to a pub a little further down the street.
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Good a place to start as any. Let's see if anyone knows anything. The car stopped on the curb just outside the pub beneath a sign that hung from the side of the building displaying the name of the mariner's rest.
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The two men got out of the car. Bernie stretched out with a grimace as he felt as well as heard the crunch from his lower back.
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Terrence was dwarfed by Bernie's frame as they stood outside the door to the pub.
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He was only 5'7 and of a relatively slight build. But despite this, he was tough. People tended to speak politely around him and it didn't take them too long to learn that he had a very short fuse.
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It was also well known amongst the boys that he had a particularly sadistic side and he was not afraid to show it.
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The door opened into a warm, well-lit bar. A wood fire crackled to one side and a handful of locals sat around a table drinking and playing cards.
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As they entered, the room fell silent. All eyes had turned to them as they stepped over the threshold.
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A sudden short cough emanated from somewhere towards the back of the pub as the two men took in their surroundings.
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They ignored the gaze of the other patrons and moved over to the bar where they were met by a stout white man who looked to have been in his early 60s.
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He had a wide smile and an overly large ash gray mustache that seemed to dominate his face.
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"Evening, fellas," he said as they approached. "What can I get for you?" Terrence leaned against the bar before he answered.
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"We're looking for a girl," he said bluntly. "Her name is Molly Sullivan." He slapped down a small photograph of a young pretty girl. "She'll be with a local lad called Michael Tapper. Do you know him?" The man frowned at him in
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response, not breaking eye contact for a moment. Can't say that I do, lad, he replied simply.
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And the girl? Terrence made sure to put extra emphasis on the word girl as he kept his voice stern and clear.
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Not seen her, I'm afraid. Terrence's eyes narrowed. The man hadn't even glanced at the photograph.
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He opened his mouth to speak again, but Bernie cut in first. "What local ALS do you recommend?" he said, breaking the tension. The barkeeper peered up at him.
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We have a few, he said, his smile returning. Abbott's rose is a popular choice. A smooth brown ale, that one. Or if you're more of a bitter man, there's old Tom's.
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I'll try the bitter, then, thanks. Bernie looked down at the older man with what was no doubt his best attempt at a warm winning smile, but all it did was accentuate the terrible scars that covered one side of his face.
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However, if the barman was any way put off by this sight, he did not show it, simply picking up a glass and filling it from the pump.
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and for your friend," the barman said as he placed the glass upon the bar.
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Bernie glanced down at his companion. "I'll just have a beer." He almost snarled the words, and the barman moved away to get another glass.
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Once Bernie had paid for their drinks, they moved away from the bar to a secluded corner of the pub, close to where the other drinkers continued their card game.
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Is there some reason you decided to butt in there? Snapped Terrence, keeping his voice low.
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It's been a long drive, Bernie replied. I'm tired. I'm thirsty. And you weren't going to get anywhere.
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Oh, really? What makes you think that? He said with a scowl. Bernie took a large sip of his drink.
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Do you know what? That is good. He turned his attention back to Terrence. He never looked at the picture, but he said he hadn't seen her. "I know," Terrence spoke through gritted teeth as his anger began to rise. "That's why I
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was going to press a little further, wasn't it?" Terren's eyes darted about the room. "Little backward place like this, everyone knows everyone." Most likely, but he'd already made himself suspicious. asking him over and over again won't make any difference.
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Bernie paused to take another sip of his drink. To be fair though, he might have just taken offense by the way you asked him about it. Terrence didn't reply, but his eyes were furious.
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I'm just saying, Bernie continued. Courtesy doesn't cost extra, does it? The pair sat at the table, nursing their drinks for another 10 minutes before Bernie stood up and stroed back over to the bar to order two more. "Sorry about
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him," Bernie said to the barman as he approached. "The girl's his little sister. He's just worried about her, that's all. She's just a kid." The barman's features seem to soften.
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"Really, I've not seen any strange young girl about." He glanced over to where Terrence sat alone.
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I guess I can understand his directness. I don't know any Michael Tapper, I'm afraid, either, but I do know Daniel Tapper, old fella that runs the bakery down the street. He paused to look over at the clock on the wall above the
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fireplace. It was well past 7:00 now. He'll have shut up shop about 5:30, I reckon. I'm afraid you'll have to speak to him tomorrow. Anywhere around here we could get a couple of rooms for the night, Bernie said as he
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passed payment for the second round of drinks across the bar. The barman pondered the question for a moment.
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You'll want to pop over to Doy's place over on Bridge Street. She's got a bed and breakfast up there. She'll have rooms for sure at this time of year.
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Bernie thanked him with another smile before taking the drinks back to the table. Sitting back down, he relayed the information back to Terrence.
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Making short work of their drinks, they left the warmth of the pub and stepped back out into the damp gloom of the streets beyond.
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52 Bridge Street was a modestlyssized end terrace with a green door and a Christmas wreath tied to the knocker.
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After some fumbling with the reef, Terrence managed to hammer the knocker into the wood of the door, and moments later, the hall light beyond blinked into life. The door opened, and a small, slim, elderly woman with an unruly mop
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of gray straw-like hair stood in the doorway. "Hello," she said curtly, squinting at them. Terrence attempted his most sincere lookingook, friendly smile.
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Good evening," he ventured. "We were hoping you might have a couple of rooms for the night." He made a point of looking around the outside frame of the doorway as if taking in his whole surroundings.
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"This is a bed and breakfast, isn't it?" The old woman reached into the pocket of her cardigan and retrieved a small pair of rounded glasses. Popping them onto the bridge of her nose, she took a long look at the two men on the doorstep.
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Good grief," she gasped as she looked Bernie up and down. "I ought to charge you for three." Her mischievous smile spread across her aged features.
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"You can call me Doy," she said as she stepped to one side. "Once in the hallway," she looked up at Bernie's face, a look of kind concern falling across her features.
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Oh, my poor dear," she said, taking one of his large shovel-like hands in hers.
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His expression was one of shock and embarrassment. "Whatever happened to you, dear boy?" Bernie blinked twice, not sure how to react. People didn't tend to speak to him so openly about his scars. Most folk would just look away awkwardly or move
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away for fear that he might eat them like the monster he appeared to be.
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But who was he kidding? He knew he had it within him to be exactly that kind of monster.
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He doesn't like to talk about it, chipped in terance as Bernie faltered. He opened his mouth to continue speaking, desperate as he was to get settled in a room. No, it's okay, Bernie. interrupted as he smiled down at
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Doy. I was in the war, he said. My position was hit by a barrage of artillery. I got caught in the explosions.
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Doy gripped his palm with her fingers. "You brave, brave man," she said before turning to go. "I have a register you'll need to sign," she called back to them as she trundled off down the hall.
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Wednesday, the 23rd of December, 1953. Terrence and Bernie stepped out of the house and into the cold morning drizzle just after 7:00 in the morning the following day, well rested with their bellies full of tea, toast, and eggs.
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Terren walked over to where they'd left their car the night before, looked up, and found Bernie was already halfway down the street.
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He cursed under his breath as he pulled his little jacket tighter around himself and hurried after the larger man.
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"When we get to the baker's shop," he blurted out as he caught up, "Let me do the talking." Bernie glanced down at his companion as he continued to stride onwards.
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If you want, he shrugged. I told the landlord of the pub last night that Molly was your little sister.
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What'd you do that for? Terrence almost spat the words in disgust. To explain why you're being such an Bernie never saw the dumbestruck expression on Terren's face.
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Neither did he see how that expression turned to one of outraged hatred. Anyway, Bernie continued oblivious.
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I suggest you keep to that story. Small town people talk to each other. Terrence chose not to reply, instead deciding to allow his anger to fester like a bad smell.
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How dare the shaved ape speak to him like that? His right hand slipped into his jacket pocket where his fingertips could lightly caress the pistol that resided there.
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You'd better watch your mouth, Frankenstein. He didn't speak the words, but oh, how he wanted to.
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People were already milling around the high street, coming and going to their different places of business.
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The bakers was already open. and the two men stepped in to the sound of a small bell from above the door as they entered.
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Behind the counter, standing in front of a shelf filled wall packed full of different types of freshly baked loaves, stood an old, tall, slim man with a large crooked nose and almost comically large ears.
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Morning gents," he said with a wide gap to grin. "What can I get you?" Teran strode forward with confidence.
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"Information, I hope," he attempted a smile as he approached. "My," He grimaced internally. "My sister's gone missing." "Oh dear," said the baker in response.
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"I'm sorry to hear that." She left a note to say she was coming here with a young man she was friends with. His name's Michael Tapper, a relative of yours, I believe.
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The baker frowned slightly as he rubbed his chin, his pale eyes moving slowly from Terrence to Bernie and back again.
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He leaned forwards, palms down on the counter. You could mean my grandson Mickey, I suppose. He's up in London, though. He's been there for a few months.
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Yeah, that's where he met my sister. Terren struggled to keep his temper from simmering.
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Her name's Molly. We don't want any trouble. We just want to talk to her.
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The baker opened his mouth to speak. But he was interrupted by the bell sounding again as the door opened and a middle-aged man with balding gray hair and thick grim glasses entered.
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He was wearing dark brown trousers, a black shirt, and the telltale white collar of a vicar.
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He stood just inside the doorway for a few minutes, smiled broadly at them before walking up to the counter.
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Morning, Danny," he said cheerfully. "The usual when you're ready, please." Terrence looked round to the vicar, a twisted smile on his face. "Sorry, Reverend, we won't hold you up long," Terrence said. Mr. Tapper was just telling us where we might find his
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grandson. The baker's eyes darted from the vicar and back to Terrence. He motioned to speak, but no words came forth.
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Ah, young Michael. The vicer looked at Daniel Tapper. I thought he'd gone off to London, Danny.
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That's right, Tom, replied the baker uneasily. I was just saying that to these gentlemen before you came in. With that, the vicer rounded on the two outsiders, his smile ever widening.
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Well then, gentlemen, he said happily. I guess that's that, then. He held Terrence's gaze, his smile not faltering for a second.
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I suppose so. Bernie smiled back at the priest. Terrence stepped forwards to press the matter, but Bernie laid a large hand upon his shoulder and held him in place.
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"Well, then we'll get out of your hair." He pulled Terrence back a step and span him around.
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Thank you for your help, Mr. Tapper. The baker smiled thinly in response and Bernie led Terrence back towards the door. Will you be staying in Copperboard long? The vicer asked the question as Bernie opened the bakery shop door wide.
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He looked back over his shoulder. I don't know, Vicer, he said with another smile. We're in no rush to get back to London.
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He stepped back out into the light shower beyond, pulling Terrence along as he went and allowing the door to close behind him.
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Why'd you drag me out of there? I wasn't finished. Terrence snapped as they walked along the pavement away from the bakery.
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Yes, you were, came the blunt reply. Terrence opened his mouth to protest, but Bernie cut him off.
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stopping him in his tracks and turning to look the younger man in the eye.
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The baker on his own might have told you something, but in front of the vicar he was saying now.
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Terrence looked at him blankly inside. The baker knows something, he saidfully. So does the vicar. But old Mr. Tapper seems a bit nervous around the priest.
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like he was worried he might say something wrong. "So, we go back there and force the information out of them." Terrence gestured back to the bakery with his left hand, only for Bernie to grip his wrist and pull it back down to his side.
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"Can you please learn to be a bit more subtle?" Bernie growled under his breath as he stepped in close.
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Once again, Terrence found the fingers of his right hand, fondling the gun in his pocket.
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He locked eyes with the giant, his jaw set firm as he ground his teeth together.
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Bernie's grip on his left wrist tightened suddenly. The pain shot up his elbow through to his shoulders and neck, causing him to squeal and slightly lose his breath.
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Oh, and if you ever dare pull that gun on me, boy, Bernie snarled. I'll make sure you never use either of your hands again. The threat was given with cold purpose.
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Terrence took his right hand out of his pocket and held it up as proof that it was empty. His face had turned a dark shade of red, and he grunted slightly as a tear rolled down his cheek.
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Eventually, Bernie released him, and the young man gasped, stepping backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet as he cradled his left hand.
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The two men stood a few paces apart for a moment before Terrence stood upright and composed himself.
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"All right, then," he said eventually. "What do you suggest we do now?" Well, that depends on whether you can actually be discreet, came Bernie's reply.
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Terrence gave a sharp nod of his head. Okay, first, the priest hasn't left the baker's shop, so when he does, you're going to follow him. Find out where he goes and what he gets up to. But do not
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confront him. This is reconnaissance only. I'll meet you back at the bed and breakfast at 8 tonight.
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What are you going to do? Terrence replied, now rubbing at his aching wrist with his free hand.
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I'll be over there. Bernie pointed across the road to a small tea room. As soon as Tapper leaves work, I'll follow him and see what he really does and doesn't know.
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Over 20 minutes passed before the vicar left the bakery. A large loaf of bread wrapped in paper under one arm and his umbrella held open on a loft in the other.
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Terrence had managed to position himself as casually as he could behind a delivery truck that was parked out the front of a sizable general store.
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The driver was currently having a cheerful conversation with a gentleman working within. A cup of steaming tea was clasped in one hand.
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Already, Terrence could feel the rain seeping into his feet, his socks soden along with the rest of his clothes.
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He imagined Bernie sitting in the warm, dry tea room up the street. No doubt enjoying a brew and a piece of cake.
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Bastard. He spat the word quietly through gritted teeth. He was still stewing over the way the large man had handled him, the way he had spoken to him, as if he were a child that needed scolding.
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Nobody treats him like that and lives to tell about it. Wiping rain water from his eyes, he watched as the vicer made his way along the street.
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Once he was satisfied that there was enough distance between them, he stepped out from behind the truck and followed.
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Not once did the priest look back to see if he was being tailed. But then, why should he? He was simply going about his business.
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"This is pointless," he grumbled to himself with a shudder as he trudged along the puddles that had formed on the pavement. He could feel the bitter cold deep down inside as it seemed to bleed into his very bones and he shivered
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visibly. Eventually he turned a corner into what seemed to be a marketplace and beyond that stood a picturesque church.
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As he approached the vicer was entering the building through a large oak door. Terrence stepped back behind the lich gate as the door to the church closed.
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He waited for a few more moments, glancing around at the few people that passed by before stepping into the churchyard, passing the many mosscovered gravestones as he went.
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Once at the door, he listened intently, but heard nothing from the other side. Should he follow the vicar in? Bernie had said reconnaissance, but what could he learn from out here?
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With a deep breath, Terrence took hold of one of the large iron handles, turned it, and eased the door open.
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The air within smelled dusty and stale as he slipped inside. The nave of the building was long and wide, lined on either side by rows of pews, leading to an ornate altar at the far end.
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To one side stood the pool pit and to another was a large stone font and behind the font built into the far wall there stood a large wooden door.
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The church was lit only from dim light that filtered in through the stained glass windows from outside, offering plenty of shadow to conceal its approach.
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Terrence was painfully aware of the squaltching sound that his soaking wet shoes were making as he attempted to creep further into the church.
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Of the priest, there was no sign, and Terrence found his confidence growing with each step.
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He skirted around the left hand side of the building, keeping his shoulder to the wall. Approaching the pool pit, he crouched down behind it and took a few seconds to compose himself.
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Again, he could hear nothing in the cavernous space around him. He stood, peering his head above the pool pit where he saw a large black leatherbound book.
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The cover of the book had an eye beautifully carved into it and above it were inscribed the words demon servitus.
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Terrence found himself drawn to the tome. Fixated by it even he reached out a hand to open it and as his fingertips touched the leather binding he flinched.
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His head swam with visions of darkness sliding over him like crude oil pouring down his throat, choking him, drowning him. His mind was suddenly filled with the screams of countless wretched souls.
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As he tried to wrench his hand away, something had a hold of him. a burning cold that licked at the flesh of his fingers, searing through them to the bone as if stripping the flesh from him strand by strand.
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His legs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed backwards, landing on the stone floor with a damp slap.
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He couldn't breathe. Panic hit him like a pale of ice water. He tried to cry out, but his screams were silent and strained.
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He didn't notice the sound of footsteps walking towards him. Neither did he see the heel of the shoe that stamped down on his face.
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It had only been a little over 10 minutes since the vicor had departed the bakery before the door opened once more and a somewhat panicked Daniel Tapper spilled out onto the street.
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He fumbled for a moment at the door. Locking up no doubt, Bernie thought to himself as he sipped at a cup of sweet tea.
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As the baker scured off down the high street, Bernie placed the cup back down onto the waiting saucer and standing, he left the tea room.
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It was still raining, and Bernie marched off after the baker, keeping a good distance between himself and the old man.
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Only too aware that he must stick out like a sore thumb, Bernie did his best to stay out of sight as he tailed his target.
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However, the baker seemed in such a hurry, he didn't once look back to check if he was being followed.
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Eventually, Tapper darted down a small alleyway. Speeding up to a light jog, Bernie crossed the road to catch up.
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He peered around the corner just in time to see Tapper open at all wooden gate and disappear beyond. Bernie hurried over, stopping to listen for any sign that the old man might still be there waiting.
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Finally satisfied, he lifted the latch on the gate and slipped through into the tiny courtyard garden beyond.
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At the back of the garden, next to the gate, stood a small brick outouse and a garden shed.
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Further on, next to the red painted back door was a coal bunker. A small coal shovel leaning up against the wall.
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Bernie strode across the paved garden, scooping up the shovel, testing its weight in his enormous hands.
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He tried the door. It opened without protest. And Bernie moved silently into the house.
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How could you be so stupid? The voice came from a little further inside the house, but Bernie recognized it as the old baker.
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Bernie found himself in a dingy hallway that seemed to lead through to a front room. There were doors leading off the corridor further up on either side, and it was from here that Bernie determined the voice was coming from.
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"What do you mean?" came a reply. The voice was much younger than the first, and Bernie allowed himself a weary smile. "Jackpot." "There are two men in town," snapped the older of the two voices. "And they're looking for the girl."
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"Who?" the younger voice asked as Bernie moved along the hallway and stepped through an open door to his right.
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That would be me, he said coldly as he stood in the doorway of a small kitchen and took in the horrified expressions of the two men in front of him. Daniel Tapper was the first of them to react.
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He snatched up a bread knife from the kitchen counter and lunged at Bernie's throat with it. In an instant, Bernie had raised the coal shovel, deflecting the blow and clipping it across the old man's head with a nonchalant back hand.
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Daniel Tapper slumped to the floor. The young man, now standing alone, braced himself to rush the giant that blocked his only escape.
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Bernie chuckled aloud, the scar on his face and neck giving him a somewhat horrific vis.
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It was enough to make the young man hesitate. "Don't do it, lad," Bernie said in his deep northern cadence. He dropped the coal shovel and raised his hand. I'm really just here to talk to you. The young man scoffed, though there was no
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sign of humor in the sound. He dared a glance down at the old baker who still laid crumpled in a heap on the floor.
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"Tell that to my granddad," he said finally. Bernie shrugged his shoulders. "What can I say? I don't like knives," he said. Anyway, it was only a glancing blow. He'll be all right.
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The two men stood in silence for a long moment. A look of deep panic still clearly etched across the younger man's face.
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"Well," Bernie said eventually. Michael Tapper just stared at him. "Where's the girl?" "What girl?" the lad stuttered the words clumsily.
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Bernie sighed aloud and stepped forwards. "Okay," he raised her hand towards the boy's face. It's like that, is it? With one massive hand, he consumed Michael's face, a thick thumb pressing lightly into his right eye. The young lad cried out as he reached up
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with both hands, gripping [snorts] Bernie's arm and trying in vain to pull himself clear.
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As Michael backed up against the sink, Bernie increased the pressure with his thumb, soliciting an agonizing cry from his quarry.
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Michael tried to reach out for his attacker's face, but he couldn't reach. Indifferently, Bernie took the middle finger from the outstretched hand and twisted it with an audible snap. The boy squealled like a stuck pig.
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"Please," Michael Tapper could barely speak, but Bernie released him, allowing him to crumple to the floor beside his grandfather.
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"It doesn't need to be like this, lad." Bernie reached down to lift the youngster back to his feet when he saw a sudden flash of metal sweep past his eyes. Michael had scooped up the knife that his grandfather had dropped and
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swiped up at him, missing his face by a fraction of an inch. With a snarl, Bernie heaved the boy off his feet and planted a thunderous headbutt into his face. A loud crunch of devastated cartilage and bone filling
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the room before dropping him back down to the kitchen floor where he lay motionless.
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"Damn," he said to himself as he surveyed the two unconscious men at his feet.
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This was going to take longer than he had thought. Bernie stood in the open doorway that separated the short hallway and living room of Danny Tapper's home. In his hand, a large metal bucket full to the brim with water.
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Sitting in the center of the room, tied to a simple wooden chair, was an unconscious Michael Tapper. His once handsome features were now smashed across his face. His nose was completely destroyed, split and crushed flat against his swollen cheeks.
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His eyes were puffy and swollen, dark bruising already beginning to appear from below the blood that covered much of his face and stained his white shirt.
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In one fluid motion, Bernie heaved the bucket and emptied its contents over the young man's head.
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Michael gasped aloud as the shock of the icy cold water cascaded over him. He struggled against his bonds, panic surging through him.
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What was all he could muster, his voice heavily distorted from the damage done to his face. He winced as the realization of the pain he was suffering caught up with him, and uncontrollably he began to cry.
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Where's the girl? Bernie's voice was calm and level. Please was all the boy could muster as a response.
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Bernie raised his hand and lightly prodded at what was left of his ruined nose.
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Michael cried out. The pain was too much for him, but his screams were cut short by a hard slap to the face that stunned him back into silence.
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"Let's not attract attention to oursel, kid," Bernie said as he straightened up to his full height.
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If anyone comes calling, you're a dead man. He stepped forwards, placing a large hand on Michael's shoulder as if to reassure him.
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I really don't want to kill you, boy. I don't want to even be hurting you, he sighed loudly. I just want the girl.
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She Michael spluttered the word, blood spilling over his bottom lip. She's too important, he coughed. The effort of it clearly causing him great discomfort.
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Important for what? Bernie pressed. But Michael bowed his head weeping. Come on, lad. You can still easily walk out of this.
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I don't know why she's important, Michael mumbled, his eyes still firmly looking down on the floor.
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I was just told to find someone young and innocent, a virgin girl, and bring her back here. He spat a mouthful of blood down on the threadbear carpet and coughed again, wincing as he did so.
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"That's not good enough," replied Bernie, his voice cold and unfeilling. He gripped Michael's throat with one hand and [clears throat] squeezed.
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"Who told you to find the girl?" He squeezed a little harder. Tell me, he snarled before releasing him again.
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Michael struggled to pull in breaths between fits of coughing. My granddad, he managed as he tried to calm his breathing.
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My granddad told me. He told me it was for God. I had to do it for God.
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H So, you're saying I need to ask your granddad about it? Bernie frowned. That's all I know, I promise, said the young man simply.
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It's okay, laddy. I believe you. Bernie reached down and scooped up the metal bucket.
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With a sickening thud, he brought it crashing down onto Michael's head. The boy's scalp split open and blood seeped from the wound to spill over his lap as his body twitched uncontrollably.
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Another swing of the bucket. Another crunch of bone meeting metal and the twitching ceased.
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Bernie dropped the bucket to the floor. He looked down at his hands, now smeared with blood, and cursed to himself.
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Stepping back from the corpse that now occupied the chair. He left the room and moved back into the kitchen.
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He turned on the taps and ran his hands under the water. Taking a bar of soap from the window sill before him, he scrubbed the blood from his fingers.
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Once done, he found a small tea towel and dried his hands. Sitting up against the far wall of the kitchen was Danny Tapper, his eyes wide and staring, his head turned at an impossible angle.
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I really wish I'd done you second now," Bernie said with a frown before tossing the tea towel over the old man's face.
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He left the house by the same door he had entered it, walked casually across the back garden, and made sure the gate was properly fastened as he stepped back into the alley.
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The rain had stopped, he noticed, as he fished his pocket watch out of his jacket and checked the time.
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It was already 5:00 in the evening now, and the streets were lit only by the lamp post that lined them.
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It was then that he realized that other than a handful of biscuits he'd found in one of the tapper's kitchen cupboards, he'd missed lunch.
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He decided to head back to the bed and breakfast. Perhaps he could coax a hot meal out of Doy, and with a bit of luck, Terrence would be back with some useful information.
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The first thing that Terrence noticed was the thumping sensation in his head as he struggled to open his eyes.
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His left eye had swollen shut and was completely useless. But his right, although tender, wasn't too bad.
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Not that he could see anything. He was enveloped by pitch darkness. He remembered the sensation of all consuming blackness and despair that had overwhelmed him upon touching that book.
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He was damp and freezing cold. His teeth chattered together as he lay on his side on a cold stone floor.
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His feet were bound and his hands were tied tightly together behind his back. Hello," he croked, his voice little more than a whisper. "Is anyone there?" As he spoke, he noticed several teeth were missing from the left side of his
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jaw. His face throbbed in time with his heartbeat as he lay there silently, waiting for an answer.
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After several seconds, he realized that he'd been holding his breath as he strained to hear, and he let out a long, pained sigh.
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No answer came to him from the surrounding darkness. He was alone. It was just beginning to rain again as Bernie approached the front door of 52 Bridge Street.
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He reached up a hand to knock, but the door opened before he had the chance.
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The smell of something homely and delicious cooking from within wafted over him and his stomach growled.
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"Hello, dear," Doy said, smiling kindly at him in the doorway as she stood there, arms outstretched.
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I saw you coming up the road," she added, her smile widening even further at Bernie's slightly confused expression.
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She stood to one side and beckoned him in. "Your friend's not with you?" she said as he passed by her.
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"No, he said he had something to do. He'd see me back here." Bernie turned to face her as she closed the door behind him. "Has he not been back all day?
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She shrugged as she squeezed past him and made her way into the kitchen. Not that I've seen deary. She called back to him. But I did have to pop out for a bit earlier. I might have missed him then, I
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suppose. Bernie followed her down the hall, the [snorts] smell of food becoming ever more intoxicating.
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"Something smells good," he said with a cheery smile. I should hope so, came Doy's reply as she poked her head back around the doorway to the kitchen.
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That's my homemade vegetable soup you can smell. Pop yourself through to the dining room, and I'll bring you some hot tea.
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Bernie did as he was bid, and sat himself at the dining room table. A plain white napkin and soup spoon lay there, already prepared upon the tablecloth.
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Moments later, Doy appeared with a wooden tray and sat it down upon the table.
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She removed a bowl of piping odd soup and placed it before him, followed by a mug of tea.
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"White with no sugar, if I remember," she said happily. "Perfect," he replied as he scooped up the spoon.
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He paused then, looking up at the old woman. Are you not having any? Oh no, dear. She patted him on the arm.
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I had some earlier. I tend to take my dinner early these days. She turned to leave the dining room but stopped.
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Goodness. She turned back to face him, her frown crumpling her wrinkled brow. I forgot the bread. I'll be right back.
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Bernie chuckled to himself as he breathed in the delicious smell of the meal. He was starving now and eagerly plunged the spoon into the soup before shoveling it into his mouth.
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It was quite possibly the best soup he'd ever eaten, even dare he say it, surpassing that of his mother. By the time Doy returned, he'd almost devoured half of the contents of his bowl.
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"Good grief," she exclaimed with a fro expression of shock. "You are hungry, aren't you?" Her smile returned. "Well, you'll be pleased to know that there's plenty more." She stepped forwards and placed a small plate with two slices of
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bread upon it in front of him. "I do apologize if it's only the sliced stuff," she said as she stepped back from the table. "As I said, I did pop out earlier. I meant to get a nice loaf
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of bread from the bakery." Her smile seemed to fade ever so slightly then. At least Bernie thought it had. He couldn't be too sure. He was suddenly tired and his vision was beginning to blur.
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You know, she continued. It was closed. Well, I thought that's not like Mr. Tapper at all.
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Bernie's head swam as he tried to collect himself. How could he be so stupid?
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She had asked where Terrence was, but there was only one place set at the table. If she'd been expecting both of them, shouldn't there be two?
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He tried to stand. His limbs were heavy, the room now spinning uncontrollably. You don't look so well, deary. Bernie couldn't focus on the mock expression of concern that fell across the old woman's face as she spoke, but he knew it was
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there all the same. He struggled to stay calm despite the fury that was quickly building within him. He leaned heavily on the tabletop and raised his head to look in what he figured must have been a general direction.
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"What have you done?" he struggled to force the words through gritted teeth as his stomach suddenly felt as though it twisted inside him. "Isn't that obvious, dear?" Doy replied simply. I spoke to the good reverend Donna has sent Isadors
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earlier today. Seems your friend's been a very naughty boy. I'm sorry. I truly am. But we just can't have you turning up and spoiling everything, can we? What have you done with the girl? Bernie's voice had become a guttural snile as he gripped the edge
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of the tabletop with one weakened yet still powerful hand. Oh, don't you worry. The young lass is all right. Bernie closed his one good eye tightly and tried to focus upon the woman's voice. She seemed to be moving
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closer to him as she spoke. She'll need to be in tip-top shape for what's to come, she said.
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Yeah, and what's that? Bernie could feel his legs shaking under his weight. Why, the glorious rapture? She will be the first of us to receive. As the voice moved ever closer, Bernie stepped back, flinging his hands upwards with all the
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strength he had left in his body, catapulting the table halfway across the room. He heard a pitiful welp before the sound of the table crashing into something. With nothing to support his weight, his knees buckled and he collapsed.
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He tried to reopen his eye, but found he didn't have the strength left even for that.
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He lay there on the dining room floor, breathing shallow, his mind racing. What were they going to do to her? He had to get up. He had to find her. He had to.
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It had been a cold and damp Monday morning that Bernie had been summoned to a meeting with Harry Sullivan.
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He had been met at the front door by grumpy old Vic Allen. The older man had ushered him into the house, and he'd made sure to wipe his feet on the bristled doormat as he stepped over the threshold.
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"What's new, Vic?" he said to the grizzled old man. "Mr. Sullivan's got a job for you, Bernie," he said, keeping his voice low as he led Bernie towards the living room. He wrapped on the door and waited patiently.
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"Enter," came the stern response. Vicky's the door open and stood to one side to allow the far larger bulk of Bernie to pass him.
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Bernard Harry Sullivan leapt to his feet upon seeing the big man. Thank you for coming so swiftly. Bernie smiled to himself at that. It wasn't really as if he'd had a choice in the matter.
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What do you need, boss? he said as Harry stepped in front of him, clearly not sure what to do with himself now that he was there.
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Harry run a hand through his dark, slick back hair as he turned away and began to pace the room.
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"Molly's gone, Bernie," he said as he moved back and forth in a blaze of frantic energy. Bernie stepped forward, unable to keep the concern from his horrifically scarred features.
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"Gone where? She's just a kid. Bernie had known the girl for the last 8 years or so. She was always kind to him. She was never afraid of him. Not even when they'd first met, and she had been six,
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maybe 7 years old. He would always enjoy her company when he spent time at the [clears throat] house, and would often take her to school back when she was younger.
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She'd soon begun referring to him as Uncle Bernie, and he'd grown to cherish her like his own family.
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"She's run off with some boy," Harry snapped. He was clearly furious, but also incredibly anxious. "You need to go and get her for me, Bernie." He stopped pacing. Then take Terry with you. He could use the experience.
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Terrence isn't the most stable of lads, boss. Harry looked up into Bernie's eyes frantically.
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I know he could be a vicious little that one, but you'll keep him in check. Bernie nodded at that.
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Pick him up from his place tomorrow morning bright and early. I'll get you a map and show you where you need to go.
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Harry had gone through what finer details he had. Then he told Bernie to make the kid that had taken his goddaughter disappear.
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He had offered him a gun, but Bernie had refused, reminding him of the Browning pistol that he carried and the sornoff shotgun under his driver's seat.
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Having reassured his boss that everything was going to be fine, he left the meeting and went straight home to pack an overnight bag and clean and oil both of his firearms.
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Thursday, the 24th of December, 1953. 10:47 p.m. In the dark, Terrence could hear the metallic jangling of keys, followed by the click of the lock in the door across from him.
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Light beamed through, stinging his eyes and leaving him temporarily blind. He suddenly felt hands gripping him before dragging him across the floor and out of his pitch dark cell.
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He swore aloud as he was manhandled down a corridor. His one partially good eye beginning to adapt to the sudden brightness.
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Now then, lad, came a calm, polite voice that sounded like it probably belonged to a much older gentleman.
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There's no need for bad language. My aching face thinks otherwise, you old bastard. Terrence spat the words angrily. The door opened and he found himself back inside the nave of the church.
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Although his vision was still very limited, he could make out figures sitting in rows on the pews, people casually chatting amongst each other as he was dragged out before them. He was dropped unceremoniously at the foot of the paw pit before being secured to it
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with yet more rope. "What are you going to do with me?" he said as a gray-haired old man with a thick bushy beard tied the rope in thick knots around him. "Don't worry yourself, lad," the man replied, a kind smile
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creasing his aged face. "We're not going to do anything to you." Seeing the desperation in Terren's battered and swollen features, he continued, "You're going to bear witness to something truly wonderful.
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Soon we'll all be with the Lord." He frowned a little then. "Well, maybe not you, but once we all ascend, someone will come along and find you eventually." Terrence was about to tell the man what he thought of him when a movement caught
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his eye. From the other side of the church, past the lectern that now stood between the nave and the chancel, a door opened. The vicar stepped through, dressed in a pure white surplus, an ornate stall draped over his shoulders,
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and in his hand he carried a large black book. [snorts] A feeling of utter dread touched Terrence. He could not make out the details of that book, but he knew only too well what it was.
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A thick, loavesome sense of total darkness and despair emanated from it, and it shook him to his very soul.
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The vicar placed the book upon the lectern and turned back to the door from which he had entered.
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A petite young girl stepped gingerely through into the cavernous room, a simple white night dress covering her and her long orbin hair tumbling over her shoulders.
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Molly, Terrence called over to her, but as far as he could tell, she didn't even look in his direction.
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The vicar gently took her by the arm and led her over to the altar, helping her clamber up onto it before she lay back as still as if she were a corpse.
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Moving over to the lecton, the vicer now addressed his congregation. My friends, he began in a cheerful manner, the time is almost upon us. We are gathered here for the second coming.
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We will welcome our Lord both onto this earth and into our hearts. With painstaking effort, Bernie eased his one good eye open, the light in the room piercing daggers through his skull.
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He tried to sit up, but his limbs were still numb and refused to obey him.
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Cursing to himself, he tried to scan the room. It was if his surroundings were consumed by some kind of fog.
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Everything seemed somehow out of focus. He could make nothing out. He rubbed at his blurry eyes, the effort causing his joints and muscles to scream out at him in protest.
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Slowly, he rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself into a kneeling position. He shook his head. The throbbing behind his eye sockets worsened, but it seemed his vision was beginning to clear.
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Hauling himself to his feet took almost all of his remaining strength, and he stumbled backwards to rest against the wall.
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Now he could see the room more clearly. A stocking covered leg jutted out from beneath the upended and broken table in the middle of the room.
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Was it guilt that this exs soldier felt as he staggered uneasily and knelt beside the debris?
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He pulled the table to one side, noticing the smell of feces for the first time as he uncovered Doy's twisted body.
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Her eyes stared, unseeing at the ceiling. Her mouth hung open in what looked like a silent, neverending scream.
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He placed his hand over the old woman's face and closed her eyes. Sorry was all he could think to say.
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He paused then. She was cold. In fact, she was stone cold. She had been dead for quite some time.
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How long had he been unconscious? Slowly but steadily, he made his way into the hall where an old carriage clock sat upon a sideboard.
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The clock showed the time to be 35 minutes 11. Through the small glass pane on top of the front door, he could see that it was nighttime outside.
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So, it couldn't be the following day, could it? That would mean he'd been unconscious for over 24 hours.
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He had to find the priest. He was at the center of everything. What was the name of the church Doy had mentioned before he fell unconscious?
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Was it St. Isaac's? No, Isidor. It was St. Isidor. Now he just needed to find the place.
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He opened the front door and lurched out into the cold night beyond. The sky was overcast, and there was a thickness in the air that threatened the coming of a thunderstorm.
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Digging around in his jacket pocket for his keys, he lumbered over to his car, unlocking it before opening the door and falling into the driver's seat.
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He started the engine and clumsily he pulled away from the curb. It took only a few moments for the car to reach the high street. It was deserted.
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Not a single person was to be seen. Not even a straggler staggering home from the pub. He thought back to which way the priest had gone after leaving the bakers during their stakeout.
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For a short while, he scoured the foggess that was his memories before cursing aloud and pulling out, taking his best guess.
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It wasn't long before he was rewarded by the sight of the church. A sign proudly declaring that was indeed St. Isidor's church stood to the side of the lynch gate above a leaf covered notice board.
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Light gleamed through the stained glass window only to be snuffed out by the gloom of the churchyard.
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As he stepped from his car, he could hear the sound of many voices singing cheerfully to the loud organ music within.
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He paused for a moment before reaching back into the car, opening the glove box and retrieving his Browning 9 mm pistol.
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Pulling back the slide to ready the weapon, he stroed, unsteady but determined, into the graveyard.
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He reached the large wooden doors and opened them just enough for him to slip through seconds before the singing ceased.
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Inside the church was almost full. Dozens of people stood side by side in the pews. ordinary everyday folk, families including children. Had he made a mistake? Was this just some late night service?
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If he'd been unconscious for the entire day, then this would be Christmas Eve, midnight mass.
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Bernie shuffled over to a large stone pillar, concealing himself from view of the congregation.
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He had to find out what was going on. Please everyone be seated. Came a loud voice from the front of the church.
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The gathered masses obeyed, sitting silently in unison. The time is finally upon us, the voice continued.
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With the spilling of innocent blood, our lord left this world, and with the spilling of innocent blood, he too shall return.
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Bernie heard a distant murmur of pain echo across the nave. Standing up, he peered around the side of his cover. He squinted, his vision still not clear. At the front of the church, he could make out a figure
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dressed in white stood behind a lectern. A large ornate knife, half covered in blood, glinted in the light, held high above his head.
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To the side, he saw a petite figure with flowing orb and hair lying upon the altar. That had to be Molly. What the hell had they done to her? Bernie had seen enough. He stepped out from his hiding place, raised his pistol, and
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shouted loud and clear for everyone to hear him. "Enough!" he bellowed, his voice reverberating throughout the building, every face turned towards him.
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Put the knife down, he called over to the vicar, his voice hard and full of authority.
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Give me the girl, and you can all walk away from this. There came a groggy moan from the girl at the altar. She seemed to stir at the sound of his voice and tried to rise.
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"Be still, child." The priest snapped at her before returning his focus to Bernie. You are interfering with God's work.
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Your gun does not intimidate me. With that, the vicar thrust the dagger down into the black lever book bound upon the lectturn.
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Bernie squeezed the trigger of his pistol. He felt the familiar kick in his wrist as it fired, but he heard no sound from the shot.
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A dark, visceral blood began to pour from the book. A heavy oppressive silence fell upon the church, followed by a deafening scream.
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The sound was almost anim animalistic, a high-pitched cry of pain and suffering, loss and despair.
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The priest toppled backwards to the floor, caked in the near black discharge from the book, clutching at his shoulder where the bullet had torn through him.
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Everything went dark. All light suddenly suck from the world like venom from a gaping wound and the screaming ceased.
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Once again, silence rained within the church. A dull light blinked into life at the far end of the building beyond the chancel and from behind the altar.
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Small at first, but glowing quickly, illuminating Molly's prone body before spreading out to eventually bathe the entire congregation.
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As Bernie's vision adjusted to the light, he saw a figure standing at the altar. A live pale skinned woman stood naked above the cowering Molly, smiling down at her kindly and stroking her cheek.
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No, Timbra puree librarated around the church, her tone soft yet terrible. All eyes focused on her as she raised her head to look upon the people gathered before her. She was the most beautiful thing that Bernie had ever
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laid eyes upon. Her head was completely bald, her eyes large and bright, and her lips as dark as the fountain of blood that had gushed from the book.
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She stepped out from behind the altar, her hips swaying seductively as she moved through the chancel and into the nave of the church.
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She gazed down at Terrence, still tied to the base of the pull pit, his face a wash with lust and fascination.
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She crouched down beside the vicar. Gently, she took him by the arm and helped him to his feet.
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She smiled at him and spoke softly. "Me liber," she said, placing her palm over the bullet wound in his shoulder.
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When she removed it once again, the wound was gone. The vicar looked up into her eyes and he smiled as he took her hand in his. "By my hand you are free," he said to her.
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"And by my words you are commanded." She returned his smile, though hers was frightening to behold, a twisted distortion of glee that dripped with malice.
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You dare to claim dominion over me? Her voice was more of a snarl now. You who are fleeting and insignificant.
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Whereas I am ancient. I am eternal. She squeezed his hand as he cried out, crushing the bones of his fingers.
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But the ritual. I freed you. I brought you virginial innocent blood. The woman released her grip, stepping silently away from him and looking back across to Molly, who was now curled up and sobbing silently on the altar.
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She is innocent. Such sweet, delicious innocence. She turned her gaze back upon the priest who now stood cradling his twisted broken hand.
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But she is no virgin. The vicar staggered forwards. his face twisted in bewilderment as he looked over to the huddled girl.
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But she said, he protested. The naked woman laughed, a sound so sweet, like bird song in spring, yet at the same time horrific and terrifying.
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Her heart is full of shame. The woman chuckled. I feel it. It seeps from her every paw.
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something precious but not given freely. She stepped back towards the vicar once more, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath through her nose. She held the breath, reaching out to him, touching his chest lightly with the tip of her
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fingers. Reverend Saunders, you shall pay dearly for what you have attempted here. Her fingers seemed to penetrate through the man's chest, causing him to gasp aloud.
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"Please take them." The vicar gestured towards the filled pews of the church. "I brought them here for you. They are yours." She turned to look upon the many blank, emotionless faces that stared transfixed at her.
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"I know," she whispered sultterily in his ear. You shall watch me devour these souls one by one.
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Their scream shall haunt you over the millennia that I spend tearing you apart. Once more, a booming shot rang out around the church.
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The woman's throat exploded, coating the cowering priest's face in a sticky black residue that clung to his features like tar. Slowly and with purpose, the woman turned to face her attacker.
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Bernie stood beside the parapit, his gun leveled at her as he hauled a now untied terrance to his feet by the scruff of the neck.
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"You would dare?" The woman spat with barely contained fury. Bernie's gaze shifted from her now flaming red eyes to the gaping wound in her throat and back again.
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He knew he was out of his depth. In that instance, he'd reached the conclusion that his time had come. He would not be leaving this church alive.
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Defiantly, he squeezed the trigger once more. Another bullet thudding into her, high into her chest. Again and again, he fired off rounds into her, her body riddled with holes that used more of the thick black liquid, and eventually the
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slide of his pistol locked back. His rounds were spent. The woman stood unfazed by the onslaught, a slightly beused expression upon her face. "Who the are you?" Bernie said with a sigh, accepting whatever fate was about to befall him.
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I am Balau," she replied simply as a dark shadow spread across her ruined naked figure. Moments later, it was gone. And she was pristine once more.
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The trauma from Bernie's shots, gone as if they'd never been. You were not part of the ceremony. She seemed to glide towards him as she spoke, so fluid was her stride.
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She reached up and took the pistol from Bernie's grasp. He felt an icy chill run through his body as her finger gently brushed against his flesh.
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In that instance, something horrific flashed in his mind. A beast of pure depravity, twisted and malevolent.
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It bore no resemblance to the beautiful being standing no more than 2 ft in front of him.
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No, this fiend was practically skeletal. Yellow pustcoed skin pulled tight across its jutting bones. A gaping wound across its belly, its intestines spilling forth.
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Huge bat-like wings unfurled from behind its back as it let out a low hiss. Its limbs were unnaturally proportioned to the rest of its frame. overly long arms ending in viciously sharp talons reached out for him.
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Pitch black eyes, far too large and far apart to be human, stared into the depths of his very soul.
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Slowly, its more opened to reveal rows of needle-like teeth protruding in all directions from its bleeding, sorecovered gums.
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Bernie stumbled back in alarm. his burned scarred face a gasp with terror. He blinked. Now all he could see was the beautiful woman smiling to herself as she inspected his pistol.
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Turning it over in her delicate hands, she cast the weapon to one side and turned her gaze back to him once more.
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"You saw me," she stated bluntly. "My true form is not for mortal eyes. Yet still, you saw me. Thoughtfully, she tapped at her chin with a finger as she seemed to assess him. "Why are you here?" she demanded eventually. "I'm
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just here for the girl." Somehow, Bernie managed to keep his voice level and composed.
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"The girl is mine," Bal said, allowing her gaze to sweep across the altar to the young girl upon it. Suddenly rediscovering his nerve, Bernie snapped angrily. "No, you do not have the right to take her, and nobody here has the
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right to give her to you." Bal smiled at him before casting her eyes to look down upon the still beused and battered features of Terrence. "And what this one?" She reached her hand to caress the smaller man's face, but Bernie pulled
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him back out of reach. "He's my responsibility, too." Bernie's voice was becoming sterner by the second. "And he'll be coming with me." "You are a fascinating little creature," the woman said as she turned away from him, moving back over to the vicar that
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still cowered on his knees. "You may have seen me, Bernie Coker, but I have seen you in return.
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There is an exquisite darkness in your soul." She reached down to the priest, stroking his cheek with her fingers.
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With so much blood seeping from your hands, why bother challenging me over one little girl? Suddenly, the vicar cried out as she peeled a thin strip of skin from his face. He collapsed to the stone floor, weeping loudly.
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"Because she's better than me," Bernie replied. "And she's a damn side better than this bastard." He pulled Terrence back towards him as if to illustrate the point. "I will not let you have her.
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Ballel pondered over his words for a few seconds before smiling at him once more.
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"Then go," she said at last. "Take the girl. But know this, I will see you again." She turned her attention back to the sniveling vicar at her feet, and Bernie did not hesitate. Half dragging Terrence up towards the altar, he pulled him free
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of his bonds. Terrence's legs buckled as he collapsed to the floor. "What the hell was that?" he stammered. "We have to get out of here." Bernie ignored him as he moved over to Molly, still curled up and crying. "It's all right. It's
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over. I'm here to take you home," he said calmly. At the sound of his voice, she looked up. Her eyes were red and puffy from tears. But now they also shone with hope.
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Uncle Bernie. Her voice was small and defeated. Bernie simply offered her the warmest of smiles and scooped her up into his arms, holding her against his massive chest. "We have to get out of here," came the familiar weasel-like
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tone of Terrence as he began to scrambled to his feet. "You really are full of ideas today, aren't you?" Bernie barked back as he barged the smaller man out of the way.
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Suddenly, a choir of screams filled the church as they made their way down the aisle to the large oak doors.
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Terrence reached them first and immediately began fumbling with the iron handle that opened them. Eventually, it turned and the door opened, spilling him out into the churchyard to land in a heap on the gravel path beyond.
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The sky lit up as a flash of lightning spread out across the rooftops. A loud rumble of thunder followed. deep and full of ominous power.
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As he passed over the threshold of the doorway, Bernie chanced a brief glance over his shoulder.
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His eyes widened with horror as he witnessed the monstrosity that was Bal's true form as she tore through the screaming congregation.
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With a crash, the church door slammed shut and the screams fell silent. He tried to put the gruesome sight from his mind as he crossed the churchyard and out to the waiting car closely followed by Terrence.
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Opening the passenger door, he levered the front seat forward and gently eased Molly onto the back seat.
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"Where are we going?" she called out in panic. Bernie leaned down to look at her. "We're taking you home, little one," he said reassuringly.
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Her eyes opened wide at his words and she scrambled to escape. "No," she screamed. "I can't go back to him." She sprang from the car, straight into Terren, who grabbed her, pinning her arms at her side. "After all we've
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bleeding well been through," he snapped at her, his lips just inches from her face. "You're going back to London." Molly lashed out with her foot, kicking Terrence in the shin. He snarled at her, letting go with his right hand and
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striking her hard in the stomach. She crumbled, her breath, and what little fight she had left was now gone.
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"Terry!" shouted Bernie from across the roof of the car. "What?" Terrence spat back as he turned to face his companion.
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He froze as he found himself staring directly down the barrel of a sorn-off shotgun.
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As he opened his mouth to speak, Bernie squeezed the trigger. The shotgun roared and Terrence toppled backwards. His face along with most of his head now missing in a fog of crimson mist and gore.
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Bernie tossed the shotgun under the passenger seat and skirted back around the car to the fallen girl.
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Carefully, he helped her back to her feet as she gasped for breath. Come on, Molly," he said reassuringly.
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"You have to get in the car." She stared up at him, her eyes pleading.
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"Please," she said, the words barely forming as she struggled to breathe. "Don't take me back to him." "Once more," she began to cry.
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Bernie bit down on his bottom lip. Anger flared up in him once more. What did Harry do to this child? What could make her more afraid of going back to him than what she'd just been through inside that church?
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"We're not going back," he reassured her. Holding her tightly, he kissed her gently on the top of the head and eased her back into the car.
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"Then where are we going?" she asked through her sobs. Bernie dropped into the driver's seat, closed the door, and started the engine.
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If we hurry, he said over his shoulder, we might make it in time for Christmas dinner at mom's.
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Pulling the car away, he sped down the streets to the outskirts of town and onto the darkness of the countryside.
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Minutes passed by in silence, apart from the odd rumble of thunder in the faroff distance, but eventually Molly spoke again. "Uncle Bernie," her voice was small, but her breathing was now back under control.
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"Yes, Poet," he replied kindly, as the first spots of rain began to appear upon the windscreen.
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"Harry will be mad." He could hear the worry laced through her words. What if he comes looking for us? Bernie smirked to himself, not taking his eyes from the road.
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If he comes looking for us, he replied coldly. He's going to regret it. [music]
Topics:Copperporthorror story1950s thrillercrime bossrunaway girlwar veteransupernaturalBritish crimeHalloween storyProfessorStitch
