Tales of Sin and Madness Read online

  So afterwards, the captain tells us that we are going to be staying overnight here. He says we all needed the rest. I agreed with him!

  A group of the boys told me they were getting a lift over to a place called Mariani (spelt correctly?) where it was thought to have vodoo priests and real life zombies (yeah right!).

  I laughed and told them I was going to stay in the city with the others (there

  werent many – most of them went to that Mariani place). I was so dog tired, you see.

  Anyway, at around two in the morning the fellas came back, all ecsited and smelling of booze. They woke some of us up and told us what happened.

  They said they had been drinking for a while and all decided it was about time to see some real life zombies. They all took a walk through the small town and found themselfes in forests. They came across a large field, they rekon where some of the suger we’d been hauling was grown, and saw some strange things. They said they hid and watched some weird ceremony involving singing and dancing. They also rekon they saw some real life zombies, but I have my douts. In any event, this is where it gets even more scary.

  After the ritual was finished and all the people were inside the houses, the fellas snuck into the field and started messin around with the suger canes.

  They started acting all silly and pretending they were zombies and performing the ritual. Soon an old woman came out of the house and saw them.

  She started yelling and throwing beads around. Well, the fellas got out of there quick smart.

  When they told me that I laughed. Afraid of an old woman! But that’s there story. I better go, because I wrote enough. ‘Sides, Swampy is sick and I have to tend to the fella. I think a couple of the others have catched his flu, because there complaining of feeling sick too. I say they just want to get out of work!

  That’s where the diary ended. The Reverend sighed.

  That’s some story, he thought. I’ll have to ask him some time about… A wretched cry permeated the small cottage. The Reverend jerked in his seat. He threw down the diary and struggled out of the soft chair.

  “What on earth…?” he mumbled as the cries continued.

  He bounded through the cottage, at a speed his age would barely allow, and arrived at his bedroom. Panting hard, the Reverend shoved open the door and turned on the light. The man was writhing on the bed, his face a horrible contortion of agony. He was grabbing at his head and moaning. Some of the bandages had been pulled loose and blood had begun to seep from the wounds. The Reverend quickened over to the man and tried to take hold of his arms.

  “Take it easy. Hey, come on now.”

  “It huuurts,” the man bellowed.

  The Reverend, astonished at the man talking, momentarily lost his hold, and the man struck the side of his head with his flailing arms. The Reverend grunted and fell to the floor.

  “HURTS…COMING…STOP,” the man cried.

  The Reverend rubbed his temple and stood up with wobbly legs. He looked down at the man and frowned. What was wrong with him? Why was he talking now? It was almost as if he had been in a trance and was only now coming out of it.

  “C…calm down,” the Reverend breathed. He grabbed the man’s arms and pinned them down. “It’s okay. Are you in great pain?”

  “Coming,” he forced out. “Get away…it huuuurts,” he sobbed.

  “What?” the Reverend said. “Coming, who’s coming?”

  Without warning the man sat up, breaking the Reverend’s hold.

  Breathing rapidly, the man, whose complexion had grown even more pallid, opened his mouth.

  The Reverend stood back and watched intently, waiting for whatever it was he was going to say. Instead, the man made a gurgling sound and blood started to flow from his mouth.

  The Reverend rushed to the man. “Oh please, God. Help this man.”

  Thick, mucus-filled blood poured from the man’s mouth and his eyes began streaming with tears.

  “I’ll call the ambulance,” the Reverend told him. “Don’t you worry.”

  But the man grabbed the Reverend’s forearm with a ferocious hold. “Let go,” the Reverend choked. “I have to call you an ambulance.” He tried to pry the fingers off, but there was no give. “Stop!” the Reverend shrieked.

  But the man tightened his grasp so much that the Reverend expected to hear his bones crunch at any moment.

  He clawed at the man’s hand, and just as he was about to give up, the man stopped squeezing. The blood that spewed from his mouth turned black and his eyes bulged large and fearful.

  With one last cough, the man fell back to the bed. The hand that had been holding onto the Reverend dangled towards the floor.

  The Reverend remained still for a moment, stunned.

  Then reaching cautiously over the body, he placed his trembling hand to the man’s neck and using two fingers, checked for a pulse.

  As he feared, there was none. He placed his head across the man’s chest and listened. He could hear no heartbeat.

  Quickly, the Reverend crossed his chest and said a prayer.

  Opening his eyes, he stared down at the deceased man. It occurred to him he hadn’t even known the man’s name.

  He reached down and took a hold of his hand.

  “It’s okay,” he said in a soft voice. “The Lord will take care of you.” He patted the limp hand and gently placed it across the man’s bloody chest.

  He turned around and left the bedroom. He wandered into the lounge, where the open fire was still burning strong, and fell into his chair. He would have to call an ambulance, something he thought he’d never have to do again. He tried to move, but found he didn’t have the heart to. There was no emergency, really.

  The man was already dead. Still, the sooner the better.

  He glanced up at the picture that hung on the wall. It filled him with immense sorrow. Back when he was a young man, he used to think that everything served a purpose. All events, every living creature, be it good or bad, was put on this earth for a reason.

  That every moment in your life taught you something.

  Therefore, when a tragedy befell, he took that as the Lord’s way, something that needed to happen in order for others to learn from and, hopefully, to live a fuller and more meaningful life.

  That’s what he used to believe.

  The first time he began to question his belief was when his wife died two years ago from brain cancer. Seeing her wither away had been the most heartbreaking thing his eyes and heart had ever witnessed.

  And when she finally had passed away, he was left feeling empty. He had felt no comfort from the Lord. He had wanted no help from the church.

  The night she died, he had stared up at this very same picture and felt, for the first time, no joy or solace in the figure of Christ giving his life to save mankind.

  In the years since, his faith had been in continual question.

  He went to church and performed the sermons dutifully, and he even prayed every night, though he thought, perhaps, it was more out of habit than anything else.

  And now this stranger.

  There seemed no point in him dying. What possible use could it serve, when he was perfectly willing to care for this unfortunate man?

  As the Reverend grew older, his belief in fate and purpose had diminished. Up to the point that now, as he gazed upon the shimmering picture of Christ, he felt anger.

  He reached over and picked up the phone book.

  A dim flicker of light fell into the room. Quickly he dropped the phone book and stood up.

  He wandered into the kitchen, leaving the lights off, and headed for the window. He peered out and saw only darkness.

  Can’t have been a ship, he thought. There are no ports here.

  He knew that many ships passed through the not-to-distant ocean, but they always ran parallel to the shore. The nearest port was a couple of hours away.

  His next thought was maybe a traveller had happened upon his cottage. But he could see no person, no t
orchlight.

  There was a movement behind him.

  The Reverend turned and saw a figure lumbering towards him.

  He shuddered. His immediate thought was that an intruder had broken in. He was about to plead to him that he had no money, but then the figure stepped into the path of the moonlight.

  “Impossible,” he whispered.

  For the thing that was ambling ever closer was the stranger.

  The bandages flopped with each step, and his mouth, forever gaping, dribbled the black muck he had vomited just before his demise.

  Or apparent demise, the Reverend now thought.

  I didn’t check his pulse properly, that’s all. And his heart must’ve been too weak to hear.

  “A…are you all right?” the Reverend said, even though he knew he would get no answer.

  The man continued closer. His unblinking eyes were expressionless. He left a dark trail of blood as his feet scraped along the wooden floor.

  The smell was ungodly; it enveloped the Reverend with a stench twice as horrible as when he had found him.

  Despite common sense, something deep inside told him that this was no living man. He was certain there had been no pulse, and the Reverend had seen enough death to recognise its ugly face. This was a creature sent by the devil, and it was shuffling closer.

  The Reverend turned and hunted for a formidable weapon.

  He sifted through the drawers until he found a large kitchen knife. When he turned back, the thing was no more than five feet away.

  “GET AWAY!” he shouted, brandishing the thick knife. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

  There was no cease from the monster.

  Black blood gurgled from its mouth and as it neared, it raised its arms in a sick parody of an embrace.

  “Please, go away,” the Reverend pleaded.

  With stiff, cold hands, the brute cupped the Reverend’s throat and squeezed.

  The Reverend pried at its hands for release, but found the grip was too tight. He choked and struggled, felt his strength beginning to wane. He had to do something before the life was strangled from his body.

  So he plunged the knife down. He sent the blade through the top of the thing’s head with such force that he managed to ram the knife all the way down to its handle.

  The thing cried an almighty roar and blood gushed from its mouth. It brought its hands up to the buried knife and was coated in a torrent of red gore. Letting out one last scream, its body went limp and it sank to the floor.

  The Reverend, eyes wide and face covered in blood, was in disbelief. Disbelief of how this man could have been walking, disbelief of what he had just done. He was a murderer. He had killed one of God’s creations, even if it was hideous to look at.

  “What have I done?” he whimpered.

  I will be punished severely for this.

  He turned away from the sprawled thing and rushed out the door, into the mild night. Standing in the tall grass, he vomited long and hard.

  When his stomach was empty, the Reverend wiped his mouth and straightened up. The breeze felt good as it lilted against the cold sweat dripping from his face.

  Out the corner of his eye, he saw a light flicker. He glanced in the direction of the beach and saw a gleam of light. It wasn’t very strong; it was almost as if a mist of yellow fog was being shone through the darkness.

  The Reverend began walking towards the ocean. For a short time he forgot about what was back at his cottage, lying dead on the kitchen floor. The source of the light became his immediate preoccupation.

  Perhaps there’s somebody up ahead with a torch, he thought. The person could be hurt.

  The light faded.

  The Reverend stopped and frowned at the relinquishment of the mysterious light.

  Even if there is somebody up ahead, I can’t take them back to my house.

  Still, he continued.

  He tramped along the sandy ground for five more minutes before he came upon the cliff where he had met the now deceased man.

  He could see no person with a torch. He stepped closer to the edge and peered down at the ocean.

  The Reverend was staggered to find a ship. It was moored a little way up the beach and he could see hordes of figures stepping off. Some were already out and walking along the dark beach; a few were walking down the steep stairs that led onto the sand.

  He couldn’t possibly count all the dark figures, but the Reverend guessed there were at least twenty that he could see. And there was bound to be more inside the ship, waiting to hop out.

  The tiny portholes that coated the ship’s exterior were lit up, including a powerful torch at the bow of the ship.

  There’s my mysterious light, the Reverend thought.

  He wondered why they had chosen to land the ship where they had. He thought maybe they were having problems that required them to land immediately.

  He stayed for a while and watched the groups of dim figures make their way onto land. It was only when he caught a whiff of a familiar stench that a wild chill surged through his body and he decided to leave.

  Turning his back on the ocean, the Reverend started off towards his cottage.

  He jogged most of the way, and by the time he arrived, he was panting harshly and sweating. He stopped by the open door.

  He inhaled deeply before stepping into his cottage. He closed the door then locked it. That horrid, familiar smell down at the ocean had instilled a grave fear. He had a strong feeling something unnatural was going to happen.

  Acting on that instinct he went about locking the windows and shutting the curtains. There was no back door, so he only had to worry about making sure the windows were secured.

  When he was finished, the Reverend slumped in his chair by the dwindling fire.

  Now what do I do with the body? he wondered. The thought about having to clean the mess vexed his already cloudy mind.

  Seeing that the fire needed stoking, the Reverend hopped up and threw some more logs on. Soon the fire blazed healthy and he sat back and sighed.

  What possible ramifications will this ghastly night have? the Reverend wondered. He wanted to forget everything that had happened. Everything he had done. How could he go to church and talk about peace and prayer now?

  Above the crackling of the fire, the Reverend heard the faint sound of moaning. He turned and looked towards the kitchen, almost expecting to see the man lumbering for him, the knife protruding from his head. Never would he have thought such things before tonight, and that scared him almost as much as those deep, long groans that seemed to be getting louder.

  The Reverend stood and headed into the kitchen. The form was still lying on the kitchen floor, motionless and bloody.

  But now the Reverend could hear that the sounds were coming from outside. He carefully stepped around the body and up to the window. He flung the curtain aside and peered out.

  At first he saw nothing; he only heard the unearthly wail of many voices.

  Then he saw the dim figures approaching. The Reverend drew in a fearful breath. Out of the perpetual darkness at least thirty men were striding towards him.

  “What do they want?” he whispered.

  It wasn’t until they had ambled closer, as they stepped into the moonlight that the Reverend saw them properly. Most had dreadful wounds inflicted on their bodies. Some had chunks of flesh missing from their necks; some had parts of their face torn off. One man had no arm below the elbow. Their clothes were ragged; some wore nothing but strips of fabric.

  Were these the people from the ship?

  Has to be, he thought.

  He closed the curtain and turned around.

  “What happened?” he said down to the body. “What abomination have you brought here?”

  Panic began to rise up in the Reverend’s heart. He rushed into the dim lounge. Confusion and terror set in, in equal parts.

  The first bang against the door came as a surprise to the Reverend.

  He shrieked. He gazed over at the front door
and heard the thumps of the people.

  Not people; people don’t look like that. People don’t come to a man’s home and act this way.

  He heard the breaking of glass and turned to see shards flying onto the kitchen floor.

  “What do you want?” the Reverend cried. “I am a man of God. I have no money and have done no wrong!” I have killed a man, he reminded himself.

  He saw one of the figures clawing at the broken window.

  Another face appeared and both groaned while trying to climb in. The banging continued with force at the front door.

  The cries became louder and from somewhere in the cottage, perhaps in his bedroom, he heard more glass breaking.

  He closed his eyes. He knew they had surrounded the cottage.

  Within minutes they would be inside.

  The Reverend fell to his knees. He heard scraping all around him and more smashing of glass. Grunts rose and fell with every thump.

  The front door gave way slightly. One of its hinges snapped off and the door splintered, allowing for a hand to snake its way through.

  The Reverend turned his head and saw that one of the fiends at the window was almost inside. He was bleeding profusely from the many cuts the broken glass had given him. He didn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest, however.

  The moans from down in his bedroom were louder now.

  They pounded in the Reverend’s ears, almost drowning out the sound of the fire.

  The Fire!

  The Reverend stood up, dashed over to the open fire and carefully clutched a half-burning log. With the makeshift torch, he hurried down to his bedroom, and stopped at the door. A half a dozen of the creatures were already inside, menacing towards him. More were clambering at the broken window. Their expressionless faces drooled blood, and the Reverend was momentarily caught thinking about the stranger.

  He was brought back when a hand clutched at his shirt.

  Crying out with disgust, the Reverend struck the creature with the flaming log. It howled and reeled back, cowering with hands in front of its face.