Dempsey's Demons_A Short Horror Story

  DEMPSEY’S DEMONS

  R. H. DIXON

  www.rhdixon.com

  _

  Copyright © 2016 R. H. Dixon

  The night Alice was born was the night everything changed. She was three weeks early, but not a day too soon, and I knew when I looked at her tiny face that I’d do absolutely anything for her…

  Before she made her premature arrival into the world, I lay in bed rubbing my massive belly; tired but not sleeping. Old sheets offered neither warmth nor comfort and cockroaches tick-tocked across the wall above my head. Everything inside the room, including myself, stank of stale meat; an odour that was constant and unpleasant, reminding me of long days spent handling raw cuts and swilling spilt blood. The smell stayed on my hands no matter how hard I scrubbed. Even long walks in the rain couldn’t rid the stink that gripped the back of my nose. I never complained though, this lifestyle was a preferable alternative to moving around between bus shelters, subways and other public places that stink of piss. As the saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers.

  Following my parents’ tragic death, the details of which I won’t disclose here, Uncle Dorchester took me into his home - an act of convenience, one that held no pretension. He was the only family I had. Likewise. He had no wife or kids, none that had hung around anyway, which was hardly surprising because he was a mean old bastard. He’d made it clear from the start that taking me in was nothing to do with love, sentimentality or family duty. A cramped room on the first floor of his house was offered in return for my cheap labour working in his butcher shop downstairs. Naturally, being so young, it was an offer I hadn’t been able to refuse. I had nowhere else to go and hardly any money to my name.

  I often wondered how Uncle Dorchester managed to run the butcher shop before I arrived. While I sweated and slaved each day, he was always down in the cellar, amongst stacks of blood-caked crates and dust, drinking whiskey and playing dominoes with his two pals Ralfie and Jonesy. Uncle Dorchester was a manipulative, overbearing pig and I couldn’t imagine anyone who chose to hang around with him would be in the least bit pleasant, so I stayed out of their way. When I’d gone to bed that night - the night Alice arrived - I’d known they were down there. I’d heard the low tone of Uncle Dorchester’s voice and the occasional bout of cigarette-hardened laughter.

  I lay upstairs, humming nursery rhyme tunes, imagining my little girl to be a miniature version of me - steely blue eyes and yellow hair. Every night, since the day I’d found out she was growing inside of me, she’d wandered amongst flocks of sheep in my head. And every night, because the sheep didn’t bring sleep, she soothed me. I couldn’t wait to meet her, my shepherdess of calm. When there was just me and her at night, I dared to hope that she might be the beginning of my happily-ever-after. That somehow, miraculously, everything might change once she arrived.

  Which it did.

  Oh boy, it did!

  And it all kicked off when Uncle Dorchester yelled up the stairs, ‘Dempsey, I’m gonna kill you!’

  Before I’d had time to sit up straight or imagine why he might be having homicidal thoughts, he’d run up the stairs and burst through the bedroom door. Instantly I could see that behind the lenses of his jam-jar-bottom glasses his eyes were mad with booze and rage.

  ‘Little bitch, yer’ve bin stealin’ my meat haven’t yer?” he snarled, baring long teeth that were yellowed by nicotine and browned along the gum line with decay.

  ‘No!’ My heart hammered way too loudly, disturbing my unborn baby I imagined.

  Uncle Dorchester growled and staggered forward, his hands flexed into claws. I knew then that things would get ugly. With all the heavy, gracelessness of a hippopotamus I jumped from the bed, hoping to put some distance between the two of us.

  ‘Thievin’ swine,’ he said, immediately trying to close the gap.

  ‘I haven’t taken anything from you, Uncle Dorchester,’ I said, holding my hands out in an attempt to placate him.

  He’d been ranting for weeks that his finances weren’t tallying up and had already, on numerous occasions, accused me of selling cuts of meat on the sly to make some extra pocket money - what with the baby coming soon, he reckoned. I’d never seen him this riled before though. He was terrifying.

  ‘Don’t you be lyin’ to me an’ all.’ He jutted a finger towards my belly. ‘If you weren’t up the duff I’d give yer a bloody good hidin’.’

  Cradling my stomach protectively, tears welled up in my eyes. ‘But I didn’t do anything. I swear!’

  ‘So who’s been takin’ my meat then? Fairies?’

  ‘I…I dunno. What about Ralfie or Jonesy? They’re always here.’

  ‘How dare you!’ He pointed his bony finger to the door. ‘Get out. Go on, get out of my house.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Now!’

  ‘But where will I go?’ I sobbed. ‘It’s half eleven.’

  Uncle Dorchester lurched forward and grabbed me by the wrist. Spinning me towards the door, he said, ‘Should’ve thought o’ that before yer went an’ bit the ‘and that was feedin’ yer, shouldn’t yer?”

  Tears dampened my cheeks and I fought against him as he yanked me towards the landing. My mind was a spinning vortex of fear and helplessness, panic and desperation. What was I meant to do? Where was I meant to go? I didn’t know the neighbours well enough to ask for help and, being so heavily pregnant and wearing nothing but thin pyjamas, I couldn’t exactly resort to sleeping on the streets.

  Gripping my fingers around the doorframe and digging my bare heels into the filthy landing carpet, I decided that if Uncle Dorchester wanted me out of the house I wasn’t going to go of my own accord, he’d have to physically remove me.

  ‘Quit tryin’ my patience, girl,’ he said. ‘If you don’t get out, then so help me God, I’ll give yer the biggest beltin’ o’ yer life, jus’ see if I don’t.” He then landed a hard slap across my face to substantiate the threat.

  I’d taken a lot of physical and emotional abuse from Uncle Dorchester over the years, but now that he was threatening the wellbeing of my unborn baby this somehow gave me the courage I needed to fight back. It was now or never. Do or die, I decided. So I rammed him hard, my hands against his bony chest. He stumbled backwards and, in his drunken stupor, fell to the ground. His face immediately contorted, at first with shock, then blind fury. He began to roll about on his back like an overturned beetle. ‘I’m…gonna…kill…you,’ he grunted.

  And I knew, this time, he was speaking the truth. I rushed back towards my bedroom, hoping to barricade myself inside, but before I got to the door a searing pain flashed across my abdomen, causing me to double over.

  ‘Oh God, please not now.’ I groaned, gripping the mound of my stomach. The idea of giving birth had always troubled me, but under these circumstances I was horrified about how I’d manage to get through the ordeal while staying alive.

  As soon as the excruciating spasm began to subside I hobbled back to my room. Reaching for the door I made to shut it behind me, but Uncle Dorchester, now on his feet again, grabbed my arm and flung me round to face him. His other hand was quick to grasp my shoulder and his face was mere inches away from mine. I could smell the whiskey on his breath and see white spittle foaming at the corners of his thin, cracked lips.

  ‘Yer think that’s pain?’ He balled his fist and looked down at my stomach. ‘I’ll show yer what real pain is.’

  Call it survival instinct or maternal impulse, there was no way I was going to let the old bastard knock me about. Not anymore. As he swung his fist in a wide arc I managed to block the blow with my forearm. It hurt like hell but I began windmilling my arms, raining blows down onto his head, face and up
per body with my own fists. And, I’m not ashamed to say, I took great satisfaction in the look of shocked hurt on his face as I pummelled him. Over and over I dealt him a hard-landing punch for each and every time he’d caused me pain and misery. I pounded him the full length of the landing, frantic and unstoppable. The most he could do was move back and shrink away, a pathetic mewling sound escaping from his ugly mouth. I’ll forever cherish the fleeting look of fear on his face as he ran out of floor space and toppled backwards from the top stair. His arms flailed upwards and I made no attempt to save him. I could have, but I didn’t. My only regret is that I didn’t spit in his face before he fell.

  After the duh-dum, duh-dum, duh-dum of his body crashing to the bottom of the stairwell, silence ensued. Then another excruciating contraction staggered me; perhaps my unborn baby letting me know she knew what I’d done.

  ‘It was an accident,’ I whispered, as much to myself as to her.

  When the pain of the newest contraction abated I edged down the stairs. Rubbing my hand in small circular motions around the most prominent part of my stomach, I insisted, ‘I didn’t mean to do it, sweetheart. We’ll be okay. It was just an accident.’

  When I got to the bottom of the stairs I saw that the door to the cellar was open and two figures were loitering in the dingy hallway like shadows. One was tall and gangly, the other short and thickset. I froze.

  ‘Course it was an accident, sweetheart,’ the tallest one said. His voice rattled in his throat, deep and phlegmy, and he wore a black, toothy grin.

  Both men moved to the foot of the stairs. They stopped and looked down at Uncle Dorchester’s broken, unmoving body. The shortest of the two raised a booted foot and nudged Uncle Dorchester’s shoulder.

  ‘Dead as a doornail,’ he announced.

  “Yup. Looks like you killed him good an’ proper, love,” the tall one said, fixing me with eyes that were as yellow as hazard warning signs.

  I gasped and shrank away.

  My display of fear inspired a chuckle from the tall one. ‘We’ll help get rid of the body if you like?’ He bent down and lifted one of Uncle Dorchester’s feet.

  ‘Wh…why would you want to do that?’ I asked.

  Dropping Uncle Dorchester’s foot, which fell to the ground with a clatter, he extended his hand to me and winked. ‘I’m Jonesy, pet.’

  His hand was filthy black with yellowed nails that were thick and long like claws. I ignored his offer of a handshake, shuddering inwardly at the thought of touching him.

  ‘I know who you are,’ I said. ‘Jonesy and Ralfie. You’re supposed to be Uncle Dorchester’s friends, why would you offer to help get rid of his body?’

  Jonesy belly laughed.

  ‘Ha! That old ballbag didn’t have any friends,’ Ralfie said, grinning. His eyes shone just as yellow as Jonesy’s.

  ‘Er, I think I’d better call the police,’ I said, becoming increasingly unnerved by these two menacing characters.

  I made my way towards the hallway telephone, but Jonesy grabbed my arm.

  ‘You sure you want to do that?’ he asked.

  Another shock of pain gripped my belly. I bit down on my lip and winced. White lights danced around behind my eyes and I felt like I might fall to the ground. Jonesy held fast to my arm, though, and he led me to the broken-backed chair by the telephone. He urged me to sit down, as though he was some kind of gentleman, and said, ‘The way I see it is if you go callin’ the police they’ll take your baby away. I mean, the accident wasn’t completely your fault, but still, you killed the old prick fair and square. Do you honestly think the police will take pity on your plight?’

  ‘Not on your Nelly,’ Ralfie injected.

  ‘No siree. You’ll be lucky if you get to hold the little ‘un before social services come swoopin’ down on it like the vultures they are,’ Jonesy concluded.

  I wasn’t sure whether what Jonesy said was right or not, I couldn’t think straight, but I knew I couldn’t risk my baby being taken away from me. She was all I had. All I ever wanted. I needed more time to think, but with the baby demanding an early entry into the world time was something I definitely didn’t have.

  Jonesy swept loose hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears, and stroked my sweaty forehead with the backs of his calloused fingers, soft and gentle, almost like a lover.

  ‘Leave Dorchy to me and Ralfie, eh love? We’ll sort him out. You go an’ take care of yourself. Go deliver that little ‘un.’

  I found myself nodding in agreement. Then as Jonesy and Ralfie dragged Uncle Dorchester down into the depths of the cellar I took myself upstairs, back to my bed, where an hour later I was holding Alice in my arms for the very first time.

  Alice and I stayed upstairs, just the two of us, till the following afternoon. Luckily it was Sunday so the shop was closed. I knew people would need their meat fixes by the following day though, so I needed a plan. I also needed to find out what Jonesy and Ralfie had done to Uncle Dorchester’s body. Had to know if the problem was fixed.

  While Alice was sleeping in her Moses basket, I crept downstairs and headed straight to the dismal depths of the cellar. At the bottom of the wooden stairs, I felt around the cold brick wall for the light switch and flicked it on. A bare, low-energy lightbulb, dangling from the ceiling, highlighted empty crates stacked around the room’s circumference and a heavily stained wooden table in the centre. Four chairs were pushed in around the table. Jonesy and Ralfie weren’t there. And neither was Uncle Dorchester.

  This troubled me greatly.

  I turned to leave, making my way back up the wooden steps, my mind going into overdrive. What had they done to his body? Would I ever see them again? Would they try to blackmail me?

  Maybe it’s not too late to call the police.

  As though my thoughts had been read, I heard the gruff voice of Jonesy: ‘Now why would you want to go an’ do that? We took care of business didn’t we? Just like we said.’

  Spinning around I saw him and Ralfie sitting at the table, dominoes set out in front of them.

  Lost for words I stared at them, my mouth agape.

  ‘But…You weren’t here a minute ago,’ I said eventually.

  Jonesy shuffled ivory-coloured dominoes around the table, the click-clack of them sounding like dry bones tapping together. Without looking up he said, ‘We’re always here, chicken. You just never saw us before.’

  Ralfie guffawed.

  ‘What did you do with Uncle Dorchester’s body?’ I asked, nerves causing my entire body to tingle with cold sweat. ‘And why are you helping me?’

  ‘Oh we aren’t helpin’ you, darlin’.’ Jonesy shook his head and fixed me with his acid-yellow eyes. ‘We aren’t the charitable types. See, we used to belong to your uncle Dorchy, but since you’ve inherited his home – our home – it’s only right that you inherit us too. Ain’t that right, Ralfie?’

  ‘‘Fraid so, lassie.’ Ralfie’s yellow eyes were now mocking me, his fat, grinning face gruesome like some carnivorous deep sea species.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I said, becoming even more confused and frightened.

  ‘Hell is exactly what we’re talkin’ about,’ Ralfie said. He pointed a finger gun at me and fired.

  ‘Your uncle Dorchy was a bad man, sugar lips. A very bad man indeed,’ Jonesy said. ‘Let’s just say that durin’ his miserable existence he’d stirred up more evil than his skinny-arsed, bandy-legged body could contain.’

  ‘And so, voila, here we are,’ Ralfie said, holding his arms in the air as though accepting a silent ovation for him being there. ‘An extension of your dearest Uncle Dorchy.’

  Jonesy stood up. The legs of the chair he’d been sitting on scraped across the cement floor like nails down a chalkboard. ‘Oh I suppose it may seem lame and ridiculous, I know,’ he said, frowning. ‘But what Ralfie says is true. You could say we were your Uncle Dorchy’s demons. Whether he wanted us or not, he created us.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ralfie said. ‘He
created us and entertained us, but the tight-fisted old fucker wouldn’t feed us, can you believe that? He made us, but he wouldn’t feed us.’ He shook his head, his expression one of disgust.

  ‘But we took from him anyway.’ Jonesy winked at me and grinned that awful lascivious grin of his.

  ‘You mean it was you who stole the meat?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course it was. And it was great fun winding Dorchy up about it last night. We convinced him it was you, see. Cantankerous old fool was always easy to wind up,’ Ralfie said, chuckling to himself.

  Jonesy threw him a stony look then said to me, ‘Of course, we would have stepped in if he’d gone too far with you, poppet. But you took care of things yourself, didn’t you? And don’t you go worryin’ your pretty little head about it neither, Uncle Dorchy had it coming.’

  ‘But…’ I looked around the cellar in case I was missing something. ‘Where is he? What did you do with the body?’

  In answer, Jonesy licked his top lip. ‘Like Ralfie said, Dorchy didn’t feed us too well, so we made up for that a little.’

  ‘No.’ I gasped and backed away, more fearful than ever. ‘Surely you don’t mean…you don’t mean you’ve eaten him?’

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, tuppence,’ Jonesy said. ‘You hated the old prick too and at least this way he’s out of your hair. Now you have the house all to yourself, a gorgeous baby girl to take care of and us to play with down here.’

  ‘Whoa, no,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘The house isn’t mine. Uncle Dorchester would never have left it to me.’

  Jonesy clucked his tongue and wagged his finger at me. ‘No one knows he’s dead, flowerpot, and do you really think anyone’s gonna report him missing?’

  ‘Well, maybe not. I don’t know. But it’s not right, I can’t do this. I can’t run this house and shop on my own.’

  ‘Oh quit frettin’,’ Ralfie chided. ‘We know where Dorchy kept his cash. There’s lots of it too. Tight-fisted old bastard didn’t use a bank, you’re sittin’ on a small fortune. Just think of the future you could have with that little ‘un of yours. Nice big house, plenty of money to keep her clothed and fed. She’ll be able to have a decent education too. Everything you never had. You’d be a fool not to jump at the chance.’