The Eighth Gate

11 | Dreamscape

Mary didn’t scream. Neither did Noah. They were too frightened to do anything at all; it was as if they had lost the ability to move their legs or shape their frozen lips into words. Mary held her breath. The man’s form was startlingly clear—she hadn’t ever seen a ghost so completely before, appearing before her with so much detail. She’d only caught glimpses of them, tiny snatches that escaped her with the blink of an eye, leaving her to question whether or not she had truly seen them in the first place.

The man was bulky, with broad shoulders and short, cropped hair. Even in the dark Mary could make out the square shape of his chin, the largeness of his fat nose, the old-fashioned jumpsuit hanging from his build. It was stained with blood.

Noah reached for Mary’s lower arm and clutched the fabric of her coat tightly; she could imagine his fingers were clammy, like hers. It was chillingly cold in the hall, so much so that Mary trembled beneath the thickness of her trench coat. For a single unpractical moment she thought that frost would start forming along the walls.

“T-Tam,” Mary called out hoarsely, wide gaze never wavering from the grinning man gazing down at her unsuspecting form.

Tamara glanced up for only a moment. “Hold on, Mary, my EMF is acting up.” As if to prove her point, she slapped the thing as it continued to beep. “It’s saying—“

“Tam,” Noah tried more forcefully. She held his gaze through the darkness. “Come over here, and whatever you do, don’t turn around.”

“Now she’s going to want to turn around,” Mary muttered to him.

 “What? Why…?” Tamara trailed off as she slowly turned in her place—and then her head tilted up in an effort to take in the apparition before her. Its smile faded the moment she screamed, replaced by a deadly serious glare. Cold, hard, and penetrating. The face of a murderer hungry for blood.

The image of Tamara running towards Mary and Noah through the hall, face ripe with terror, gradually faded into blackness as Noah’s flashlight flickered before giving out. He let out a curse, something Mary had hardly ever heard him do.

Tamara stumbled into Mary, nearly sending her toppling to the floor. It was so dark that she couldn’t see her hand before her face, although she could hear Tamara’s frantic little gasps, and Noah’s soothing murmurs. She was able to glimpse her holding onto him tightly, face buried in his chest.

Even through the opacity, Mary could see the ghost of the murderer approaching with stealthy steps and a predatory stride. Was this the so-called demon that had ripped her cross off her neck? She supposed it didn’t matter if he had done it or not. The fact was that he was drawing nearer, and he did not look friendly.

“We need to get out of here,” Mary said, surprising herself. In light of the sudden turn of events, her insistence to enter the master bedroom had reduced from a pained burn to an uncomfortable itch, mild enough to allow her to finally see some sense. Of course they needed to leave this place. They should have left the moment Mary’s cross was tampered with.

“You think?” Tamara’s voice snapped, dripping sarcasm.

“Front door. Let’s go,” Noah ordered. The trio ran through the mouth of the hallway and into the foyer; Mary’s back was tingling with goose bumps, undoubtedly from the ghost shadowing them.

The moment Noah reached for the door a click sounded. Mary couldn’t see much, but she could hear him struggling with the knob, jiggling it roughly in an effort to turn it open.

“It won’t open,” he breathed. Mary turned to face the pitch-blackness caging them in, pressing them into a corner. The only thing visible was the murderer’s ghost, still walking towards them. Panic seized Mary, making her stomach tingle and her throat dry up.