Pull yourself together. Get a fucking grip.
Slowly, he peeled off his shirt.
He’d deliberately worn a shirt that was two sizes too big, just to give the acne some breathing space. He wasn’t sure if it had made any difference, but it was all he could think of. Back at the old lady’s place, when he’d got up to use her bathroom, he’d taken off his jacket and seen specks of blood on the shirt collar. Since his strange experience early that morning, when he’d felt pinned to the bed by some angry force, he’d become convinced that the spots on his back had begun to change. He was almost afraid to inspect them and see what they looked like now.
Brendan dropped the shirt on the bathroom floor.
He turned slowly to the side and started picking at the plasters that held the dressing in place. There were small spots of blood on the white cotton gauze. It wasn’t much, but it was there, like a warning. He pulled at the plasters and removed them, wincing as they pulled out tiny hairs, and then lifted the dressing to reveal his lacerated flesh.
Turning around to present his back to the mirror, he strained to look at the reflection of his rear side. Despite the presence of the blood, the pustules looked dry — drier than they had in a while. No fluids glistened on his body; no vile-coloured ichors had been spilled. The acne was more like a patch of damaged skin than individual wounds. It looked as if someone had laid a sheet, or several sheets, of treated rubber over his upper back — like a TV special effect in a hospital soap opera. He flexed the muscles there, testing it. The pain flared briefly and then died.
But then something strange happened.
When he stopped moving, the wounds continued to stir. The damaged skin shuddered, as if from an electric current being passed through it. The skin clenched, like the backs of hands making fists, and as he watched, parts of it rose, like flaps — or like two eyelids.
Beneath each of these thin lids, there was a small, dark eye. For some reason Brendan was not shocked. He knew that he should be — he realised that eyes opening up in a person’s back was not a normal or natural occurrence, and he should be screaming in horror — but instead he experienced a strange overwhelming sense of calm.
The eyelids blinked, fluttering like a cheap whore’s on a neon-soaked boardwalk. The eyes weren’t human, he could see that clearly. They were yellow, rather than white, around the outside, and the pupils were strange… black and horizontal, like rectangular slots at the centre of the iris. They reminded him of something and he struggled to grab hold of an image. Then, suddenly, it came to him. Those weird eyes… they were the eyes of a goat.
The eyelids blinked again. Brendan had the feeling that they were waiting for something — perhaps for him, to acknowledge them.
“I’m not afraid,” he said. “I know I should be, but I’m not. I was afraid of you twenty years ago, when you locked us up in the dark, but that was a lifetime ago. You don’t scare me, you fucker. You make me angry, not afraid.” He curled his hands into fists.
The eyelids widened; the black, slotted pupils contracted. From somewhere in the small bathroom — the ends of the taps, the bath plug, the toilet bowl — came a familiar clicking sound. It started slowly, gaining speed as he listened, but remained at a constant volume.
“It’s just a trick,” said Brendan. “You can’t hurt me. If you could, you’d have done it by now. You’ve had twenty fucking years to kill me, but I’m still alive. I’m still here. So do your worst. I dare you.”
The two eyelids blinked again. And then they closed.
Brendan was shaking. He had not felt so alive in years. There was fire in his belly, his blood was molten lava, and he felt as if he could take on anyone and win. “Do your fucking worst,” he whispered.
He filled the sink with cold water and washed his face, then dabbed at his back with a wet cloth. The infected skin looked the same as it had done before, before those weird eyes opening. Oddly, it seemed as if the acne was healing, the badness leaking out, draining off. He pressed his fingertips against the spots, but they did not burst; the skin didn’t break.
Bending down, he picked up his shirt. When he straightened up he looked again at his face in the mirror. This time his own eyes were like a goat’s, with dull yellow irises and slotted black pupils. He stepped backwards, stumbling, and fell sideways, almost into the bath, slamming his arm against the edge of the tub as he did so. Breathing heavily, he pulled himself upright, using the sink for leverage, and looked directly into the mirror.
His eyes were normal again.
“More cheap tricks,” he said, leaning forward, pressing his nose against the glass. “They won’t work now. We’re all grown up and we don’t scare easy.” He smiled. In the mirror, his face looked sweaty and manic. “We’re not little kids.”
Brendan threw the damp shirt in the direction of the washing basket and then took off his jeans, socks and underpants and sent them the same way. He walked naked along the landing and went into the bedroom, where he picked out some clean clothes. He also selected another outfit for later that evening — dark dress trousers, the black silk shirt Jane had bought him last Christmas, and his best pair of shoes.
He sat down on the bed and began to polish the shoes with a duster. The methodical task calmed his mind, helped him to relax.
Why am I no longer afraid? he thought. What’s happened to me? I should be terrified.
He buffed the black shoes with the soft yellow cloth, pausing occasionally to breathe onto the leather upper, misting it.
I’m not the strong one. I’m the weak member of the group, the one who would die first if this was a horror film.
He smiled.
Exhaled.
Buffed.
If this were a film, he would not be sitting naked on the bed, shining his shoes. He’d be buying some obscure book on demonology from a backstreet dealer, or hiring an exorcist. But real life wasn’t like the movies; reality was something you had to go through to fully understand the complexities, a series of obstacles that were meant to be endured. Sometimes passivity was the only option, and not everyone could be a hero. In real life, the monsters were often defeated by common sense and a blunt acceptance of the reality they presented. You didn’t always have to fight, to confront the thing in the closet, the leering face under the bed.
Some battles were fought in the mind. Some wars lasted forever.
He examined his shoes. They were as shiny as he would ever get them. He could almost see his face in the polished surface. As far as he could tell, his eyes were the same as always.
Brendan put away the cloth and set down his shoes at the side of the bed. He laid out the clothes he intended to wear to dinner and dressed in the others, tucking his T-shirt into the waistband of his jeans. Jane hated that; she said it wasn’t trendy. But Brendan had never been a fashionable man. Sometimes — more often than not, if he were honest — he wondered what the hell she ever saw in him. He had never been her type. But maybe that was part of the appeal?
Simon had been her type, and he’d dumped her.
Crossing the room, he went to the wardrobe and stood on his tiptoes. He couldn’t be bothered to retrieve the box from under the bed, so he struggled on his tiptoes to reach the thing he was looking for. The acorn, when he brought it out, was dusty, its skin peeling back in thin, dry folds. It looked old, rotten and decayed: an empty husk, devoid even of terror. He held it between the palms of his hands and pushed the hands inwards. The acorn held at first, but as he pressed it began to burst, the sides caving in as he forced his palms together.