Songs of Dreaming Gods Read online

  At one time, there had been stained glass covering the openings. The remnants of several pieces clung precariously to the window sides in several places, only a small amount, but more than enough for John to see that any iconography on display was definitely not Judeo-Christian in origin. With the glass gone and fog drifting outside, the windows were now like opaque eyes. They stared, unblinking, inward to the center of the room, where eight black eggs hung and spun, throbbing with a bass drone that was taken up by the choir in his head and in humming from the pistol.

  The weapon sent another blast of heat as he stepped forward. Without hesitation, he fired a shot into the small group of eggs, right in the center. A blaze of light flared, momentarily blinding him and leaving yellow dancing blobs obscuring his vision completely. They were still there when he closed his eyes, slowly fading against the black until finally dissipating. When he looked again, a new thing stood in the center of the chamber, a nightmare, and one of the oldest, the same hooded figure that had stood at the foot of John’s bed on more nights than he cared to remember in his childhood.

  Back then John had thought of him as the evil monk and he’d spent many a night lying awake, hoping he wouldn’t come. He hadn’t been bothered by that particular dream since he was eight or nine, yet here it was back again, and much more solid than it had ever been in the past. The long folds of his robes seemed to absorb the light, blacker even than the eggs from which he had just sprung. The hood hung over his face obscuring the features in deeper blackness. John knew what was in there, what he’d see when the hood, as it must, fell back, a white skull, black eye sockets and stars, dancing deep within. There was also no mistaking the tall scythe in the thing’s bony, almost skeletal right hand. The blade, nearly four feet long, gleamed and shone, as red as fresh blood. Many, far too many, times, that same blade had swung in his dreams, separating John’s head from his body but leaving him still lucid as the head was carried away, still able to see his body, being left discarded like an old sock. But that wasn’t what he was thinking now. John remembered the dead in the apartment, where all this strangeness had started. He wondered if he had just found the murder weapon, and the murderer.

  “I have come to show you the way, pilgrim,” a soft voice said and the figure moved. The robe hung in folds around his feet, making it seem as if he flowed forward in a single smooth motion. A high sickly stench of corruption hung in the air.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” John said, stepped forward quickly and thrust the pistol deep into the folds of the robe. His hand went icy cold, but he had time to pull the trigger, three times in quick succession.

  A scream rent the air. More icy cold gripped every inch of John’s body and his pistol arm went numb all the way from fingers to shoulder, like a cold stone.

  “Well that’s a bit rude. I only wanted to say hello,” an urbane, annoyed, voice said, but now it came from far off, like an echo in the hills. The robed figure fell apart into more of the black ash John had seen before, and as before it was blown into fine dust as it fell. John stood, waiting to see if the Monk, the Reaper, would come back. But seconds later he could hold the pistol no longer, it got too heavy for him to keep raised, then too heavy for him to hold. It fell from his grasp. Dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him again, and the wound at his belly howled in pain almost as bad as when he’d taken the stabbing. The gun hit the stone floor with a ringing clang that echoed around the chamber.

  Overhead the Burdens screeched, as if sensing an opportunity to attack, an attack that John had no strength left in him to defend. He followed the pistol to the floor and into blackness, and most welcome it was too. The only thing that disturbed it was the singing, echoing from everywhere and nowhere and going along with him into the black.

  He sings with the fish as he sleeps far below

  And the Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  He woke out of the blackness some time later. He’d been dreaming, at least he thought it was a dream, of sitting in a comfortable if somewhat dilapidated armchair, smoking cigarettes and drinking Scotch while white static hissed and danced on an old television set in front of him. All things considered, he’d rather be there than here, wherever here was this time.

  He lay there for a time, listening. If the Burdens were going to try to attack, it might be better if he played possum. But there was no sound of talons on stone, no rustle of wings. The right side of his body felt hot and burning, while the left was still cold. He heard crackling, fire eating wood and sparking as it got to a damp patch.

  He opened his eyes. He lay on his back in front of the large fireplace, cold stone slabs beneath him. Someone had draped a cloak over him. He was relieved to see that it wasn’t black. He tried to sit, but couldn’t quite find the strength just yet, although he already felt a lot better than he had immediately before collapsing.

  “John?” a voice said softly. It wasn’t the last urbane inflection he’d heard from the Reaper, this was higher pitched, almost whiny, and he knew immediately who was here with him. Somebody, something, moved away from the shadows and came into view. The Rat King bent over John, a smile on the rodent-like face. “I thought we had lost you for sure.”

  John might have struggled, or just backed away, but he was held tight in the confines of the cloak, and his hand was empty, the pistol was no longer in his palm. He remembered it falling out of his grip. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse whisper came out. He finally managed to roll himself out of the cloak and sat up slowly. His head felt light, as if a puff of wind would be enough to blow him away.

  But I’m alive. For now.

  The Rat King smiled.

  “You did well, under the circumstances. But as he said, he only wanted to say hello, introduce, or reintroduce himself, so to speak.”

  “Who was he?” John asked, having to work some spit around in his mouth and throat before he could even speak.

  “You know the answer to that. You brought him here.”

  “Not as far as I know,” John muttered, and the rat-thing laughed again.

  “As I said, you did well, under the circumstances.”

  “Was he Death? Can I die here?”

  “Death? You can certainly cease to exist here, as far as that word has any meaning in this place. Your reckless abandon in coming so deep without knowledge was almost the end of you.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Who is he?”

  “But I did answer it. You just weren’t paying attention at the time.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The Rat King laughed.

  “That’s the way the game is played. But you have seen your grail now, haven’t you? You know what guards it. And you know what your choices are? Or at least you should, if you’ve been paying attention. Have you been paying attention, John?”

  John looked around him. He was still in the high vaulted room with the tall empty windows. The pistol lay where he had dropped it on the stone floor, and the Rat King pointedly did not look in that direction.

  “So, I was right,” John said. “I can go somewhere else?”

  That got him another laugh.

  “Haven’t you got it yet?”

  “Obviously not.”

  The Rat-King smiled.

  “Oh well, you’ll have plenty of time on the way down. Are you sure you won’t take me up on my offer right now? As much fresh air as you can handle, the freedom of the skies and no pesky nightmares to ever bother you?”

  He tapped at the silver crown. “I’ll even let you have this bauble, it would look good on you. And with it, your followers, your Burdens as you call them, would become little helpers, like Christmas elves, just a tad uglier.”

  John was still confused. He knew he was being made an offer of some kind, but he didn’t yet know what stakes were involved. On top of that, he couldn’t afford to be tempted. He was thinking about the strange fog bound house, and Janis trapped and fearful, his grail, for want of a better word, but certainly the one sure purpos
e he had.

  I have to find her. Find her and help her, and get out. In that order would be nice.

  The Rat-King must have seen the decision in John’s eyes. He sighed.

  “Best you be on your way again then, now that you’ve made your mind up, you’ve got a long way down still to go and many things yet to be seen, things that only you will understand. You will meet the old fears again, that much I can tell you. Just don’t let the scythe touch you. If that happens, it’s all over bar the shouting and all deals are off. Some nightmares build strength with repetition, and that one has been feeding, and been fed, for a very long time.”

  He stepped, more like waddled, away from John, and once again his talons tapped a military rhythm on the stone slabs. He turned and looked over his shoulder. “I’ve asked you twice now. Third time is the charm, after that there’s no more chances. Go find your grail, and do with it what you will. You know where to find me when the time comes. All you have to do is sing. You do know how to sing don’t you?”

  And with that he launched himself headlong at the tallest window and was out and away, lost in the fog in a second. John heard him after he vanished from sight but only for a second; the fog quickly swallowed the sound as he let out a long whoop of joy in his flight.

  When John stood, fetched the pistol and made for the stairs heading down, a score of the Burdens chittered and chattered excitedly as they came into the room behind him and followed him to the stairwell. It seemed he wasn’t going to be descending into the deep alone.

  Santa’s little helpers.

  He heard their talons scrape and tap on stone as they followed him down.

  13

  Janis backed out of the boudoir bedroom door and slammed it hard, just as a scurrying shadow came, too fast, across the floor, dead eyes staring, tiny legs pounding, drum-like footsteps on the polished hardwood floor. She put a shoulder against the wood, holding it shut. She knew that a foot-high doll couldn’t reach the door handle, but she also knew that dolls didn’t jump down off shelves and run across floors.

  The doll hit the door a second after she closed it. It felt like a small boisterous dog was on the other side, beating against the wood with frenzy that spoke of frustration at being denied. This time Janis could see the shadow moving in what little light came through below the door. A small figure scurried from one side to the other and back again, looking for a way to get through to her, all the while pounding and scratching against the wood, which by the sound of it was starting to splinter.

  In the room beyond, the gramophone kept playing. She was already coming to hate every beat and chord and word of that bloody song.

  Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies.

  Once it was obvious that the door wasn’t going to be opened easily from the other side, Janis backed away down the short corridor, one hand on her pistol, never taking her eyes from the doorway. She had almost reached the main entrance to the apartment and a possible escape out to the landing when the pounding and scratching started behind her. Blue eyes were staring again out there too. The first of the escaped dolls had come back up the stairs and was now joining the other in a frenzied attempt to get at her. She was trapped in the hallway between doors that were both under attack, and the space suddenly seemed much smaller, more cramped.

  It started to darken again, in a matter of seconds it would be pitch black and she’d be left with just the scratching and tearing. She wasn’t about to hang about to see what happened when the noises stopped in the dark. She could either let one of the dolls into the hallway and trust her life to her pistol and her reflexes, or take the door to the side, and hope the fat man wasn’t in there too, waiting for just that eventuality.

  The gramophone beyond the door finally wound down.

  The Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  The scratching and pounding at the doors didn’t slow. Janis decided she’d rather face the fat man than the dolls at this point, so she went quickly across and turned the handle. She half expected it to be still locked, but the brass knob turned in her hand and the door started to open. She didn’t look such a gift horse in the mouth. She pulled the door open and went in.

  She was surprised when she stepped through, not into a lavatory but into the same lavishly furnished and upholstered room where the smell of cheap perfume threatened to make her gag all over again.

  Four dolls looked down at her from the high shelf opposite.

  She looked into the room, then back at the hallway outside. The sound of wood splintering got louder as the two escaped dolls launched themselves at the doors again and again, sending them rattling in their frames, as if they knew she was attempting escape. More wood splintered, this time in the jamb of the hallway door, near the lock. A couple more good hits and the door would be flying open.

  Back in the bedroom, the gramophone started up and the song rang out again. A dull thud told her there were now only three dolls on the shelf and another on the floor, already scurrying around the skirting board, hunting her down.

  But Janis was starting to get an idea. Maybe not escape, but at least respite. She stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind her. The sound of splintering wood from the hallway was immediately cut off. The latest escapee from the shelf scurried in the far corner, just out of sight, porcelain shoes clacking on the hard wood of the floor. Janis wasn’t going to wait for an attack. She opened the door and walked out again, and emerged again back into the same room she had just left.

  Maybe not quite the same.

  Three dolls sat on the shelf, watching her. The gramophone started up as she closed the door, opened it, and went through again.

  Two dolls stared at her.

  She repeated the procedure.

  One doll sat alone on the shelf. It didn’t look happy, even as the gramophone started up and it slid off to land with a soft thud on the floor. Janice ignored it and when she walked through the door the next, and last, time, there was just an empty shelf where the dolls had been and no sound of anything scurrying or lurking just out of sight.

  She realized that all she’d probably achieved was to let the six dolls out to roam the wider area of the house beyond, and that she’d have to deal with them, eventually.

  But at least they’re not in here.

  She stood, waiting to see if there would indeed be any attack, but this time the gramophone stayed quiet, and there were no skittering footsteps in the shadows. Likewise, the door showed no signs of being attacked from the other side. It seemed she had found safety and somewhere she could at least pause and gather her thoughts.

  For now.

  She sat down on the bed. Old springs creaked below her, and she sank an alarming depth into what was obviously a very well used mattress. But it felt comfortable, and comforting, so much so that the desire to just lie down and sleep was almost overwhelming. She fought the urge and forced herself upright, with her back against the headboard, and her feet up off the floor. There might not be any dolls in the room, or, even worse, under the bed, but she wasn’t about to take any chances.

  The last few minutes had passed in a blur. She was breathing heavily again and the muscles in her wrist hurt from where she’d been gripping too tightly at the handgrip of her pistol in the holster. She was also tight across the chest and in the shoulders, and had to force her breathing to calm and her muscles to relax. It took a lot longer than she might have hoped, but at least there was no sound apart from her own breathing.

  She kept a close eye on the gramophone. She considered going over and dashing it to pieces on the floor, just in case it started again, but she was still a cop, and wanton destruction of private property wasn’t in the job description.

  Thinking about the job made her remember procedure. She should be calling for backup, should have done it a while back, but the thought that this was all some crazy dream was also confusing her sense of what was real and what wasn’t.

  Maybe calling for backup in my dream
is my way out of it? It can’t hurt to try. Can it?

  She took out her phone but it seemed to be completely dead. Either the batteries were gone or, more likely she thought, something in the properties of this place, this dream, prevented the technology from working.

  You’re in a drug-fueled nightmare, of course the phone doesn’t fucking work.

  As time went on she was having more and more difficulty believing that theory, but she pushed her doubts aside, they weren’t helpful in her current predicament. She felt something under her back as she put the phone away in its hip case, something flat and hard underneath the pillows she was sitting on. She reached round to pull it free, having to shift position to do so. The old springs creaked, too loudly, disturbing what had been silence, and Janis held her breath, listening for the patter of feet. Only when she was sure that there would be no reaction to the noise did she look down to see what she’d got.

  It was a notebook of sorts, like the ones she remembered using for lecture notes, but with the outside surface covered in pasted images cut from a variety of sources and glued on some time ago with paste that was turning to dry dust.

  The images themselves were all of people’s faces. At first, she thought she didn’t know any of them, then one seemed to jump out from the rest, a fat man, with an almost perfectly round head and bulging cheeks, so chubby that his eyes seemed to hide behind them. She almost threw the thing away from her, as if he could see her from out of the photograph, see what she was doing, as she had watched him.

  Do you mind? I’m having a shite here.

  As much as the fat man had frightened, and disgusted, her, she decided to hold on to the notebook although she turned the back cover, where his photo was, away from her. There might be something useful between the pages. She had to look.

  The book was obviously of some age given the state of the glue and the peeling pictures on the cover, but when Janis opened it, the images inside were crisp and clear, almost too much so, given the subject matter. Whoever had created the scrapbook —it was full of newspaper clippings inside—had obviously harbored a morbid fascination with death. All of the clippings were either obituaries or news items about fatal accidents, murders or sudden passing. Most of the clippings were from the local papers here on the island, and most from St. John’s itself, but it was the age of the material that caught Janis’ eye. The clippings dated from the 1890’s up to the 1970’s, but after a quick flick through, she found nothing before or since.