Angels Against Virgins by Bryan Murphy - HTML preview

Now enjoy Bryan Murphy's horror story, Hellogram, first published in Fright Night III: http://bit.ly/hellogram

Hellogram

I didn't know it was going to turn out like that. I mean, usually I just set things up so that it all runs smoothly. I had no inkling that the event in Tunbridge Wells would be any different.

We got there early, me and the boss – The Channel, as she's known in the business, like she's the only one. Do you know Tunbridge Wells? It's a pleasant little town, struggling between a time warp in the gentle hills of Kent and the encroaching modern world, a place where New Age and new money meet solid tradition and blind faith. Ideal for us.

The venue was a pub on the road to London: The Scrivener's Arms. It was next door to a school designed by the Brothers Grimm. We'd scouted for a room there, but the interiors were too modern: no atmosphere, whereas the pub had offered us a smallish room with peculiar furnishings and creaky floorboards, just the job, as well as the electrical fittings I needed to lay out our gear just right.

The Channel usually brings back two or three of the Dear Departed in any one evening's work. Any more than that is too much of a strain. It stresses me out, too. This evening, though, she was serving just one punter: Jade Pankhurst, a retired advertising executive, we found out later, who'd come up with the cash for us to pipe a single tune all evening. She arrived with a retinue of a dozen men and women, presumably as well heeled as they were well dressed. Tammy, our MC, greeted them obsequiously, plied them with prosecco to calm them – of course I'd backed that up with Empatheeze^TM in the incense – and got them seated where I'd worked out each of them would have a clear view.

I could see the standard array of emotions on their faces, from eager expectation to skepticism to bemusement: nothing The Channel's skill could not turn into wonder and belief.

Tammy took the microphone and got the ball rolling. She was quick: we don't bother with the bells and whistles of our predecessors: they're seen as an affront to the intelligence nowdays, and besides, we don't need them.

'My fellow Seekers, we all know why we are here. The Channel will be with us very soon. Please greet her with silence.'

I doused the lights: a few aspects of the old rituals still help. I'd sound-proofed the room and spiced up the resonance filters so that when the audience's eyes adjusted to the darkness, they could hear their breathing, which, I noted with pride, was rapidly synchronising.

The Channel's empty chair was in front of the audience, of course, with its back to the wall on their right. A minute passed. Someone coughed. Without warning, The Channel appeared in her chair, perched rather than seated, illuminated by her own aura. Perfect. Her lined face radiated serenity. A smile played on her lips. She turned to look directly at her client.

'Call him.'

Jade Pankhurst struggled to get the name out.

'Wayne.'

'Wayne!' The Channel echoed, adding force to the invocation.

Nothing happened.

The Channel repeated the name at twenty-second intervals. Nothing happened. She looked at the whole audience.

'Together, please. Wayne!'

The audience's reaction harmonised until a rhythmic chant of 'Wayne!' emerged. After ninety seconds of this – I counted – The Channel's body flopped backwards in her chair. She raised her left arm, palm outwards.

'Thank you. He is near. Now you alone must call him, Ms Pankhurst.'

The tension in the woman's voice was palpable as she called the name of her Dear Departed.

A point of light appeared on the far wall in front of her. There was a collective intake of breath in the room.

The body of The Channel seemed to diminish as the point of light very slowly grew into a tiny figure, approaching as if from a great distance.

Jade Pankhurst was on her feet.

'Wayne! My love!'

The figure stopped, head bowed, then came on forward, limping, hobbling as though in pain.

'Wayne! What has happened to you?'

The bowed figure halted, then turned away.

'Stop! Wayne! Come to me!'

Wayne hesitated. The audience could now make out his clothing: the fashion of twenty years ago. He turned back and again hobbled in their direction, leaving a trail of small footprints. The audience stirred, as though it felt something was amiss. I realised they were right: this was an anomaly. The vibes were all wrong; the undercurrent of joy was absent.

The figure grew nearer and larger. We could see that Wayne's dark red clothes were drenched, wet enough to cling to his thin, crooked frame.

Wayne stopped. He and The Channel let out a loud moan at the same time. Wayne raised his head. Jade Pankhurst screamed. Wayne's face was a mass of suppurating scar tissue. Blood and pus filled his eye sockets. In the space where his mouth might have been, a severed tongue struggled to form words without the aid of lips or teeth.

'Eehhhl!' he bellowed.

The Channel writhed in her chair. Then she interpreted for the audience: 'Hell!'

'No!' Jade Pankhurst's scream pierced my brain and iced my blood. She screamed until she could scream no more and collapsed to the floor.

I brought the lights back on. Two people who were not in shock moved towards Ms Pankhurst, to help her. There was no trace of Wayne. A tall, thick-set young man moved toward The Channel. She was limp in the chair, unconscious but breathing. I reached her first, cradled her grey head in my arms and whispered to her gently, 'Come back to us. Please, come back to us.'

Before she stirred, I became aware of the hubbub behind me. The screams had brought in the bar staff, followed by several of the pub's regular patrons. A cacophony of recriminations, threats and counter-threats reminded me of the aftermath of traffic accidents in Naples. Fortunately for Tammy and I, an ambulance arrived before the verbal violence toward us could turn physical, and both Ms Pankhurst and The Channel were taken to the local hospital, with the poor lady's entourage in their wake. I knew that Tammy and I could collect our boss later, once the coast was clear.

I seethed inside as I explained to the pub's manager what The Channel had done, without, of course explaining how she, or rather we, had done it. After that, Tammy and I cleared up and cleared out: a taxi to our hotel. Tammy was as angry as I was, and she fizzed throughout that night, which is another reason why I remember it. The next morning, I got on the phone to the hospital, made sure Jade Pankhurst had been revived, nursed and discharged, then Tammy and I took another taxi through the never-ending small-town rush hour to collect our boss and bring her back. I would torture her, if I had to, to get an explanation.

She still looked drained and frail, as though she had aged overnight, when we found her, but she was dressed to leave the hospital.

'What the hell?'

'Precisely.' The Channel smiled weakly.

Tammy echoed my question. 'What the hell were you playing at?'

'Metaphysics, my dears. Have you noticed how no one believes in Hell any more? They cling to their Heavens, though. I just thought I'd even things up a tiny bit, if you see what I mean. Inspire them to ethical behaviour with a bit of fear, remind them not to cherry-pick their religious beliefs, if they still have any. It might not have been nice, but I'm willing to bet you it was effective.'

I spluttered. 'But – but that's insane! You could have killed that poor woman!'

'Well, I didn't, did I? I didn't kill anyone: just played with them a little.'

'I think that's disgusting!'

'It was horrible,' Tammy put in. 'You frightned the life out of me! Thank goodness no children came.'

The Channel pouted like a teenager.

'Oh, come on, my ethical-wettical accomplices. Can't a girl have a little fun any more?'

Well, in the end it's not my job and not my responsibility. I just set the holograms up and run the programs. I don't write them: The Channel does that. I thought of erasing this particular one – I could manage that all right. But bookings went up, so I thought: If it pulls 'em in like that, I might flog a copy of it to one of the Channel's competitors, together with the hologram specifics – make myself a load of money. But a nagging doubt at the back of my mind stopped me from doing that.

#########