CLOSURE
R E V E R S I O N E D
An Evil Dead Fan Fiction
By Nicholas Clark (Warriorsong)
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You can't really blame me. I never wanted to see this place again. I mean, come on, after all the shit that went down, that Book, my friends, Linda, you really think I would wanna come back?
But here, I am.
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"Legend has it that it was written by the Dark Ones. Necronomicon ex Mortis, roughly translated, "Book of the Dead". The book served as a passageway to the evil worlds beyond. It was written long ago. When the seas ran red with blood. It was this blood that was used to ink the book. In the year 1300 AD, the book disappeared."
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Ashley J Williams stopped his car and placed his head on his hands, which rested on the top of the steering wheel.
Slowly he opened the door. A cool breeze rose quietly and calmly from the gorge before him, caressing his scarred skin. The bridge lay before him, some ten metres ahead. The point of no return. It had been fixed, since he had last seen it, a twisted scorched knot of metal, seemingly shaking its fist at the sky.
Now it was a simple concrete and steel construct, spanning this gorge, a gorge separating and defining the man he had been before he had come here and the man he was now.
Ash scratched his stubbled chin and let himself be washed away in thoughts he more often than not, tried to push away from his waking mind.
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It had been six years ago when he and his girlfriend Linda, his sister Cheryl and his best friend Scotty and his girlfriend Shelley had first laid eyes upon this bridge and the forest beyond. The events that followed were indelibly etched in Ash's mind.
The cabin was old, run down but homely in a rustic kind of way. They had settled in early on, gathering wood and setting the fire to ward of the night-time chill. While the others prepared dinner, he gave Linda the necklace. They sat down to a meal and then it happened. A noise, a banging, likes a trapped animal.
If they hadn't gone into the basement to investigate maybe things would have been different. Would have but were not. Because Scotty went down to investigate. And when he didn't answer, Ash followed.
A quiet room, a tape recorder, a shotgun and an ornate carved dagger. And The Book. The tape recorder was simple affair, a cassette half spooled in the opening. The shotgun was a double-barrelled pump action Remington. Ash knew this because he had sold a few during his time at S-Mart. The dagger was like ivory but darker, a brownish leathery bone like the elements had worn away at it. The scoring in the bone looked like demonic faces writhing in pain and eternal anguish, the pommel stone a leering skull.
And that Book. That cursed Book. Necronomicon Ex Mortis, Naturon Demonto, or just the Book. Bound in what appeared to be weathered leather, red inked on rough parchment.
In a nutshell, the cause of all the horrors.
They had sat, in front of the roaring blaze, and looked at the dagger, and book. And Ash, out of curiosity had rewound the cassette and pushed the play button.
That voice still echoed in his nightmares.
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Ash shook himself, the fog of remembrance dispersing in the mid morning light. He reached into the car and popped the boot. Shutting the door, he locked it, the keys slipped into his pocket.
The open trunk contained a large duffel type shoulder bag, which Ash hefted onto his shoulder. The light caught and glinted off his metal hand, once an armoured gauntlet. A constant reminder of all he lost. Ash steadied the bag on his shoulder and slammed the trunk. At a steady pace he walked towards the bridge and the woods beyond.
As his heavy boots meet the wooden and steel of the bridges passage, the heavy thumps of tough rubber made an ominous sound, the sounds of the murderer's feet on the creaky stair, the goats trip-trapping across the bridge before the monster came and ate them. Pity that the monsters were real.
He laughed under his breath. That poster should have been enough warning. The hills do have eyes.
The sunlight fell across the bridge, a benediction, a blessing from some higher power, giving approval for this act. At least he hoped so.
Ash was stalwart, placing one foot before the other, breathing slow and regular, like a metronome.
Gravel crunched under his booted heels, signalling the bridge was behind him and the tougher test lay ahead.
He raised his head from its downward position and raised his eyes towards the sky.
Ash stood in the centre of the road, the bridge some fifty metres behind him, the shadows of the woods above him, its branches forming an arch. A cathedral to the dark.
Ash shrugged the bag into a more comfortable position and pressed on.
The light was dappled, greeny and shadowy, a cool light. It was like being in an ocean of tress, submerged and the light breaking and refracting on the surface.
The gravel sounded muffled as the wild grass and scrub attempted to choke out mankinds hold on its primordial home. From the decay of urbanization came the reclaiming hold of life, followed by its decay and eventual rebirth.
Decay, was what Ash knew. He slept the nights and prayed for the rebirth.
No birds cried. It was as if this wood still held some dark omen for the life that had once sought haven in it. And it all started at one place.
He could see it now. The place it had all happened. The cabin. The years since had not been kind to it, its front windows open and blank, the shattered door half off its hinges. All in all it looked like a half-submerged skull in a sea of leaves and mud.
Ash's jaw hardened and his eyes cinched at the corners. A lone tear ran down his cheek. If only they had left well enough alone. If only...
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"This is Professor Raymond Knowby, Department of Ancient History, log entry number two. "It has been a number of years since I began excavating the ruins of Candar with a group of my colleges, namely, my wife Henrietta, my daughter Annie and Associate Professor Ed Getly. Now my wife and I have retreated to a small cabin in the solitude of these mountains. Here I continued my research undisturbed by the myriad distractions of modern civilization and far from the groves of academe. I believe I have made a significant find in the Candarian Ruins: a volume of Ancient Sumarian burial practices and funerary incantations. It is entitled "Naturon Demonto"- roughly translated, "Book of the Dead". The book is bound in human flesh and inked in human blood.
The book speaks of a spiritual presence. It deals with demons and demon resurrection and those forces, which roam the forest and dark bowers of man's domain. The first few pages warn that these enduring creatures may lie dormant but are never truly dead. They may be recalled to active life through the incantations presented in this book. It is through recitation of these passages that the demons are given license to possess the living."
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A burning rage boiled away the memories and Ash dumped the bag from his shoulders. The scowl and glare on his face enough to peel any remaining paint from the cabin. It had perverted her body, killed and maimed and then had thrown him halfway across history.
And it all began here.
This place.
Ash knelt down; unaware of his jeans soiled in the thick mud. He unzipped the bag and pulled out the collection of plastic soda bottles, some shredded rags and his lighter.
"Well, these dark bowers are about to get a hell of a lot brighter."
Taking one bottle, a rag and his lighter, Ash stood up and took a deep breath.
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"Tatra Ormistroben azarta, Tantermono monzezonzomozezobar, Zomontorozo dalhiclerdom deridsa Candar, Candar, Candar!"
"Cunda astratta montose eargrets gutt nos veratoos canda amantos canda."
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Ash edged closer to the cabin, a lone bottle in his hand. It may have been daylight but he definitely did not want to enter under the dark shadow this place held for him.
He could see inside. Leaf litter, dust and dirt covered the floor illuminated by shafts of sunlight that punched through holes in the collapsing roof.
The empty windows allowed Ash to see the basement trap door. It was thrown open. Had been for years. The rotted decking was cracked and creaking in the gentle wind. The trail and graze of buckshot scored the decaying wood.
Ash knelt again and unscrewed the top of one of the soda bottles. Dipping the rag into the clear, strong smelling liquid, he reattached the top loosely and with a smooth underarm thrown sent the bottle sailing into the darkness that yawned within the basement, the rag hanging from the top seeming to wave goodbye.
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"It's only been a few hours since I've translated and spoken aloud the first of the demon resurrection passages from the "Book of the Dead". I know now that my wife has become host to a Candarian demon. I fear that the only way to stop those possessed by the spirits of the book is through the act of bodily dismemberment. I believe now to avoid this horror, but for myself, I have seen the dark shadows moving in the woods and I have no doubt that whatever I have resurrected through this book is sure to come calling... for me. May God forgive me for what I have unleashed unto this earth. Last night Henrietta tried to... kill me. "
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Ash scuffed his boots in the dirt, leaving a rough mark.
A deep sigh later, he then stepped in a rough perimeter around the decayed structure. Occasionally bending down and gathering branches and loose sticks to him, Ash then threw then towards the cabin, against its sun and weather bleached walls, all the while, the grim look on his face unwavering.
The back of the cabin, the back door rotted off its hinges, providing a clear view through to the main living room. The workshed stood off to the side, its door broken and shattered.
Ash edged closer to the small out building. It was here...
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"Is through the act of bodily dismemberment."
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Ash shuddered and cautiously stepped in an arc, allowing himself an unobstructed view into the shadowy structure. He was here to finish things, but he didn't have to like it. Steeping into the building would bring back more memories and emotions then he wanted to deal with.
He grinned slightly. A small jerry can of gasoline lay half obscured in the dust and shadows.
Pushing the joy aside, and hoping to rekindle it later, Ash continued his work, moving branches and sticks to the sides of the cabin until he stood near his duffel bag again.
Kneeling once more into the mud, Ash pulled out the remaining eleven bottles and began inserting their wicks.
The wet rags stuck to his shirt has he hefted an armload, some five bottles into his grasp and again began to circles the building. He stopped by the mark he had left in the dirt and took a bottle in his hand, swinging his arm loosely as he prepared to pitch it into the inky depths with its forerunner.
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"It's now October 1st, 4:33 PM. Henrietta is dead. I could not bring myself to dismember her corpse. But I dragged her down the steps... and I buried her. I buried her in the cellar. God help me, I buried her in the earthen floor of the fruit cellar."
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The bottle sails through the air, sinking gently into the cellar, the noise of its passage faint on his ears. Ash smiles to himself and begins the circuit of the cabin once more.
A broken window, a hole in the roof, even the roof itself. Three bottles flew to their final resting places. The back door to the cabin yawned before him. Quietly and carefully, the bottle flies easily in a smooth underarm pitch to come to a stop almost dead centre of the cabin.
Ash again looks towards the workshed, fear and painful memories dancing across his face. Quietly with a solemnity that would more likely suit a church goer, Ash steps into the shadows of the shed.
Eyes squinted shut, jaw clenched, he reached for the jerry can.
Its cold, sticky metal is a welcome touch to his skin. Clasping the handle tightly, Ash almost leapt out into the sunlight.
Ash stood his hands on his knees, catching his breath. He had expected god-knows-what to get him, but considering his past experiences with this place, it was understandable.
Straightening up, Ash unscrewed the top of the can and sloshed it around. The can is almost fill. By weight, enough for at least three tanks of a chainsaw. Placing his metal hand on the base and positioning his other hand on the handle, he splashed a liberal amount into the shadows of the workshed.
Satisfied, he then returned to his duffel bag.
The remaining six bottles greet him like soldiers standing to attention. Ash reached down and took five of them into his arms. He headed around the right side of the cabin back towards the shed, windows, front, side and rear, holes and roof taking the remaining bottles.
Ash again returned to his bag, his knee returning to the mud. Digging in the bag, Ash withdrew four new items. A large bottle of water, a long bundle in a rag, a smaller bundle in a rag and a long thin cardboard box.
Ash unscrews the top from the water bottle and places the plastic to his lips. His throat moves rhythmically as he drinks. Taking the bottle form his lips he places in on the ground.
Taking the box, Ash straightens up and heads off to his right, into the trees.
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"Is through the act of bodily dismemberment."
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Ash knelt before the crude wooden cross and fumbles with the box, finally removing a single red rose.
Gently he placed it below the cross.
"Sorry I haven't been her to see you before now Linda. I know you aren't here, that the police moved you, but that wasn't you, baby. That was what they perverted. I came to say I'm sorry, for not being able to save you, for not being able to save myself."
A tear fell from Ash's cheek as they wind answers his words with breeze across his face, a kiss of sorts.
"Thanks baby, but now I gotta go kick some ass and get us some retribution."
Ash blew a kiss into the air and turns away, heading back to the cabin.
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The sun was just past its apex, probably about half twelve or one by now. Ash wasn't concerned with that now, as long as he was gone by nightfall and back to civilization.
The sun seemed to fall directly onto the cabin.
Ash stood, his eyes fixed on the cabin, slowly, and mechanically he removed his shirt. It fell to the dirt; his white t-shirt stretched over his thick frame.
Reaching down, Ash picked up the final soda bottle, its wick hanging limp. His hand shook as he passed the bottle to the gauntlet. The lighter, now in Ash's hand, sparks and comes to life, an orange tongue of flame licking at the air, hungry for destruction.
Slowly and with his breath ragged Ash lights the fuse. Dropping the lighter swiftly and interchanging the bottle to his remaining hand, Ash pitches the bottle through the open doorway of the cabin.
The plastic melts in the heat, pressurizing the gasoline to splatter and flare, flames consuming in a shallow boom and pop.
Ash crouches down, gathering his shirt into his hands and balling it up. Slowly he reaches for the jerry can pouring gas over the thick flannel cloth. Stuffing a sleeve into the spout, Ash hurls the can and wet shirt onto the roof of the cabin.
Sputtering flames from inside the cabin send tendrils of smoke out of the roof, climbing into the sky.
Ash pockets the lighter.
The two wrapped bundles lie at Ash's feet. Scooping them up, along with his water, Ash grabs his duffel bag and retreat down the trail some twenty metres.
Dumping the bag, Ash unwraps the smaller parcel. Dynamite. Several sticks of it, looped together with electrical tape. Taking these sticks and at a running pace Ash heads back to where the bag originally lay.
Taking the lighter from his pocket, Ash sparks the fuse and again, with a slow precision throws the cocktail of death onto the roof.
Without a second glance, Ash spun on his heel and bolted back towards the bag, his body low and ready.
An ear-shattering boom sent Ash into a roll. Turning in mid-air, he reached for the final parcel, coming to his feet shaking it from its wrapping.
A pump action shotgun with a clip.
Then and only then, his weapon trained on the cabin, does Ash look.
A raging fireball, like a giant candle flame, engulfs the cabin, boards and corrugated iron raining down on the forest. The crackling and immense heat is punctuated by smaller pops and bangs as the smaller Molotov cocktails rupture.
Ash takes a deep breath and screams.
"Hey bitch! How'd you like them apples! Huh!"
The ground is shaken as the flames reach the two bottles in the cellar and find the gas generator.
Ash is thrown back onto his backside. Shaken and reeling his adrenaline kicking into overdrive, Ash rights himself and begins waving the shotgun in the air and flicking his middle finger at the cabin.
"That's right baby! Fuck you!"
Smaller blasts rock the area as Ash places the gun over his shoulder and clasps the handles of the duffel bag.
Steeping back into the relative cool of the forest, away from the inferno that was once a cabin, the trees can hear the words muttered, coming from the man known as Ashley J. Williams.
"Now that's closure."
Unnoticed by Ash, a silver necklace with a magnifying glass flew from the conflagration to land on a crude wooden cross. It swayed gently in the breeze, a red rose beneath it.
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I faced the demons again. Not the oogly bastards like the once I used to fight but my own. I said my good byes, to Linda, my friends, and the past. And most of all to my nightmares.
I didn't wanna come back. But I did.
My therapist would be proud. If I had a therapist.
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Disclaimers
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The Evil Dead is by Sam Raimi and is copyright MCMLXXXII by Renaissance Pictures LTD. Starring Bruce Campbell as Ash, produced by Robert Tapert and written and directed by Sam Raimi. Evil Dead II: Dead by Dawn is copyright 1987 by Rosebud Releasing Corporation. All rights reserved. Army Of Darkness (Evil Dead III) by Sam Raimi and Ivan Raimi and copyright 1991. All rights reserved.
Excerpts of the speech for the Professor taken and compiled (due to the fact they differ in the films and I wanted to incorporate elements of both) from the transcriptions made by Cliff Holverson (Evil Dead Transcription - June 1999) and Stephen Hugh Chan (Evil Dead II Dead By Dawn Transcription - April 1995 - V1.2).
If any of this information is wrong, my most humble apologies. No copyright infringement is intended, this is merely a work of fan fiction. I am in no way affiliated to any of these companies and people and what not. Thanks for reading.
Written (finished) 29th October 2000. Compiled 29th October 2000. Reversioned 9th January 2008. Mostly some tense errors and grammatical hiccups. I like this story. By Nicholas Clark (Warriorsong)