WORD OF THE DHARKESIDE
Big shout out to Xelena, Jim and Grey Faerie32. Thank you so much for the reviews! Also, the character at the end of this chapter belongs to the 'Hellblazer' comic book.
Chapter Two
"I'm an idiot," Angela Dodson declared.
She stood beside the bathroom door, with her ear pressed against the unyielding wood. For the past two hours, she'd listened intently. Now and again a peculiar humming sound emerged from the other side. She was frightened. She blamed John Constantine; he'd shown her the true nature of the equinox. There were no comforting stars, brightening Earth's shadowy night, and no benevolent God, protecting the darkening daylight.
New knowledge and new fear blackened her imagination. What made those horrible noises? Demons? Half Breeds? Mammon?
"I'm just being silly," she whispered. "I worry too much. It's probably just a few flies buzzing around."
Despite these reassuring words, she did not reach for the doorknob. Terror iced her limbs. She hated this unexpected weakness. As a police officer, she prided herself on being courageous and self-reliant. But when the sounds had first issued, both strengths had promptly melted away. It must be John's fault.
"Inimical asshole," she sniffed. "I always befriend the bastards."
What a relaxing holiday! So far, she'd visited Mexico for a week. Why had she gone? With each passing day, she regretted it more and more. She missed Los Angeles. She missed John Constantine. Fiery indignation interrupted cold apprehension. Why had he declined such a generous invitation? She'd offered to pay for his travel and accommodation. And he'd refused. Why?
"A different breed of bastard," she meditated. "They usually take advantage of me by now."
A frantic crash resonated from the sealed chamber, and mocked her plaintive musings. Her mental brooding became physical alarm. She listened. Silence. The surroundings were too quiet. Aside from the peculiar noises, only her heartbeat resounded throughout the apartment. Usually the neighbouring British football hooligans awoke by now. She often heard them swearing and shouting through the cheap, plaster walls. From their frequent bellows, she'd gathered that England were playing against Mexico in the Championship Finals. She hoped Mexico won.
"Why am I so stupid sometimes?" she complained. "Why did I come here?"
She didn't have a rational answer. There were no blood ties, only mental ones. Something inexplicable had enticed her into the country. Something she did not understand. Something that John had resurrected. He'd changed her life dramatically, and had invaded her thoughts. Yet again.
"He's not interested, Angela," she scolded. "Just forget him! Concentrate on the door first, then cry later."
In some respects, she was glad that he'd dismissed her proposal. His snide remarks about the hotel would have provoked many explosive arguments. She'd already fought with the hotel staff, regarding the resort's false star status. The brochure had claimed the retreat was worth five stars. And the hotel management had claimed the brochure was four years out of date. Five subtracted by four. One star.
"I won't tell John," she vowed. "He already thinks I'm an idiot. And at the moment, he's right. I'm worrying about nothing. The bathroom is empty. Now turn the handle, Angela!"
But she didn't budge. She lingered inside the apartment's antechamber, standing between a large lounge and a small kitchen. She'd stood there for far too long. Morning had transformed into afternoon. It felt like days since she'd awoken from a night's restless sleep.
On first entering the antechamber, she'd heard movement issuing from the bathroom. Angela had quickly returned to the bedroom, where she'd dressed and holstered her gun. Once she had applied her makeup, she'd initiated a vigil over the foreboding door. Listening and waiting.
"I'm a stupid, cowardly police officer," she lamented.
As though in agreement, a shrill wail seeped through the closed entrance.
Recoiling from the doorway, her heart thundered violently. Help! She needed protecting. No! She needed protection. She remembered the holster, tucked into her blouse pocket. Removing the firearm, the weapon instantly calmed her turbulent heartbeats. She pointed the gun at the closed door, her hands suddenly steady. She wasn't a stupid, cowardly police officer anymore.
"If there's any trouble," she began. "Just pull the trigger."
She clutched the gun tenaciously, and the boiling metal almost blistered her skin. A heat wave had recently charred Mexico, so the weapon's unusual warmth wasn't supernatural. The hotel's air conditioning was broken, causing the room to feel even hotter. Hotter than Hell. Perspiration beaded her forehead, whilst shivers shook her spine. An agglomeration of hot and cold; an agglomeration of anger and fear.
"I'm such a fool," she repeated. "I should have stayed in L.A. At least air conditioning is invented there."
Seeking relief from the heat, she'd undone the first three buttons of her blouse. It did not help. Perspiration made a remarkable adhesive; gluing the thin, cream fabric against her back. Black cycling shorts clung to her thighs, exaggerating the muscular curves. Her forehead was plastered in sweat soaked locks, some strands even obscured her eyesight. She wanted to reorganise her hair, clothes and makeup, but potential danger commanded her full attention.
So the reddish brown flakes continued to annoy her; spilling stubbornly across her blouse. The very ends touched her shoulders, like gentle fingertips caressing her back. She wondered if he'd ever- NO! She would not think about him. He didn't want her friendship, and she didn't want his either.
"We're complete opposites anyway," she theorised. "Detective Weiss is more my type. Plus, he's always sending me those lovely pink flowers."
But she wasn't soulfully satisfied.
Another strident shriek interrupted her sudden self indulgence. He was quickly forgotten. She clenched the gun more tightly, the scorched steel searing her skin. She listened. The cry did not reoccur, but she noticed a noisome stench emanating from the ominous chamber. The putrid reek oozed underneath the door, polluting the apartment's dusty air. She knew that acidic, smoky fetor well. A warning smell.
"Sulfur!" she gasped.
Demons! But the cries had sounded human. Half Breeds? Was there a half breed in the bathroom? Why hadn't she sensed it? She had to do something. But what? Enter the room? Leave the hotel? Return to Los Angeles? She needed-
"Joooooohn!" came the audible wail.
John? John Constantine? Curiosity replaced her fear.
"Constanteeeeeene!" the voice persisted. "Help meeeeee."
A friend in need?
Without another thought, Angela grabbed the bathroom doorknob. She promptly recoiled. The metal handle was absolutely freezing, yet the apartment smouldered in a diaphanous fire. Impossible!
Summoning more courage, she approached the doorknob. The glacial coldness burned the air, like steam evaporating from a simmering stove. Bracing herself for the chill, she grasped the handle. Her palm was instantly numbed. Taking a deep breath, she wrenched the doorknob leftwards.
It didn't budge.
For several minutes she fought with the handle, but had little success. She hesitated. Wondering whether the doorknob was locked, Angela discovered she'd been twisting it in the wrong direction. She swore profusely, before turning the handle correctly.
The door hinges creaked groggily.
"Is that you, Joooooohn?" the voice groaned. "Joooooohn?"
Angela couldn't respond.
She tentatively pushed the door back. It slowly swung inwards. The bathroom's brilliant lighting pervaded the darkened antechamber, and infiltrated her sensitive eyesight. Angela blinked repeatedly, seeking relief from the icy illumination.
The door no longer blocked the sulfur's passageway, and the noxious fumes invaded the antechamber at full force. Coughing and heaving, she removed the malicious air from her throat and lungs. She pressed the leather gun holster against her nose. The perfumery fabric eliminated Hell's virulent odour. She clutched the firearm in her other hand, and kept it trained on the widening doorway.
As the bathroom came into focus, more freezing air flooded through the antechamber. Multiple icicles slid down her spine, and she shivered violently. The cold was painful. White vapour emerged from her mouth, like dwindling ghosts. The gun's hot metal had cooled; now both hands were thoroughly numbed.
The door stopped moving and her heartbeat increased dramatically. Breathing heavily, she stared into the portentous room. A ghastly sight greeted her eyes.
The bathroom was empty.
Until she glanced into the bathtub.
"Oh, God!" she shrieked.
The plug hole must have regurgitated the grotesque manifestation. An emaciated man crouched in the tub. He had his legs pressed against his chest, like those of a malformed spider. His scrawny arms were entwined around his knobbly knees, further exaggerating the arachnid resemblance. He wore a tattered shirt, being too big for his diminutive frame. Glistening black beetles clung to the ripped fibres, and bleached lice lined the torn cuffs. Millipedes wriggled across his cadaverous skin, intermingling with the brown hairs. Baggy trousers covered his legs, and they too were covered in incongruous flies. The bathroom was filled with a tremendous buzzing.
Angela pointed the gun at him. He whimpered cowardly, and quickly shielded his face, with his skeletal hands. The rapid movement sent several insects dropping to the bathtub's base. The marble flooring had disappeared from view. No water. A sea of insects. He floated atop the writhing, waggling waves. Beneath his trainers were many broken bodies. Grey fluid had splattered his soiled soles, and their crushed corpses twitched convulsively. Life had abandoned them.
"Don't shoot!" he begged fearfully. "I'm just a harmless old man!"
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Gary Lester," he whined. "John's friend."
"John Constantine?" she commanded.
He nodded. She had detected an English accent. Perhaps from the North. Newcastle?
She moved the authoritative gun, and Lester lowered his trembling hands. For the first time, she glimpsed his visage. He looked older than John; possibly forty-five. Thick wrinkles dirtied his forehead, and small beetles wove in and out of the deep grooves. She remembered that face. The face of decay. One Halloween she'd discovered a decomposing pumpkin, with maggots projecting from its putrefied flesh. Those swollen, pulsating bodies had given her nightmares for weeks. Now her nightmare had returned.
Even his hair reminded her of the pumpkin's gristly greenery. The front of his translucent skull was bald, and the back was covered in stringy brown strands. It fell over his face in grimy streaks, and stopped at his narrow shoulder blades. Black flies nestled and bred in his stringy hair. They even danced over his exposed forehead and gaunt, haggard cheekbones.
"What are you doing here?" Angela ordered.
"I sensed something," he spluttered. "I thought it was John."
"You sensed me," she declared.
His green eyes were especially reminiscent of the pumpkin's carved ones. They'd been gorged from the flesh, leaving only the hollow, black sockets. The flies buried near these vacuous organs, feasting on the visceral fluids.
"But I need John!" Lester sobbed. "Who are you?"
"I'm a police officer," she began. "I know John."
"Thank God!" he breathed. "Will you help me?"
Damn you, Constantine.
ESTIMATED UPDATE: FRIDAY 19TH AUGUST