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He hadn’t slept in three nights. Or was it four? The days and nights blurred together in a frenzy of feverish work and worry. He was back in his study, surrounded by the shroud-like drapings of fabric – curtains, sheets – that he’d hastily nailed over the shrine and wall-paintings. There’d be time to destroy them properly later. Hopefully. Right now that one-eyed stare was hidden out of sight. And he out of sight from it.
Blinking rapidly, he stared at the list in front of him. The postcards were mailed. Several of them, to every address he could find from the last ten years. The second and third journals, hidden. The portal powered down. The carpets and playing cards and necklaces and all other little tokens of their friendship gathered up and locked away. His hand shook as he drew another sloppy checkmark in the margin.
He still had supplies left. Hopefully enough until… help arrived. He dared not leave the house unguarded. Even the journals had been hidden nearby. Maybe too near. He’d have to move them once he had the opportunity. Once the first one was safely taken away. He made a note about that, not trusting himself to remember it.
The grim truth was that he’d done all he could. Secrets hidden, doors locked, wards drawn. Until Stanley arrived (He must. There was no alternative) all he could do was to guard the result of his enormous folly and keep Bill from opening the portal.
The taste of betrayal was still sour in his mouth. Betrayal and failure, arrogance and stupidity in equal amounts. And fear, terror to the very core of his being. They had warred with each other in his head ever since he’d confronted Bill. But now, three (four?) nights in, not even terror and remorse kept him going. Caffeine and sugar had taken over that role, along with some… other stimulants he’d had on hand. And now even they failed him.
He had not slept since that last meeting with Bill. Since he awoke from the Mindscape panting in panic, with Bill’s laughter still ringing in his ears. Days and nights fighting with every fiber of his being to keep from sinking back into sleep, back under his control.
He didn’t know if Bill could ride his body against his will. He was in no hurry to find out. Even now, he could almost feel it – spindly black arms all but tugging at his mind from the shadows. Voices giggling and whispering on the edge of hearing. He’d heard them ever since Fiddleford went into the portal. But it had grown worse. Much worse.
There was coffee left in the mug on the corner of the desk. Reaching out, he watched almost in slow motion as his hand clumsily grabbed for it, missing, the mug tripping other the edge. The crash of it breaking against the floor jarred him like a punch to the guts.
Damn. Fuck. He had to ration the coffee like everything else, it was such a waste- moving to rise and clean away the mess, he was unprepared for the strength of the dizziness that overtook him. Before he knew how he found himself on hands and knees on the floor, the smell of old coffee invading his nose.
This was not working anymore. He had to sleep, rest, be prepared for anything. All it’d take was one other victim of Bill’s tricks, one other possessed human to come to the shed and pull the lever. He had to be there.
Groaning, fighting nausea, he grabbed a fallen pen and started drawing lines on the floor.
Once he was done, it was not pretty; a crude outline of runes and sigils that would hopefully offer some extra protection against the dream demon. As a last resort he forced himself to stumble to his feet and lock the door from the inside, the key hidden in the chaotic mess covering the floor. Maybe that would at least slow Bill down, should it come to the worst. Crawling into the center of his makeshift circle he curled up into a ball. Not even the chill of the underground room was enough to keep the bone-deep tiredness at bay now that he was giving in to it. Forcing himself to relax on the stone floor he felt himself slipping away, limbs heavy, mind exhausted beyond reason.
***
Darkness. Deep still blackness. The sleep of complete fatigue. He rose from it slowly, unwillingly, striving to sink back down. But despite his best efforts he found himself standing on an endless plain underneath a burning sky. The Mindscape. Bill’s domain. Taking deep breaths – useless, you have no body, it’s all in your mind, he stared wildly around him. As far as he could see there was the dead, grey dust and the sooty orange flames above.
Then the entire sky winked.
Bill came into sight, a creature big enough to blot out the sky, no he was the sky, stretching from horizon to horizon.
“Sixer! Fordzie! Pal!”
“What do you want?” he screamed back, despite already knowing.
“Oh, just a little something. One last cruise in that meat-sack of yours!” The Bill-sky above him twisted around, shrinking, becoming the familiar yellow. Beyond him, there was only the void, endlessly empty and black.
“Never! I’m never letting you back into my body!” By now, Bill hovered above him, still enormous but closer, much closer.
“A deal’s a deal, old chum.” Bill snapped his fingers and the portal button appeared before him, a red ball on a thin metal stick in the middle of the plain. “You’re the one who summoned me here. Did you think I came for free? Now just pull that lever for me and the fun’ll begin!”
Snarling, he backed away. “This is just a dream. Just a dream!”
The triangle tsked at him, drifting ever closer. “Think you can keep me out? I own you! I know every nook and cranny of you, inside and out. Every hiding place and secret entrance. I wanna see you try!”
With that, Bill was suddenly right in front of his face. There had been no movement, no approach, just a sudden shift from there to here. For one terrifying instant he stared into the one slitted eye and then Bill was inside him.
It was like fire ants under his skin, writhing tentacles in his guts and needles in his brain and a horrifying feeling of being pushed out of his own skin. He fought it, heaved back against the pressure and clung to his body with tooth and nail. It was harder than anything he’d ever done.
It was the pain that saved him. It came from nowhere, blooming out of the darkness. Sharp and bright and real, and he grabbed it and dragged himself to it, holding on for dear life.
When he awoke, he was still curled up on the floor of his study, halfway out of his circle, body aching like he’d gone a few rounds against the coach himself. One hand was pressed against his chest and when he painfully unfurled it he found a shard of the broken cup, wedged into his palm and slick with blood.
Breathing deeply, he rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling for long seconds until his heart stopped beating wildly inside his chest.
***
It took some rifling through the clutter to find the key, the elevator ride upstairs spent cradling the injured hand. Walking up the stairs he emerged into bright, glaring light. Blinking confusedly in the sunlight filtering in though the boards nailed over the windows, he stole a look at his watch.
12.00 o’clock. Noon. He’d slept for hours. Now that he thought of it, beyond the throbbing hand and the lingering headache he felt… better.
It was a bit tricky maneuvering the first aid kit with only one hand but he managed well enough. Soon, he was boiling up a fresh pot of coffee and even taking the time and effort to fry some eggs and toast. As he sat at the kitchen table gulping down his first hot meal in days, the white gauze over his palm was the only visible reminder of the horrors of the last few hours.
Once he was done and the plate pushed aside, he spent a few minutes staring blankly out into the snow.
Stanley wouldn’t be here for days yet. Even if one of the postcards had reached him by now, he’d still have to make the journey out into the Oregon nothingness. Logically he knew he’d have to count on the possibility of his brother never getting a postcard. Or being in jail, in Mexico, or just plain uninterested in ever seeing him again. But Stanley was his last hope, a last desperate gamble, and he shied from even thinking the thought of him not coming.
Better to think of more immediate problems. He’d have to sleep again, sooner or later. Next time he might not be as lucky as tonight. Stabbing himself in his sleep would hardly work as a long-term solution. It seemed that his hasty runes had done little to nothing in keeping Bill at bay. But there had to be something.
Evening found him down in his study, hunched next to a pile of books on demon lore, spiritualism and the more psychological aspects of the supernatural. He’d never paid that area of knowledge too much attention, being much more interested in solid evidence. And then there had been Bill and his… distractions.
Well, no time like the present to make amends. There was a bewildering array of solutions to demon possession, but somehow he doubted that Bill would be overly impressed by a pile of salt inside the door or a wreath of garlic flowers around his neck. If he could even FIND garlic flowers in Oregon in the middle of winter. Did garlic even flower? Other solutions looked more solid but were frustratingly unattainable – and speaking of that, he’d actually be happy to see a unicorn now, for the first time in his life.
Sadly, all the books agreed on one crucial thing; don’t make deals with demons, stupid. Sighing, he turned yet another page, dust rising in a fine cloud from the ancient paper.
Iron. Iron was another constant, the metal hated by spirits and demons alike. It warped reality itself around it, it was said, and those without a physical form loathed its presence. All that business of mothers putting scissors in the cradle, farmers nailing horseshoes over the door…
But a mere iron bar would not keep Bill at bay. Bill entered though the Mindscape, not though any physical entrance. However did you put iron around your dreams?
***
For want of any better solution, he went digging around his hoards. The benefit of a life exploring the weird and strange; a treasure trove of materials stacked on every available surface. Tucked away in the deepest corner of an attic cupboard he found it; a small precious plate of pure iron, no bigger than a pack of gums. Would it be enough to keep Bill out?
Grabbing a torch and a hammer, he went to work by the anvil. Heating, beating, shaping. When he was done, the plate was thinner, more curved, with the surface covered with a carefully chiseled pattern of spells and symbols. Untarnishable. It’d never rust or decay now. He quenched it in a bucket of oil, watching the steam hiss from the surface in a small cloud.
It lay gleaming on the table as he ate a simple dinner, the sun outside long since gone and fatigue already stealing back into his limbs. A thin plate, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. A mighty shield indeed. He stared at it for a very long time. Then he sighed and went to fetch supplies.
Old books were spread all over the kitchen table, next to a chart of the human brain. A pot of water boiled furiously on the stove. The first aid kit was open on the counter, rolls of bandages stacked next to a bottle of whiskey.
Pouring himself a stiff one, he swept his eyes over the books one last time. Just keeping the plate near wouldn’t do anything against Bill– maybe a complete circle would do the trick, but he didn’t have enough metal to make himself an iron crown.
Also, in this kind of business blood had a worth of its own. Suffering could be a sacrifice. It’d strengthen the spells on the metal. Two birds with one stone, really…
You’re stalling. Just get to it, you damn weakling.
He rigged up a mirror against the wall, arraigning everything within easy reach. Stripping to the waist, he dunked his head under the tap and scrubbed through his hair with a handful of soap. Once clean, he mopped off most of the water and ran his hand over his scalp. Going in lower would mean fewer stitches afterwards and a neater scar, but higher up the skin was looser. He hesitated, then reached for his razor.
Then he was done, a stripe of white skin shone against his hair, a horizontal line starting above his ear and sweeping backward over the crown.
He’d never felt as alone as he did settling down in front of the mirror. The stranger staring back at him was wild-eyed and white as a sheet. He grabbed the glass and knocked back the whiskey in one big gulp, the reached for the scalpel before he could change his mind. The first cut was a long, quick slash over the shaved skin. He saw the red line opening up in the mirror a second before the searing pain hit the side of his head. The blood started flowing freely, seeping down into his hair.
Swearing, he dropped the scalpel on the table and reached for a clean towel, pressing it against his head. It took a few deep breaths to get his heart back under control. When he finally removed the cloth blood still seeped out, sluggishly.
Gingerly he prodded the cut, wincing at the throbbing sting. It was nowhere near deep enough, just a shallow nick. This was going to be even worse than he’d feared. There was no way this’d be the quick get-it-over-and-done-with ordeal he’d hoped for. Grabbing his meagre stash of painkillers, he downed them with yet another shot of whiskey.
Once he was ready for another try, he went in more methodically, angling the blade and forcing himself to cut deeply and slowly. His fingers turned red and sticky, shaking ever so slightly as he carved along. It hurt. He gritted his teeth and carried on as long as he could force himself, not stopping before a trickle of blood reached his eyes.
Taking a deep breath, he stared at the bloody apparition in the mirror. Part of the side of his head was…lopsided. Matted with blood and sweat, the weight of it pulling the flesh away from the wound. But it was still not long enough. Sweeping away tears and the bloody trickle on his brow, he lifted his hand for another cut. Finally it was done, a cut deep enough to almost reach the bone, loosening the skin from his skull all the way from temple to crown.
Half his face was painted in red. It dripped from his chin. His entire head felt like it was on fire, every movement stoking the flames. There was a strange lightheadedness at seeing himself in the mirror. Blood loss and shock in tandem. He couldn’t stop now.
The loose skin slid down easier than he’d dare hope. The sight of his own exposed skull was too surreal to take in, so he just continued working, sliding the small knife between skin and bone when it wouldn’t give on its own. He heard a strange sound and realized it was himself whimpering, a keening pathetic sound that he wasn’t even aware of making.
Finally it was done. A flap of his scalp was folded aside, big enough for the plate to fit underneath. The curved metal sheet on its tray now looked impossibly huge. He cleaned his hands in the boiled water, letting the gory scalpel drop to the bottom of the pan. The surgical needles lay threaded and ready on the table, lined up in a gleaming row.
His hands shook as he lifted the plate, giving it one last dousing of alcohol before swallowing thickly and pressing it against his exposed scalp.
“Ahhhh!” Flashes of light before his eyes, darkness creeping in on the edges. He breathed with open mouth through the pain, sobs mixing with curses under his breath. The agony of the whisky-drenched metal outdid everything before it. His stomach heaved, nausea rolling around his gut.
Not even trying to keep his screams down anymore, he dragged the loose skin over the plate, hiding it from sight. It slid across the iron with a sickening wet sound, and a kind of pain that wasn’t even all there anymore, too strong to be really felt. But once the skin and hair was held back into place it felt easier, the horror covered up.
Grimly he held the gory mess together with the bandaged hand and grabbed the first needle with the other. He screamed as he pressed the sharp tip though stubborn flesh. The knot was fiddly and clumsy, made half by feel alone. It threatened to tear open any second, too much weight on just one stitch. Leaving the needle dangling from the suture, he reached for the next one.
After five burning points across his scalp he was done. It’d have to do. His vision was blurring and his arms shook. Picking up the half-empty bottle, he poured most of it straight over his head in a rain of fire, and the rest into his mouth. Then he reached for the bandages.
***
He’d left the kitchen a bloody jumble and stumbled across the hall to the parlor, making it through the door before falling to his knees and dry heaving over the waste paper basket. He eyed the sofa for a second, then decided against it and tugged the blankets down on the floor. Better not risk it. Shoving both pillows into as fluffy pile as he could make them he very, very carefully laid his aching head to rest.
This time, sleep came quickly but so did the nightmares. Pain and terror, running though the endless forest knowing Stanley was somewhere ahead but being constantly hindered by the blood gushing down his face, into his eyes. He didn’t even notice then he was pulled seamlessly over into the Mindscape. He just rushed down yet another tree-lined path and almost ran headfirst into a fir as the trees turned to look at him, big yellow eyes lining their branches.
Backing away from the circle surrounding him he pawed helplessly at the never-ending blood, caking in his hair and eye lashes. “Leave me alone!”
“Stanford, Stanford, what have you been up to? That looks hysterical! Are you finally learning to have some real fun?” Bill had appeared, seated comfortably on a throne-like chair in the middle of the clearing. Rising and tipping his top hat in a mockery of a greeting, the triangle swung his cane around to point at his bloody face. “Slipped on the stairs, you freak? Drove your car into a ditch? Not trying to take away my amusements, are you?”
He grit his teeth, fighting against the urge to turn and flee. “Let’s get this over with, Bill. I’m shutting you out for good! You’re not taking over my body ever again, so stop trying!”
The demon laughed and stepped closer, lazily drifting up to hover in front of his face. “Is that so, kid? What have you been doing, saying your prayers and scribbling on the floor again? I’m sure you don’t mind me giving it a gooOOoOOoOO!”
Despite himself, he huddled down as Bill launched himself at him, straight for his face. But just as he once again stared into the yellow eye, Bill smacked into something, coming to a jerky halt inches from his face.
“What!?” Bill roared, and he could’ve wept with relief. Once again, the demon reached for him, but his thin black hand stopped before reaching his arm. Bill struggled against it, anger visibly rising, his colors turning from yellow to red, his eye black and bloodshot. “STANFORD!”
“You won’t use me again! There are rules! I say I’d shut you out!” he screamed back, fear mixing with adrenaline.
The black eye zoomed in on the blood flowing over his face, the demon zipping around him to stare down at his skull from behind. “Iron!? You think this will help you in the end?” a note of scornful laughter slipped into Bill’s voice. “Pal, did you really? If only I’d be there to see it! Looks like a real work of art from up here.”
He snarled and spun around, facing Bill down. “Say what you want. I won this round, Bill.”
“Ah, well. Every time you fall asleep I’ll be here waiting for you. You’ll have such sweet dreams Sixer, I promise.” Bill had shrunk down to his usual yellow self, leaning against his cane. “All the way until I win the game. But for now…” He snapped his fingers and the ground beneath them disappeared. He tumbled into the void, spinning wildly, seeing the small triangle and its glowing eye get ever smaller above as he fell into the abyss.
He awoke screaming, slamming his head into the floor and screaming once again with the splitting pain. But the scream turned into sobbing, ugly laughter, and he curled up under his blanket giggling and crying both at once, relief overtaking him. It worked. It worked! No matter what nightmares Bill inflicted on him, he was safe. The world was safe. He still had time to fix this.
As the tears dried on his cheeks he stared up at the beams above, awaiting the dawn. Just a little more time. He could fix this.