Page Title

Synopsis

An ethereal essence sweeps across the land influencing minds, manipulating people into devastating circumstances. Wraithlike creatures evolve from the clandestine of mental sway to predator and obliterate a family in a God-fearing household during a frenzied furore.

THOMAS FIELDS is a 38 yr old Forensic Scientist. He needs to find the answer to a mystery that started before his birth. He lives with JEANETTE, the woman he loves, and her son JASON. Jason is the closest Thomas will ever come to having a child.

Jeanette s love for Thomas is the result of necessity brought about by the loss of her true love and husband Russell, who died during a carjacking on the streets of London. Her love for Thomas dissolves when a giant of a man, TYRUS, hears dark cadaverous voices from Hell that encourage him to take the life of Jason. Wherever this giant travels he takes a stereo and its low rumbling beats is his thunder announcing his awesome power to all that should fear him.

Knowing that his Father is quite mad and resides at a mental institute, Thomas questions his own sanity when, in search of Tyrus down an innocent looking alley, finds a tormenting creature that threatens to kill him unless he can find away to destroy it and its race.

ANNA is Thomas work colleague and falls for him because she admires his strength and logic, even though he finds those qualities very difficult to hold onto when the pair of them battle atrocious Beings that control gloom as though it were a living thing.

Chapter 2

"Where are you?"

"I m in a desert, naked from the waist up. There's not even the slightest breeze to cool the heat on my back and shoulders, it's unbearable. My throat is dry, so parched that I'm finding it hard to swallow.

I've now turned my head to face the Sun. I've never been to a desert before but I'm damn well sure that what I'm looking at isn't normal. The Sun's proximity is so much so that it s drowning the sky with waves of heat reaching everywhere that the eye can see in each direction, creating an illusion of looking up into a clear watered ocean. Its size and power is so immense that when I squint, I can see explosive gases leaping miles, no, thousands of miles from its surface extending almost so far as to lick the Earth's crust. The skin on my back, shoulders and neck feel as though they're about to roar into flames.

I'm now looking in front of me again and something at my feet has caught my attention. Gazing down now and sweat is streaming from me as if a drop from the sky's ocean has fallen down soaking my boots and partially washing, what appears to be, blood from them. In the sand before me, bent, crooked and bloody lies what would seem to be my enemy.

Amongst the fear of the occasion, the stinging in my eyes, the burning in my throat and the shrivelling skin on my back I am fully aware that time is running out, the threat from behind is looming ever more malevolent.

My prey now turns and stares up at me. I'm gripped, stunned into momentary stillness. The man's baldhead is bloodied and sand is hiding one side of his face but even so, I can see that it's mine; the face is mine.

He begins to beg, not for acquittal but to die. He has a sorcerer's control over me; he's playing with my mind and urging me to end it. As much as I try to fight it my will is weakened and like some kind of frantic killer I raise my foot above the mixture of blood, sand and sweat that has caked the man's head, and lower it repeatedly with as much force as I can. The metal blakey in my heel creates sparks as it scrapes bone.

The only time I feel in control is now, now that it s over.

After the count of five I want you to wake. Five, four, feeling refreshed, three, two, alert and awake, one. This voice was from a man that had spent the last twenty years in London. London's regional accents had all but diminished; by accent alone it was now virtually impossible to reason south, west, north or east. This voice had an underbelly that showed the peeling away of a chunky Welsh diction.

Thomas opened his eyes, stretched his arms above, and yawned. The brown, leather chaise langue squeaked beneath him. He rubbed his eyes as if awaking from a night's sleep. He sucked in two lungs full of air, held and let go feeling completely settled. He gazed around the dimly lit room while his eyes adjusted.

Thomas Bradley Fields had seen Bernard a year earlier with his live in lover Jeanette; the room appeared the same. Heavy dark, red, velvet curtains hung down to the parquet flooring, a large oak table stood solidly in front.

The room was fortunate enough to contain an original style log fire, which now crackled and snapped at freshly cut wood sending glowing embers wafting up. Flickers of warm orange glow made it to the beamed ceiling.

When Thomas had entered the Therapist s room, he noticed a few weeks of layered dust on just about everything but a gold carriage clock that sat in the centre, of the mantle. He assumed that it was either new or meant a lot to Bernard. Thomas incisive and analytical brain assumed that the décor was to provide comfort for people that craved stability in a world of fluctuation and change.

His eyes rested on the counsellor who seemed to be doing an amazing balancing act, for the stool he sat on was so small Thomas couldn't see it. He didn't look at all comfy on a seat that could quite easily collapse under his weight at any minute. He had aged more than one would expect in a single year. Thomas didn't have a clue how old the councillor was but right now with his chubby, ruddy, complexion and balding grey hair, he would guess between sixty five and seventy. Thomas admired his dress sense; he wore a dark three-piece, pinstripe, suit that seemed as immaculate as that clock. With his calm, controlled, and sometimes monotonous voice, he asked: "How do you feel when you see that the face is yours?"

Thomas considered, whilst running the scene over in his mind. He then answered with his usual strong and even London accent: I feel hurried; the bloke at my feet has to die before I explode like the gasses.

"Why would the face be yours, any idea?" He asked whilst studying the long, slim, fair-haired, intellectual looking man on his, what he called, study couch.

"Not a clue."

"Ok, I m sure it s nothing to worry about."

Thomas was happy opening up to the Counsellor; he already felt a burden lifted to some degree. Doing his job in his chosen career it was obvious weird thoughts and nightmares would happen from time to time, it's no big deal, at one time or another almost everyone in his team had spoken to a counsellor, so it was just his turn.

"Have you had any unusual cases lately? I read about that awful Paedophile case. Obviously that was out of your jurisdiction, so I assume you didn't have to attend?"

"No I didn't. I've gained a lot of control over my feelings to produce professional and in-depth accounts but I feel as angry and frustrated as any one on the street. If I had the opportunity the culprit would be ripped to pieces. Thomas wasn't an angry person and he was able to let go, he needed to in his profession, he was just expressing how he had felt at the time of hearing the news.

The counsellor empathised; he felt it as well. At the beginning of his career, he felt as though he was porous, a sponge soaking up peoples problems. When he first began his own business he had difficulty shaking off all the worry and the stress that his clients off loaded onto him. They walked out that much lighter but he was so much heavier he used to stoop at the end of the day.