Midnight
by Amber Averay
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An early night for once! Well, Ava amended as she left the tavern, early for her. It was after 11 pm, and she’d been working non-stop for weeks. At least, that’s how it felt. She finished her shift early tonight, and then tomorrow she began four days of bliss. No work, nowhere to be, nowhere to go, nobody to see.
Bliss.
The car park was still filling up – the night was really just beginning – but Ava gave it not another thought as she made for her car. It was a nondescript little hatchback, pocked with rust and the uneven paint marked with scratches. But the wheels were good, everything beneath the bonnet was sound, and she was a careful, conscientious driver. She had to be – she didn’t make enough money to cover speeding fines or parking tickets.
She reached for the key fob, pausing in the act as her phone beeped. Text alert. Quaint. She smiled, her expression not faltering at the ‘number withheld’ warning popping up on the screen. Her friends had done this to her in the past, teasing her with strange voices and heavy breathing, trying to draw a reaction. She wasn’t easy to frighten, so her friends never stopped trying.
Hey beautiful. Looking good.
She quirked an eyebrow, unimpressed with this particular opening. I know, she keyed in, her long nails tapping against the screen. And who is this? You’re very good at stating the obvious.
I have a surprise. Meet me at ‘our place’. Midnight. Don’t be late.
She shook her head, amusement tickled by the arrogance. Do we have an ‘our place’? I don’t even know who you are.
You do. And we do. The Charred Church. Forty minutes. Don’t be late.
Her brow furrowing, she cast her mind to the only day she’d been there – formerly named St Agnes’, since the fire that gutted it known as the Charred Church. It had been an old building, on the edges of town, and when it burned down nobody had the slightest interest in rebuilding. So whatever could be salvaged was, and the rest was left to exposed to the elements to moulder and decay.
She slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Realising as she exited the car park what day her mystery texter must be referring to: the week of the fire, a fete held indoors for – and here she snorted – the purpose of raising money to fix the leaking roof.
There had been many people there then, it was a veritable bustling mass of voices and laughter and people examining wares and pretending to negotiate prices. Not forty-eight hours later flames had consumed the old place, and the money raised was not nearly enough to rebuild. So the pastor disappeared, as did the cash, and now Ava was summoned to the ruins for a midnight meeting.
She played some music for the drive, singing along tunelessly to songs she barely knew the words to, and it seemed no time at all before she was drawing near the wreckage of the church. It crouched against the night sky, jagged edges and confusing angles blocking the rash of stars spread above, and – as she’d expected, at this time of night and on the far side of the town – was utterly deserted.
Ava pulled a hair band from her wrist and tied her russet waves back in a loose ponytail, securely locked her car then slipped her keys into her pocket, keeping her phone in hand. It was a still night, quiet, not even restless birdsong puncturing the isolating silence. An interesting place to want to meet.
Her phone pinged. I’m inside.
She sighed, mildly curious by this game but her impatience starting to surge, and she wanted her bed. She’d identify the mystery person, assure him or her that she as yet remained unafraid, and return to her car.
Her light footsteps crunched over the ground, burnt wood and debris crackling beneath her shoes, and she strode through the starlit night, through the gaping hole in the side of the building, into the heart of the wreckage.
And paused.
Tarps had been erected where the interior walls used to be, dark green monstrosities that somehow absorbed the minimal light and doused it to sooty shadow.
The fragments of altar, pews, kneelers, flakes of rice paper from charred Bibles had been moved aside, forming a neat little path to where a loose flap of tarp was pinned back, inviting entry.
Very cute, she thought, ducking through the opening. On the other side was darkness, nothing but impenetrable darkness, and she stopped short of rolling her eyes. This was getting ridiculously dramatic, and so much time and effort to try and scare her! Some people had far too much time on their hands.
Suddenly yellow light illuminated the strange room she was in, rows of candle wicks flaming one after the other, putting her in mind of dominoes, and when her sight adjusted she gazed about the space with a flutter of pride and wonderment. This was magnificent! A tribute to her, to her art, her gifts. This was no place for fear! Someone had sought to impress her, to display her masterpieces in a truly fitting setting; they’d taken it upon themselves to build her a gallery where no other studio would approve her work for show.
With mounting awe Ava began circling the makeshift room, moving anti-clockwise. To the left of the doorway, positioned in a deteriorating coffin, lay the juicy, spoiled remains of her first victim: a hitchhiker she’d kindly picked up nearly eight months ago, who had tried to assault her. The look on his weathered face when she’d clobbered him with the ballpein hammer she kept beneath her seat! She’d just kept smashing away until his skull was mulch, then she’d buried him in the thick trees behind her home. He’d been dumped carelessly in the ground – whoever organised this had found a casket in which to display him. It was more than he deserved, but it did give him a dignity he’d not possessed in life.
Moving on, she couldn’t resist smiling with fond memories at the second exhibit. She’d been the high school princess type, the quintessential popular girl-slash-bully, and though Ava had only bumped into her briefly at a party she’d recognised the breed. They were so easily identified, for they were all the same. The girl had fallen for Ava’s friendly overtures, the offer of brand-new expensive makeup which ‘you simply must have – it would perfectly suit your complexion much better than it does mine. I don’t know how I let the woman at the shop talk me into buying it!’ She’d led the girl to her car – her name had been Carly, or Cathy, or Casey, something prissy like that – and when they’d reached the vehicle Ava had cracked her over the head with the hammer and tucked her form into the hatchback. Nobody noticed the two girls had left, and Ava took her project to the woods behind her house where she used a rock to smash Casey/Cathy/Carly’s head to a million particles of bone and brain, before rolling her into another hasty grave.
The princess was propped on a throne – a damned throne, what a beautiful touch! – with a crown of worms wriggling upon her crushed brow. The stench from the bodies was overpowering, but Ava felt nothing but pride in herself and wonder that someone should so honour her.
As she’d grown more confident in her abilities, she’d experimented with different methods. One victim’s entire ribcage was broken, the bones protruding from his mangled flesh and each one painted a different colour. His decaying form was draped over a makeshift fire pit, giving an artist’s impression of a crown roast slowly heating.
So many memories! She giggled, then laughed, admiring her progress and appreciating the effort both she and her unknown supporter had put in to make such an impressive presentation of her work.
Yet when she reached the end she found herself staring at a blank canvas, a block of wood upon which nothing leaked or wriggled – it was simply bare of all skill.
Her final victim was missing.
She remembered him, scrawny little thing he’d been, all skin and bone and little else to commend him. In fact, she was likely the only person to remember him, so unremarkable was he. Yet where was he?
Someone hadn’t completed their tribute. What was the point of paying homage to a hero if they did not do it properly? This wouldn’t do, it was lazy and messy and stupidly careless and anger flared at the slight. She walked to the block and kicked it, as if striking at the ignorant artist who had so failed her.
Her phone beeped. She snatched it up, glaring at the screen. Annoyed, are we? Not at me, I hope. I used every tool you left me.
She snarled, clenching a fist about her phone. ‘Who are you?’ she growled, hazel eyes flashing in the sputtering candlelight. She turned to look about the impromptu exhibition, seeking her tormentor. ‘What have you done to my work?’
The mocking laugh, when it came, floated out from behind her, and she spun around too quickly and nearly tripped over the block. In the shadows, behind the rows of candles, she saw the silhouette of a man. Tall, features indistinct though there was a ripe smell coming off him that was worse than the bouquet arising from any of her corpses.
He chuckled, the sound dripping with scorn. ‘You don’t remember me? I’m hurt. You don’t take someone into the woods for a good time and forget all about them.’ He emerged from the haze of yellow, and in spite of herself Ava took a step back. ‘It was somewhat memorable for me, but then again it was my first time.’
Her eyes narrowed, the pieces clicking slowly into place. ‘How are you still alive?’ she asked conversationally, panic beginning to flutter within her. She tried to quell it, refusing to let this failure see her squirm.
He tapped the side of his head. ‘Titanium plate. You didn’t hit me hard as you thought, but seemed to think you’d finished the job. Rather perfunctory effort, if you ask me.’
She swallowed, fingers itching for a weapon that wasn’t to hand. ‘What do you want?’ she said evenly.
Astonishment lit his face, and he spread his arms wide to encapsulate the room around them. ‘I want to finish the job!’ he cried, eyes blazing with a fanatical madness.
Fighting for calm, trying not to smile or reveal her worry, Ava asked, ‘How do you intend to do that?’
He leaned down, and she tried to see what he’d plucked from behind the block but he was too quick for her. ‘I work well enough alone,’ she stated firmly.
‘That was true – until you failed. Now it’s up to me to finish the job.’ And before she realised what was happening he’d swung the cleaver through the air and into her neck, the force and power behind his thrust almost enough to sever her head. Blood sprayed, and her head sagged to the side, held to the trunk by mere sinews of skin and tissue. Gently, tenderly, he caught her by the arms and settled her on the block, arranging her twitching body that it seemed she’d suffered a mediæval-style execution. When satisfied, he stepped back, admiring his work; then, hands in his pockets, left the church ruins, whistling to himself. She was not his first victim, nor would she be his last – but she, however, was the first one to try and kill him before he could slay her.
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