Father Terrence Dunlevy stepped from the elevator onto the fourth floor of the hospital. Ward 7, dimly lit at this hour, was to his right - its double doors closed to casual visitors. Father Dunlevy was not a casual visitor.

At 6.45pm - two hours ago - he'd received a rather unusual telephone call from the duty nurse on ward 7.

'Father Dunlevy, Arden Valley Parish. How can I help you?'

'Hello, Father Dunlevy. I'm very sorry to have to trouble you at home. This is Sister Catherine Campbell of Valley General Hospital here. I'm afraid we've had a request for your presence at the hospital. A patient named Alan Goodwin? Asked for you specifically. Does the name ring any bells?'

‘A whole clarion of bells, Sister Campbell. My best friend through my Secondary school years and as far as my early twenties was named Alan Goodwin. He’d be in his late fifties now? Fifty-eight or thereabouts?’

‘Uuum, sounds about right. I’m just looking at his admittance records now ...’ There was a rustling of papers from the telephone, then - ‘Spot on, Father. Born July 8th, 1949. Admitted this morning with self-inflicted damage to his ears.’

Father Dunlevy frowned in puzzlement. ’His ears, you say?’

The nurse gave a small cough, apologised to Father Dunlevy, then returned to rustling through the papers. The priest waited patiently.

‘Ah, here we are. Yes, apparently Mr Goodwin inserted a blunt instrument into both ears with the intent of rupturing both eardrums. Did so with spectacular success, too. He’ll be deaf for the rest of his life.’

Father Dunlevy felt himself go cold; saw goose bumps rise on his arms and felt a chill envelope him.

‘That doesn’t sound like the Alan Goodwin I knew.’

‘With all due respect Father, people can change a lot in thirty years.’

So now, standing at the double doors to ward 7 the priest had to steel himself to face a long, lost friend ... and ’lost’ seemed to be the operative word.

Pushing open the doors, Father Dunlevy walked the short distance to the nurse’s station. One of the nurses - he saw from the name-tag that it was the nurse he’d spoken to - walked towards him, her hand extended in anticipation of the handshake to follow. The priest took her hand and gave a brisk, firm handshake accompanied by what he hoped - in the circumstances - was a warm smile.

‘Father Terrence Dunlevy,’ he said, ’Pleased to meet you, Sister Campbell.’

‘Likewise, Father - although the circumstances ...’

Her words tailed off as a grimace came to her face. ‘I’ll take you to Mister Goodwin’s room. We gave him a small, private room. He’s been muttering to himself all day. Frankly Father, and I make no apologies about saying this, he’d been driving his fellow patients crazy.’

The priest nodded his understanding and followed the nurse to the far end of the ward.

‘I should also warn you that Mr Goodwin is blind, too.’

‘What?!’

The nurse stopped and turned to face the priest.

‘Self inflicted. About six weeks before this latest incident. The man seems intent on cutting himself off from the rest of civilisation, Father. Won’t talk to anyone regarding his reasons, either. You’re the only person he wants to talk with.’

Father Dunlevy looked at his feet, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘He asked for me? By name, or just asked for the local priest?’

‘By name, Father. I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m one hundred percent sure this man knows you. I don’t think you can escape the fact, Father; this Mr Goodwin is the man you were friends with thirty years ago.’

The priest saw the sincerity in the nurse’s face. He felt like darkness was descending on his life, in the shape of Alan Goodwin.

‘How did he ...?’

‘An electric steam iron across his eyes, Father. Made a right mess of his face and forehead, too.’

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God!’

From reflex, the priest made the sign of the cross across his body.

‘Yeah, hits you like that. I’ve seen and heard some things, Father. But this? This takes the biscuit, you know?’

‘How ... how do I communicate with him?’

‘Block capital letters written with your finger on the palm of his hand, Father. He’ll talk to you so mostly you’ll be listening.’

The nurse turned and walked the remaining short distance to the small room. The door had a small curtained window; the curtain was closed over. The nurse opened the door for the priest, ushering him in.

For a brief second, Father Dunlevy hesitated at the door. Something was so wrong about this, something ... inexplicable. He had no illusions about being gifted with second sight or clairvoyance; the beliefs of the Church aside, the priest had yet to be convinced by anyone claiming such gifts and knew that science had provided no hard evidence in support of these so-called powers, either. But he’d always ... known ... when something was wrong; when the place - or person - he was about to face wasn’t ... right.

And ... was someone mumbling?

Just then, the nurse brought him back to the moment.

‘Father, if you’d like to go in? If you need anything I’ll be just along the way, there. At my station.’

‘Er - thank you, Sister Campbell.’

The priest stepped over the threshold into the room. Was it just him or ...

‘Excuse me, Sister? May I close the window? It’s a little cold in here.’

The nurse turned back from leaving the room.

‘It’s just a cold room, Father. Don’t know why. The windows are closed and the radiators seem to be working fine.’

She turned away and left the priest alone in the cold with the deaf, blind man.

‘Someone’s there.’

The priest almost jumped when the man on the hospital bed spoke.

‘I can feel your presence. The air changes when someone comes in here. Like the bow wave of a ship, beating against my skin.’

The man’s voice was undoubtedly that of his old friend; less steady, a little weaker with age but no less confident. But the face ...

Swathed in turban-like bandages only the ruined part of his face was visible. The area around the eyes of the man on the bed looked like it had been clumsily erased; the eyes themselves permanently sealed in a sliver of eyelids, ironed flat. His forehead and the bridge of his nose shone like cheap plastic, the marks of the steam vents of the iron permanently etched in small red circles.

‘Alan, is that really you?’

Belatedly, the priest remembered the condition of his old friend. He walked towards the man on the bed and leaned down to lightly press a hand on his shoulder.

‘Terry? That you?’

The priest gently ran his hand from the mans shoulder to his hand, which was obligingly lying palm up.

ITS ME.

He wrote the letters out slowly thinking it had only been since this morning that the man had been deaf.

‘Oh, thank God. No offence, Father. I really should be careful with the blasphemy.’

Alan started to laugh, but it was a mirthless laugh; no genuine humour elicited this laughter, but rather it was the laugh of a condemned man when asked if he had a preference for his last meal.

There was no doubt in the priest’s mind that this was his old friend, Alan Goodwin. Changed. How he’d changed. But still, Alan Goodwin was the man on the bed. Whatever haunted him had brought him lower than even his old friend had seen him ... and Terry had been a friend to support Alan when Colleen had been attacked. Perhaps this is what haunted him now? Had the memory of that summer returned in Alan’s old age to drive him out of his mind?

The laughter stopped. Father Dunlevy took Alan’s hand again and started writing on the palm.

WHAT HAPPENED 2 U

‘What happened? Nightmares, Father. That’s what happened. Or rather, that’s what started everything.’

COLLEEN

The man on the bed managed a smile.

‘You still think of her, Terry? I do. I get constant reminders of Colleen, every fucking day. Pardon my French. But no, the nightmares were, I suppose, just normal everyday - sorry, everynight - nightmares: red-eyed wolves stalking me through the corridors of our old high school; monkey-monsters swinging down the street as I run like billy-oh to get away from them; freaky-faced people smiling with their shark-toothed grins at me as I try to sell them the latest style double glazing. The usual, I suppose. The last one was different, though.’

Alan dropped into a silence so deep and long that the priest was sure Alan had nodded off. Taking the man’s hand again, the priest wrote DIFFERENT HOW

‘Different in that it continued into my waking life. Now, I realise you’re thinking I should be speaking to a shrink instead of you ... but you know me well, Terry. Best friends for almost twelve years, we were. You remember how solid and down to earth I was? Nothing had changed until those nightmares, you know. I don’t believe in UFOs or psychic phenomena; I don’t read my horoscope; I didn’t believe in ghosts, spirits ... or God.’

Alan’s voice wavered at the end of his small speech, his chin trembling with pent-up emotion.

DIDNT BELIEVE the priest wrote on Alan’s palm, YOU BELIEVE NOW

‘In spirits? In God? Oh, yes. Undoubtedly. You recall I said of my nightmares that people with freaky faces and shark-toothed grins populated them? One morning I awoke and my wife was asleep in the bed next to me. I was sweating and shaking, having been awoken by one of those nightmares. My wife’s sleeping face was flickering, Father.’

The man on the bed began to tremble a little, his voice quivering.

‘Her face ... changed. Not like a cheap special effect when Lon Chaney Junior became the Wolfman but ... flickering, you know? One second her eyes were closed, the next they were open but ... they were like black billiard balls, you know? Large, impossibly large. Then one eye would close and the open one would shrink and pulse and flicker through the rainbow of colours then ... blood would seep from the eye itself; not the socket, not like tears - but like a film of blood on the eyeball itself. God. And her mouth would twist and squirm like it was full of worms, opening to reveal a snake-like tongue and teeth that were like porcupine quills. Her hair would writhe and lengthen, then shorten, turn to grass, to seaweed, to short metal spikes, change colour ... and her skin! Puss-filled boils, open sores, huge open wounds, scars running the length and breadth of her face, her skin changing colour too, from snow-white to a black so black it seemed light couldn’t escape it. Sometimes her skin and her bones would become transparent. I could see her face muscles, her blood vessels, ligaments ... her brain. All this time, Father ... Jesus help me, I was frozen in fear. I couldn’t look away. Just ... couldn’t.’

The panic, the fear was rising in Alan’s voice but then ... he took a deep sign, gained composure.

‘That wasn’t the worst, Father. It continued when she woke up. I’d been lying there, frozen in fear, afraid to look away. Then she woke up. I don’t know if she smiled but there was a smile in her voice. “Good morning, sweetheart.” she said ... only I didn’t see her say that because her mouth was still doing all that freaky stuff; so was the rest of her face. Only because I recognised her voice and the fact it was coming from the direction of her mouth ... otherwise, I was in bed with - something not my wife.’

Alan gripped the priest’s hand.

‘I’m not crazy, Terry. Or ... I may be now. But then, I was just a salesman hawking double glazing to whoever would buy it. Life wasn’t hard; we were comfortable without being wealthy. No stress. And the memory of Colleen was just that; a memory. A bad memory, granted. But rarely visited then.’

Father Dunlevy took his old friend’s hand again.

TRAUMATIC TIME YOU SURE COLLEEN NOT CAUSE

There was another long silence. Father Dunlevy didn’t know what to make of this ... story his friend was telling him. Delusional? Ravings of a madman? The result of a complete mental breakdown? Or ... the truth? The truth as Alan Goodwin saw it, at any rate. It was obviously a heartfelt plea for help or understanding, but why he should choose to unburden himself to a priest instead of a psychiatrist? Surely Alan knew that that was the only route to take. Psychiatry wasn’t in the dark ages, which was where Father Dunlevy felt this story belonged. There was something medieval about the imagery. Or perhaps even from the imagination or work of Hieronymus Bosch.

‘I was haunted by Colleen’s death for a number of years, Terry’ Alan spoke up again, ‘ If I’d only broken up with her in the morning instead of near midnight: if I’d followed her to make sure she got home alright: if I’d loved her as she said she loved me. You know how I was tortured, Terry. You helped me through it all. Even though her parents blamed me - and I still think they were right to do so - you stood by me, made me see that I couldn’t foretell the future. You helped me see that circumstances conspired to kill Colleen. If that rapist, murderer, whatever you call him, hadn’t been freed on bail just two days before ...’

I KNOW BUT NIGHTMARES VISIONS

Father Dunlevy hesitated then continued.

POST TRAUMATIC STRESS YEARS LATER

‘I can’t explain it, Terry. Let me ask you something, instead. You’re cold, right? I bet the windows are all closed, there are no draughts, the radiators work fine and the rest of the ward is warm as toast.’

COLD YES

‘Physical manifestations of my delusions, Terry? You ever hear of that happening before? Apart from the movies, that is, when spirits appear and bring down the temperature of their surroundings? Any explanations, Terry?’

The priest couldn’t deny the coldness in the room. But to talk of movie effects and spirits was nonsensical. Better to talk of natural cold spots. He’d ask the nurses when he left if that room was always cold.

YOUR EYES EARS he wrote again, trying to keep Alan talking, to understand the why of the man’s breakdown if not the delusions. WHY

Alan seemed to settle down for a long night, looking as comfortable as when, in his youth, he’d slouch down in an armchair, take a draw of his cigarette and a sip of his beer before regaling the company of friends with tales of his latest adventures in Law school.

‘Okay, now I told you about my wife’s face. Only she had no idea that anything had changed, In fact, for her, nothing had changed. But I was seeing this freaky face every time I looked at her. It would be unconnected to what she was saying or how she was feeling. “Bacon, sausage, egg and mushrooms for breakfast, Alan?” she’d ask, all the time her face flickering, morphing into horrors I’d never seen in even my worst nightmares. She thought I’d stopped talking to her - well, I had. But only because I couldn’t speak. I thought I was going doolally! I thought I was ready for the funny farm! She thought I’d fallen out with her. “What have I done, Alan? Why won’t you speak to me?” How could I tell her that she was the horde from Hell?! How could I just come out and say “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s just that your face reminds me of Hellish nightmares and the demon horde.”?’

He shook his head, a wry smile creasing the lower part of his face. The upper part remained a featureless sheet of plastic.

‘Only, worse was to come. It wasn’t just my wife. Every face I looked at ... flickered, changed, morphed into freakishly fiendish abominations. Every ... single ... one. How I wasn’t screaming, raving like a loon, running up and down the streets tearing off my clothes ...? Well, God alone knows. I thought about it. A lot. Why was I seeing this? Should I tell my wife? Would she have me carted off by men in white coats? Fuck, yes. In a heartbeat. You try to deny that, I’ll call you a fucking liar to your face, Terry. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? He needs to talk to a shrink, not to me. That’s it, huh?’

Terry hesitated, but only briefly. After all, they’d been best friends once upon a time.

YES

‘I saw a shrink after ... my eyes. God forgive me, it was tearing at my sanity. To see those ... things. Day after day, in every face. The postman, bank tellers, my customers, my colleagues, my family and friends ... You see why I took my eyes away? Of course, this was the final nail in the coffin of my marriage. I hadn’t spoken to my wife in ... I think around two and a half weeks. Isobel. You remember Isobel Cummings, as was, from our old neighbourhood? Blonde girl, tall, slim, smart, funny as hell ... All the guys chasing her, I was fastest. Bet she wishes now I’d hadn’t caught her. Anyway, after I took the iron to my eyes I was asked by my family - my dad in particular - to seek professional help. Two hour-long sessions a week for four weeks. I told him about my visions, he explored the trauma that was Colleen’s suicide. He tried for four weeks to pin the blame on Colleen’s death. But I knew it wasn’t that. Fuck, I’d almost forgotten about that part of my life.’

Alan hesitated, seeming to take stock of his words.

‘Okay, I hadn’t forgotten about it. But I was over it. I didn’t blame myself anymore. Hadn’t done so for years. Why would that episode come back to haunt me now? It’s nuts beyond belief!’

The priest reached for Alan’s palm again.

NUTS LIKE SUPERNATURAL EXPLANATION he wrote, then paused before writing a large ? on Alan’s palm.

‘You don’t believe me.’

It was a statement that the priest had to answer honestly, but carefully.

BELIEVE YOU BELIEVE then he paused, separating his answer into distinguishable parts, NOT SUPERNATURAL paused again, MIND BROKEN

‘Okay. You think I’m mentally ill. I suppose, hearing what you have and looking at me laying here ... it’s a reasonable response. You want to hear why I did my ears?’

YES

‘Two weeks ago, I was in session with the shrink. He was saying pretty much what you said; a mental breakdown caused by the guilt I still felt over Colleen’s suicide. My mind had manifested this guilt into haunting by demons. Every face was the face of my accusers, the demons from Hell. I was telling myself that for causing Colleen’s death I was as bad as the rapist himself. I was telling myself I was the one responsible and ... I was going to Hell.’

MAKES SENSE

‘Yeah ... until I heard him scream.’

WHO

‘The shrink. At least, it came from his direction. A terrifying scream. If you’ve ever heard a man scream in pure terror, you’ll never forget it. Chills to the soul, Terry. Something primeval kicks in and you just know that scream came from a man being eaten alive, or in fear for his immortal soul. I said to him, I shouted at him “What? What happened? You okay, man?” Back comes his reply, calm as you like “I’m fine, Alan. Why, did you hear something?” I mean, I was close to freaking out then. “Why the fuck did you scream like that? I nearly had a heart attack!” I heard scribbling on paper as his reply comes back, still calm like nothing had happened, “I didn’t scream, Mister Goodwin. In fact, I didn’t even hear a scream. I can assure you, had I screamed my secretary and the receptionist would have been in here in three seconds flat ... both armed with stun guns.” Still I could hear him scribbling on his paper. Nobody rushed into the room to check everything was okay. I figured it must have been a flashback to a nightmare or something. I don’t know. Then, I heard the moaning: moaning of souls resigned to their eternal torment, of souls who know there is a real place called Hell. And the screams. I’m telling you, Terry, blood curdling is a damn fine descriptive phrase. That’s what my blood was doing, alright. Curdling in my veins, going thick as syrup. As calmly as I could I asked the shrink if he could hear anything ... unusual. “In what way unusual?” he asked. I took that for a ‘No’, got up and, carefully feeling my way around his office, I found a door, opened it and walked out. Turned out it was his private toilet but he got the message and made sure I got into a taxi headed for home. All this time, when he was helping me from his toilet, calling for a taxi and helping me into it I could still hear the moaning, the screaming and occasional words thrown in, just to upset me. Words like “Help me!” or “God save us!” or, worst of all, “Please, nooooooooooo!” It only stopped when I was alone in my house. When no one else was around ... nothing. I tried surviving alone, but there’s always someone around. My family would regularly pop in, just to see how I was doing. Asking why I had stopped seeking professional help. They brought those tortured souls with them. Those screams and moans, the beseeching pleas that I wished would fall on deaf ears. So, I took a screwdriver and ... well, I shan’t paint a picture, Terry.’

The priest looked at his old friend, feeling tears spill from his eyes. He’d never heard a story like it, one so pitiful and hopeless. If these delusions were real to Alan then his actions were understandable.

With a sigh, Father Dunlevy took Alan’s hand again.

NOT GOING 2 HELL ALAN he wrote, pausing to make understanding clear, PRAY 4 U - pause - SUPPORT U - pause - PROFESSIONAL HELP

Then, the priest heard mumbling again ... coming from Alan ... yet the man hadn’t opened his mouth.

U SAY SOMETHING - pause - ?

‘Me? Not a ... Oh shit! They’ve found another way through!’

Again, the priest wrote a question mark on Alan’s palm.

‘The souls trapped in Hell, Terry. I had a lot of time to think about what was happening, without managing to make a dent in the “Why me?” angle. When my nightmares occurred I was closer to Hell than I realised. I think we all come close to Hell in our worst nightmares. But this one time, maybe because of the guilt I was feeling - subconsciously, you understand - over Colleen’s suicide ... I stayed close to Hell when I awoke. The tortured souls realised there was a conduit to an Earthly existence; sort of like when boys discover a peephole to the girls changing room, you know? All these souls crowded around this peephole - me, that is - to let me know that they were there; to ask, to plead for help to save their immortal souls.’

WHY ABOMINATIONS

‘Why did they look so horrific? I don’t know. But I think ... In Heaven, it’s supposed to be that you look as you did in your prime. Young, strong, full of life? Maybe in Hell, you look like your worst nightmare - and then some! When I blinded myself, when I couldn’t see them anymore, they communicated by sound. They used the people I could see to bring their faces to my eyes; they used the people I could hear to bring their voices to my ears. Now that I can’t hear, I think they’re trying to bring their voices to everyone else’s ears ... through my voice.’

BARELY HEARD ANYTHING - pause - MISTAKEN

‘No, I think ... I know I’m right.’ He was fumbling for the buzzer to summon a nurse.

CALM DOWN - pause - I GET NURSE

The priest was almost at the door when he heard a voice ... that he recognised ... that he knew was not Alan Goodwin’s.

Just then Terry realised that Alan wasn’t about to summon a nurse. Before the priest could do anything, Alan took the large buzzer, yanked the cable from the wall - and started trying to swallow the lot.

Twenty minutes later, Alan Goodwin was pronounced dead. Even with skilled doctors and nurses in close proximity the large buzzer had lodged firmly in Alan’s throat, blocking his airway. He’d actually fought off the first nurses on the scene whilst his body struggled for oxygen. Even when the priest had rushed over to control the man’s thrashing arms and legs it was almost too late then. But, credit to their dedication, the professionals worked hard trying, but failing, to bring the purple-faced man back to life.

Detective Inspector Jackson sighed as he finished reading Father Dunlevy's statement. Rubbing at his rough-stubbled face, he raised his eyes to look at the priest sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the table.

‘Frankly Father, if it wasn’t for the corroboration we received from Mister Goodwin’s psychiatrist ... Well, I’d be looking to have you carted off in a straight jacket.’

‘I realise that, Detective Inspector. You also corroborated the suicide of Miss Colleen Turnbull?’

The policeman took a glance at a small sheaf of papers on the table next to the priest’s statement.

‘Miss Turnbull committed suicide less than six months after being brutally beaten and raped on her way home from Mister Goodwin’s flat. She’d recently terminated a pregnancy; the foetus was believed by Miss Turnbull to be the child of her rapist. So she took her own life, hanging herself from a rafter of her family home, leaving a note in which she stated her guilt over the termination. She also stated her love for her family, asking for their forgiveness ... and for them to forgive Mister Goodwin.’

Father Dunlevy nodded slowly, his mind drifting back over thirty years. He also carried his share of guilt; he was one of her closest friends - she being the girlfriend of his best friend - and yet he hadn’t noticed the deterioration of her state of mind. Colleen had become withdrawn, tearful, her grades had been slipping badly, she’d often wear the same clothes for a week or more ... The signs were all there, yet neither he nor Alan had been experienced enough - mature enough? - to realise just how much trouble Colleen was in. In hindsight, the brutal rape following on so closely - the very night, in fact - to being dumped by Alan; the discovery of her pregnancy; the realisation that the child had to have been fathered by her attacker; the heart-rending decision to terminate her pregnancy ... How could he have been so blind? It was a guilt he would carry forever.

‘That’s all correct, Detective Inspector. You see then ... Alan was in a very bad way. I believe the guilt had been festering in his subconscious for all that time, finally manifesting itself in his visions, the voices he claimed to hear.’

‘That’s the conclusion reached by his psychiatrist, too. I see this all the time, Father. Guilt has a way of festering - like you said - and it can eat you up, destroying you as surely as a virulent cancer. Amazing the effect it can have. Never heard of visions, though. Still, this is a small town.’

The policeman sat up straight in his chair, glancing at his wristwatch.

‘It’s almost two in the morning, Father. Just a few more questions; won’t take long, trust me. I want to be in my bed before dawn. I’m sure you must be worn out too. Can I get you a coffee, Father? I’m having one myself.’

‘Tea would be wonderful, if that’s okay? White, two sugar.’

Father Dunlevy sat back in his chair watching the policeman get to his feet. Terry had debated whether or not to mention the voice he’d heard moments before Alan’s suicide -

Father Dunlevy jerked at the sound of the voice, feeling as though ice water had been poured down his back. It had sounded like ... Alan Goodwin.

‘Detective, did you say something?’

The policeman stopped halfway out the door.

‘Not a thing, Father.’ As he spoke, the policeman turned to face Terry. ‘Why? Don’t tell me you’re hearing things, now?’

Father Terrence Dunlevy thought, from the tone of the policeman’s voice, that the man was smiling when he spoke. Really though, it was very difficult to say.

The policeman’s face was a flickering mask of abominations.