Written inresponse to a writing prompt on Putting My Feet In the Dirt.
This is a continuation of Malachi’s story, picking up from the Haunting of Harold Hemmings.
How long ago had it been? Fifty years, sixty? Malachi still remember the havoc the Butcher of Fontwell had caused after he had been murdered by the horde of town vigilantes. It had nearly killed him to contain the apparition back then and he was older now. Not that you could tell. His role gave him certain benefits in the aging category; if you considered watching everyone you know age and pass without you a benefit. But he did know that there was something after all this. The trick was getting to the right place. Something Harold Hemmings had not done. He was far too keen on causing destruction and chaos.
Standing outside the door, Malachi could hear the absence of noise. The old house creaking and whistled but around this door there was nothing. It was not natural. He knew Harold would be waiting for him. Being on his territory, Malachi hand the upper hand; to get out of this house he had to be incapacitated. Or dead.
He growled to himself and entered Empty. He stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him.
“I haven’t got time for this. My head hurts and I have a stupid teenager to deal with.”
“You have no respect Malachi,” the voice seemed to come from everywhere.
“Me? You were the one that decided to fillet young girls. Not entirely respectful,” Malachi shrugged trying to locate the source of the power. He could feel him, a sense he had honed over the years of being a guardian. There, in the corner… He stepped forward and suddenly realised he’d been played. An ear-splitting wail brought him to his knees while a tornado seemed to whip around him, almost tearing his clothes off him. If he could just find the centre of the spirit… He couldn’t breathe. The wind was pulling the breath from him. Then the pain of a thousand needles tore through his flesh. He heard another noise above the wail and realised it was his own scream.
Movement behind him. Then nothing. No pain. No noise. He waited for a few seconds before dragging his arms underneath himself and pushing himself up far enough to cast a backward glance.
Sam stood there with a white bottle in his hands, “Huh, so salt works does it?”
“For a few moments.”