Ethereal Malignance, page 1
Ethereal Malignance
The Ethereal Infestance
Book One
D.P. Vaughan
Copyright © 2023 by D.P. Vaughan
All rights reserved.
D.P. Vaughan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover artwork by Miblart www.miblart.com.
Chapter One
The late afternoon sun bathed the neighbourhood in orange, but John Wedgewood preferred the shadows and the dark. He stood out as a solitary figure in the sunlit leafy street, but in the shade, he was a moving shadow. People wouldn’t mess with you if they didn’t notice you.
The occasional fallen branch lay on the path from yesterday’s storm, and the sunlight was punctuated at regular intervals by the shade of houses and trees.
John wore black full-length cargo pants, black runners, and a black T-shirt largely covered by a black leather jacket—the most valuable thing he owned. His dark skin complemented his black hair, coarse, short and tight curls fading down the sides. The nineteen-year-old’s shoulders were hunched, and he moved with purpose.
John walked through the neighbourhood, a patchwork of manicured lawns and sprawling large houses. As he passed, curtains twitched, and faces peered at him, their expressions tight and disapproving. A man watering his lawn turned the hose off and watched him until he was out of sight. The message was clear. It may have been 1993, but to John, it felt like just another day of survival.
His only friend, Griffin, lived a handful of blocks away. His shack was hidden behind a thick row of trees in the park. Griffin Tree Row, he called it, often joking that he’d lived there longer than the trees. Back then, John had visited Griffin after classes and sometimes instead of. Since he’d dropped out of high school, he visited him on a near-daily basis. Griffin: the strange old man who lived in the park.
John often thought about how good it would be to leave the city. Head into the woods and never deal with other people and their bullshit ever again. He didn’t let the fact he had no survival skills dampen his fantasy. He would be free. If he ever won the lottery, that’s what he would do. Of course, you had to actually buy lottery tickets to win, and John didn’t have the money for that sort of thing. He strode on, deep in his inner dream world.
Meanspirited laughter cut through the street. John froze. There was trouble a block away: a group of school bullies who had since graduated to full-time delinquency. They were led by Tom, the brains of the bunch if you defined “brains” loosely. They were only seventeen but had dropped out of school younger than even John had. It was only a matter of time before they were in jail. People said the same about him, but these idiots went out of their way to cause trouble. John kept to himself and tried to avoid the trouble the world made for him.
If he’d done even a small amount of what these idiots had, the police would have taken him away a long time ago. It was obvious that the difference in the way he and they were treated was skin deep. However, even they could only get away with so much, and then they’d be off the streets.
John frowned.
Strange. They normally lurked about the bike racks in the early morning, harassing schoolkids.
They must have stayed back for a particular reason. Or person. It wouldn’t have been for John because he didn’t have a schedule for anything except smoking.
He considered his options and took a draw of his cigarette. Cutting through the yard of the house nearby would take him to the next street over, and then he could jump the fence to get back on track a few blocks later. John had no intention of getting his arse beaten.
Someone cried out for help: a pudgy kid he didn’t know, still in school uniform. They had him surrounded. One of the bullies punched him, and he went down like a sack of bricks.
John’s fists balled up, his heart drumming a rapid rhythm in his chest. His jaw set, teeth gritting, eyes homing in on the unfolding scene. A familiar heat kindled in his gut, a flame stoked by memories of his own childhood. He remembered the sting of fists, the taste of blood, the laughter of those who thought power meant hurting the weak. Bullies always liked to punch down; he knew that from his childhood. The smart choice wasn’t so appealing now. If he could distract the vicious idiots long enough for the kid to get away, he could bolt through the yards and jump the fences. If he were lucky, they’d get bored chasing him before too long. He took a deep breath and stepped forward.
“What’s up, dickheads?” John called out. He smoked his cigarette in an attempt to look unfazed and nonchalant.
They looked over, their expressions shifting in a way John interpreted as surprise. They probably weren’t used to people daring to interfere with their fun or deliberately drawing their attention.
John blew smoke into the air.
“You boys must be so brave, taking on one kid all by yourselves.”
Tom sneered. His facial features and crewcut made him look more rat-like than John remembered. “What, is this your boyfriend, orphan?” He punctuated the question with a kick to the downed victim’s ribs. The kid sobbed and looked up at John pleadingly.
Two of the group headed towards him, but John needed them all for the kid to have a chance of escape. He flicked his lit cigarette towards the bullies. “Why? Jealous?”
That did it. They stalked towards John, the beaten-up kid forgotten but staying down.
“Run, you idiot. Run!”
The kid jumped to his feet and awkwardly limped away.
John grinned nervously at the bullies and made a break for it, his feet pounding the pavement as he sprinted away, the bullies’ shouts and thunder of their footsteps close behind.
An impact hit him from the side. He hit the ground, winded, not expecting the tackle. They rolled him onto his back. Shit. He couldn’t breathe in. Only out. Shit, shit, shit.
Bright spots accompanied the pain as the first punch landed against his head. He threw his hands up in defence, but it was pointless. They all piled on, punching and kicking.
One of the lackeys grabbed John from behind and dragged him to his feet to face Tom. He stared back in defiance despite his injuries, and breathed loudly through gritted teeth.
“Not so fucking tough now, are you?” Tom said before punching him in the gut.
John tried to double over in pain but was held in place.
He copped a fist right in the eyebrow which split and oozed blood. Another caught him in the cheek and mouth, splitting his lip. Then the nose, which miraculously didn’t break. John couldn’t move, couldn’t fight back. He coughed blood onto Tom’s face in defiance.
Tom's eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed into dangerous slits. His nostrils flared, his breathing harsh and ragged, and his face turned an ugly shade of red. He raised his fist, knuckles white with the intensity of his grip.
John shut his eyes and tried to turn his head, waiting for the inevitable blow. He’d gambled and lost.
“This looks to be a fun game. Care if I join in?” came a lilting, droll voice.
Through bleary and bloodied eyes John recognised the familiar figure of an exceptionally old, bald man.
“No, Griffin! They’ll kill you!” John said, but a backhand to the face sent him reeling to the ground. He spat blood onto the dirt. “He’s just an old man. Leave him—”
A kick to the ribs silenced him. He grabbed his side and gasped for breath.
Battered, bloodied, and bruised, he squinted at the scene unfolding before him. His stomach fell and tears welled. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t get up. He couldn’t save him.
It’s all my fault.
“You should watch where you walk, old man,” Tom threatened.
The gang approached him. Their skin tone ranged from sun-tanned to pale, but they were all shadows compared to the eerily luminous paleness of the short figure.
Griffin didn’t respond. He merely stood still and waited, the image of patience. He had no hair—not even eyelashes or eyebrows—and pale skin where fingernails should be. The youths stopped shy, seemingly creeped out by his appearance and his lack of fear. They looked to Tom for guidance. He gave a curt nod.
Rick, the dumbest of the bunch, threw a punch and John clenched his eyes shut. He couldn’t watch, especially when it was his own fault. But the noise of pain didn’t come from Griffin. He looked up.
Griffin held Rick’s fist.
Rick squawked in pain, knees buckling before the old man who stared down at him with an amused curve to his lips.
The wet cracks of breaking bones was nauseating. Rick shrieked a high-pitched wail.
Griffin let him go and he fell to the ground, sobbing and cradling his ruined hand.
“You might want to seek medical attention for that,” Griffin said.
Tom’s group eyed each other warily.
He must have decided leadership was needed because he drew a knife. Griffin didn’t move other than to cock his head to the side with cold bemusement. Tom darted forward and shoved his blade deep into the old man’s gut.
John almost vomited.
Griffin remained still like a statue. The other bullies exchanged glances, their faces a mix of shock and confusion, their bravado faltering. But when Griffin finally moved, it wasn’t for the knife. He grabbed Tom by the throat and squeezed. The rat-fa
“Not what you expected, is it?” Griffin said with a vicious grin.
He squeezed harder. More choking sounds. Tom’s limbs flailed about uselessly. No one else moved.
John pushed himself to a seated position, unable to stop staring at the knife hilt sticking out of Griffin’s gut.
Griffin threw Tom to the dirt where he writhed and grasped at his throat, coughing and spluttering. He pathetically shuffled away like a wounded animal.
With a hard yank, Griffin pulled the knife out and regarded it for a moment.
“Here, you forgot this,” he said and threw it at Tom, its hilt smashing into his face.
Tom clutched at his nose and blood streamed around his fingers.
“Oh, dear. That’s a broken nose all right. Looks like it’s off to the hospital with you, too.”
John stared, wide-eyed, as his friend ambled towards him. Griffin put out his hand and pulled him to his feet. He stood unsteadily. His eyebrow and bottom lip stung and bled.
Griffin turned to the bullies. “Well, this was fun, but if you gentlemen don’t mind, my friend and I are going to depart.”
They dispersed in a flurried panic as if threatened with violence.
Griffin chuckled drolly. His aged clothes were torn but there wasn’t any blood that John could see.
How is he even standing?
Griffin slapped him twice on the shoulder. “Let’s go. And make it quick. It’s my last sunset and I don’t want to miss it.”
Chapter Two
John’s eyes darted from Griffin's face to where he’d been stabbed and back again. He swallowed hard, throat dry. “The knife … Are you hurt?”
Griffin was helping him to his shack, and he shook his head and smiled. “If time itself hasn’t killed me yet, those idiots certainly wouldn’t be able to.” His face was so pale blue veins were visible through the skin.
John was too exhausted to question it further.
They passed a bicycle still secured to the bike rack, and he idly wondered if it belonged to the kid. They walked from the street into the green of the trees and grass of the park. John adjusted his stride to avoid a downed tree branch.
It hurt to breathe, but he insisted on clearing the air.
“I was an idiot for getting you into that situation.”
Griffin was the only person whose opinion John cared about. He was worried he’d think less of him for not only putting him at risk but also partaking in violence like the other bullies.
“Nonsense, dear boy. Your bravery is commendable.” Griffin stopped and looked at him carefully for a moment. “But the next time you fight, make sure you can win.”
John smiled slightly, then winced as his split lip reopened.
“When I was a younger man,” Griffin said, “back in the old land, men would fight duels to the death. A bit of fisticuffs is tame fare in comparison.”
John frowned and instantly regretted it as his eyebrow throbbed. “I didn’t know that sort of thing was so recent.”
Griffin looked to the ground for a few moments before he responded.
“Well, I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you about a few things, my boy.”
John’s attention zeroed in on Griffin, his injuries forgotten for the moment, and a yawning chasm of fear grew in his chest. Surely the one person who treated him like a real person hadn’t lied to him all these years.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m actually quite a bit older than you think. Older than anyone ought to be, really.”
“I don’t know,” John said with a slight smile, “you seem pretty old.”
Griffin laughed. A welcome sound that made John feel at home.
“I mean, more like a century longer than you think.”
John relaxed. “Right,” he replied with a smirk.
“I’m serious, John,” Griffin said, stopping in his tracks. “All those ‘Tales from the old land’ I used to tell you? They weren’t stories. No one back home has ever heard them. You’re the only living person who has.”
“I don’t understand,” John said. “The stories of monsters and body-snatchers? You’re saying they’re, what, real?”
Griffin avoided his eyes. “Yes, but replace those terms with ‘ethereal beings,’ and you’re more on the right track.”
John eyed Griffin carefully. His friend must have lost his mind with old age. Or it was some elaborate joke he wasn’t going to fall for.
“Ethereal beings?”
“Yes. There are light ones and dark ones, but don’t misunderstand: they’re all malevolent. They just shine brightly or darkly, if that makes sense.”
It doesn’t.
“Light and dark ones? Like, racially?” John asked, confused.
Griffin shook his head. “Oh, no, nothing like that. Light like a blinding spotlight and dark like a gaping void.”
“Uh … huh,” John said.
“They’re both otherworldly creatures, but the main difference appears to be how they go about things. The light creatures are much more subtle and less obvious, whereas the dark creatures are more blunt and obvious in their malevolence.”
“So, there’s a good side and a bad side?” John asked.
“Not at all. The light creatures are just as bad.”
John rubbed his forehead. He had no idea what to say.
Griffin nodded soberly. “They’re a malignance in the world. An … infestance, if you will.”
John leaned towards Griffin.
“Infestance? I know I missed a lot of school, but I don’t think that’s a word.”
Griffin smiled at him wryly. “I’ve been speaking this language since before your country was even born, so allow an old man some creative indulgences? And besides”—he winked at John—“the purpose of language is to communicate meaning, and you understood exactly what I meant, didn’t you?”
“True,” John conceded.
Griffin’s expression turned sombre. “I discovered long ago that these creatures were in our world and took it upon myself to investigate. It wasn’t long before I realised they were bad news. I’ve been keeping tabs on them to keep the world safe. I directly intervene when I have to, but, for the most part, I’ve just been trying to work out what they’re after and how to stop them. I moved here because I sensed they were being drawn to this place. I wasn’t sure why, and I wasn’t sure exactly where, but I followed them across the sea and spent years piecing together evidence and evading their attention.”
John was worried. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
“Pah!” Griffin snorted. “I’ll prove it!”
Griffin pushed his fist against John’s hand. The gold ring on his middle finger felt cold against John’s skin, and he flinched, but Griffin held his arm still.
“Wait.”
John’s eyebrow and lip itched for a moment, then stopped. He touched his face. He couldn’t feel the wounds. His many bruises didn’t hurt either, as if they’d been healed. No, that wasn’t it … As if he’d never been injured in the first place.
“What …” John couldn’t find the words.
“This is an anchor,” Griffin said, pointing to his ring, “that the light creatures use to cling to our world. They ‘take over’ dead bodies and use anchors to secure themselves in our world. Otherwise, they’d lose control over the bodies and slip back into their own world. I think the healing ability is a side effect that happens when we come into contact with it.”
John’s shoulders weren’t hunched anymore, and he stood straighter. He felt stronger than ever.
“The dark creatures have a different approach, though,” Griffin said. “They don’t use rings or anchors to keep themselves rooted in our world. They hunt down people and, uh … use them for fuel. This is what I meant when I said they’re less subtle. A light creature can remain in a body indefinitely, but the dark creatures must hunt to recharge.”
John looked horrified. “They sound like predators or parasites.”
“Quite,” Griffin said.
Silence fell between them.
John’s mind strained as he tried to process what he'd just heard. It was insane, the stuff of horror movies, like people were cattle to these creatures. But then, Griffin had just healed him with a touch, something that was equally unbelievable. A cold dread settled in his stomach.
