Read Online The Dark Sacrament by David Kiely - Free Book Online Page B

trying to come to terms with what he had just seen.
    He heard a gurgling noise. Heather was still on the couch; she had her back to him, and her shoulders were shaking. She seemed to be having some kind of fit.
    â€œHeather?”
    She did not respond. The gurgling grew louder. Joe came around to the front of the couch. He could not believe what he was seeing: it was the most macabre sight he had ever witnessed. Heather’s eyes were bulging; in the light from the standing lamp he could see that her face was discolored. She was choking. Joe saw the cause. There, “as clear as day,” was a hand, fastened about her throat. But it was not Heather’s. It was an aged, wizened hand where Heather’s should have been, and it was trying to choke the life out of her. Thehand ended at the wrist in a frilled blue cuff and wore a brass ring on the middle finger.
    Joe was petrified. He was witnessing the inconceivable. His rational mind told him it was nonsense, that such things did not happen. Yet he could not doubt the evidence of his eyes. Heather was under attack. Her face had turned purple under the hand’s murderous grip and her eyes had swiveled in her head, so that only the whites were visible. She was gasping for breath. He had to act.
    Overcoming his revulsion, he seized the grisly hand. It was cold to the touch and seemed immensely strong, the tendons and muscles feeling like nylon ropes. As he tried to free her, Heather grasped his shoulder with her “other” hand, the normal one. He heard her attempting to call out his name.
    He was frantic. But even as he struggled, he was registering yet another impossibility.
    â€œIt was that other hand,” he says. “I knew Heather was trying to help me. She’d gripped my shoulder and was squeezing. But it wasn’t her hand. It was like someone with long fingernails. It felt like eagle talons digging into my flesh. But I knew that Heather’s nails were bitten to the quick. Always had been. She was one of these nervous people who are forever biting their nails.”
    Using both hands, and all the strength he could muster, he managed at last to break the hold. As he did so, he felt “a warm sensation” beneath his grip, as the phantom hand relaxed. “When I looked again,” Joe says, “it was Heather’s hand I was holding on to. Her real hand.”
    Heather was free. She collapsed onto the rug, choking and coughing, and gasping for air. Later she would confess that she never felt closer to death than she did that evening.
    â€œAre you all right, honey?” Joe asked, bending over her.
    She could only nod.
    â€œWe’re leaving,” he said. “Right now! We’re getting out of here.”
    But Nan Sal had not finished with them. At that moment they heard footsteps overhead, followed by their bedroom door opening.
    It was enough. They picked up a few belongings, found a bag in the kitchen, and hurried to the front door. Joe fetched Rip’s leash and kept him by his side. They would spend the night with Aunt Breda again. Heather went to the front door.
    The door would not open.
    The knob refused to turn. It was jammed. She thought perhaps the safety was on. It was not. Inexplicably, the lock was stuck. They could not leave.
    â€œLet me! ” Joe yelled.
    It refused to budge. It was as though it was welded shut.
    â€œOh, Christ!” he screamed. “What the f*** is going on?”
    From upstairs came the sound of mocking laughter. They turned, terror-stricken. At the top of the stairs stood the grandmother, dressed as before. She was grinning. Then she began to cackle. It was loud, and utterly chilling.
    If the door would not open, they would find another way out, Joe decided. Taking Heather by the hand, he rushed back into the living room. Rip was growling and yelping by turns, terrified. Joe struggled with the window. It had not been opened fully in years.
    â€œOh, Jesus, hurry!”