The Ritual

the spaces between the gappy floorboards, wanting to break through them with his bare hands. Puffs
of cold air and dust came up at him, silent exhalations from the building’s internal air currents. Beneath his hands, the floor was like the door: solid, ancient. He picked and pried, dirtied
his already dirty knees. He gritted his teeth and silently called down curses upon the place.
    Upright again, he then moved about the walls, shuffling his feet. The plaster was moist in places; powdery under the paintwork in other areas. He wondered if he might dig through the wall at one
of these weak points with a shard of the broken jug or bucket. He was giving it serious thought when the activity above his head interrupted his considerations.
    Voices.
    Whispering voices.
    Thump, bump, thump: the sounds of small bodies.
    He moved into the middle of the room, at the foot of the bed, and something up there followed him. A pattering of babyish feet tracked across the ceiling to where he stood. Directly above
him.
    Luke moved towards the window. The little footsteps followed.
    ‘Hello,’ Luke said.
    Silence.
    Louder this time. ‘Hello.’
    No reply.
    ‘Can you hear me?’
    No one answered, but he was sure that a second tangible presence above him was attracted to the sound of his voice. Because another small form was now being dragged, or was dragging itself
across the floor above. It could have been no bigger than a child, because the shuffling sound was so light, so delicate. It bore no weight, but merely scuffed at the old floorboards.
    There was more whispering now too. Several papery voices were rustling up there. He could not make out a single word, but perhaps a note of optimism now defined their tone.
    This summoned a third participant. Up there. From the far corner of his room, he heard another set of steps move across the ceiling, towards his position beside the window. But this figure was
moving incredibly slowly, as if every step was a terrible effort. The sound of the footsteps was also hard, hollow and woody, as if this individual was wearing shoes with tipped heels, or was using
crutches. It was more of a slow careful knocking than a skitter or dragging motion like the first two presences had made.
    ‘I can hear you. English? Do you speak English?’ he called out, softly.
    The whispering intensified, then died away.
    Silence.
    This was going nowhere. Who did they have up there? Children? He thought of Fred and Rose West’s house in Gloucester, of the entombed captives suffocated in the walls. Recalled bits of
what he knew about the degradation of the victims of degenerate killers. Dharma, Manson, the Green River Killer, Brady, Nielsen, the Night Prowler, and all of the stranglers and slashers with their
hall of fame on cable television. He thought of their victims kept captive, toyed with, despatched, even fucked, often eaten. These thoughts made him feel so weak, he thought he should sit
down.
    Then he clenched his fists, ground his teeth. Wanted to bellow at the impossibility, the absurdity, the unfairness of it. There was simply no preparation in life for the determined madness of
others.
    Realizing he had either been holding his breath, or taking shallow breaths since hearing the movements above him, he greedily sucked the musty air of the room into his lungs. And shivered. It
was so cold now. His feet were frozen; he wondered if they had gone blue. He became angry again because he had no clothes. Maybe his clothes were in a terrible state, or maybe his disrobement was a
tactic.
    He touched the tacky furrow that ran across the top of his skull. It feels worse than it is, he told himself, but wasn’t sure whether he believed this.
    He made his way towards the vague outline of the box bed. A little rest and warm-up and he’d be in a better place to deal with this, with them. Tomorrow, he would have to make his
play.
    The thought made him sickly and strengthless again, and he vainly wished he had not struck Fenris. They’d be on their guard now. But he had to do something. Maybe dig at that plaster
first. Yes, take a rest, then break that jug with the bucket, as quietly as possible inside the bedclothes. Start carving the plaster while Blood Frenzy slept off their moonshine and frolics. They
were going to kill him anyway. Fucking up the wall was the least of his worries.
    He sat down on the bed. Gaped into space. Kill him anyway. He wondered how it would feel to die. Maybe just darkness