The Silent Legion

  The Silent Legion

  A Supernatural Horror Novel by P.W Hillard

  Copyright P.W Hillard, all rights reserved 2019

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  The engine rumbled, its growling beat matching the angry roar of her heart. She let out a panicky breath, the cloud of vapour rising out the open car window into the cool night air. Her hands shook as she read the letter again. Thick parchment paper filled her hands, the envelope discarded in the passenger seat beside her, its seal, an eagle's headset into thick red wax, was broken. Across the envelope was the name Drusilla, her name in the legion. Her real name, Linda Carlisle, was set aside as she worked her duty. For tonight she was Drusilla, legionnaire. The contents of the letter were simple. An address in Dudley, a small unremarkable mid-terrace with a rotting caravan listing in the driveway. Written below the address was a single word. Brownie. Drusilla adjusted the small glossy black badge on her chest and straightened her suit jacket. She quickly peeked inside, seeing the reassuring sight of a metal double helix topped with a roman coin sticking out from the secret pocket sewn into the lining. The eyes of Augustus seemed to be willing her on from atop the coin. Drusilla took a deep breath and stepped out of the car; into the cold night.

  Drusilla grinned eagerly as the front door of the terrace swung open. An annoyed looking woman stood across the threshold. She held a bowl, cake batter slopping lazily over the side. She looked Drusilla over, taking in her black suit jacket and pencil skirt.

  “Evening madam!” said Drusilla. “I’m with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.” She tapped the shiny black badge on her jacket. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “Not really no,” replied the woman, her voice sharp with a thick Scottish accent. “It’s very late to be knocking on people’s doors don’t you think? Very inconsiderate.” She stirred the cake mix angrily.

  "I will admit it's late," said Drusilla, she nodded enthusiastically then suddenly stopped, aware she was laying it on a bit thick, "but this is the best time to catch people at home. Can't save any souls if there are no souls at home to save!" Drusilla's tone had become overeager, almost vaudevillian. She tapped her foot anxiously and shifted uncomfortably in her cheap suit. Maybe she had come on a little too strongly.

  "Look, I am sorry," said the woman, sighing heavily and releasing the large wooden spoon she had been holding. It sank into the batter, consumed like a pulp hero in quicksand. "This just isn't a good time for me, and honestly I already have my own…faith. You would be wasting your time." She gripped the handle of the open door and swung it shut. Drusilla winced as it bounced off the foot she had shimmied into the doorway. The woman stared down at it, her face awash with concern.

  “I am sorry, but may I use your restroom? It’s a long few hours doing this with few breaks and I could really do with using it. I’ll be in and out promise.” Drusilla placed her hand on her heart and shook her legs, breaking into the universal dance of someone who needed the bathroom. I’m not winning any Oscars for this performance, she thought.

  The home's occupant thought for a moment and then nodded, stepping aside and holding her arm outstretched. "Up the stairs, first door on the left."

  “Thank you, thank you,” said Drusilla as she half ran half skipped up the staircase. The inside of the house was overwhelmingly chintzy. The walls papered with a flowery soft pink pattern, the carpet some kind of neon pink shag. Every shelf, cupboard and end table was laden with porcelain knickknacks and blown glass curios. Photographs covered the walls, happy smiling families. The woman was in all of them, holding a broom in one, a basket of washing in the other. The family she was with was different every time. The air smelled of baking confectionary, the strong earthy smell of a cake rising, mixed with the sickly-sweet sugar of icing left uncovered on the worktop. Drusilla reached the bathroom and was unsurprised to find a wooden sign in the shape of a kitten hanging from a hook on the front of it. “W.C” read the large white cursive text between the kittens grey painted paws. It wobbled on its rough brown string as Drusilla pushed the door open.

  Drusilla splashed water over her face, keeping her hands over her eyes after having done so, a desperate attempt to keep out the cloying pink which had extended into the bathroom like an enthusiastic mould. Come on Linda, you’re going to blow it, she thought. Too eager, too happy, you’re like a bad sketch of a missionary. She’s onto you. She drew herself up, moving her hands to the side of the sink. No. Not Linda. Drusilla. Legionnaire. When she had found the envelope on her porch floor, it having drifted silently from the letterbox during the night, she had been all excitement and giddy glee. Finally, a mission. After completing all the rites, all the secret meetings and learning all the obtuse arcane terms, she had been chosen for a mission. She had waited for this day since a roman coin and an address had been pushed into her hands as she wept alone in a hospital ward. It promised retribution. It promised vengeance. Perhaps, more importantly, it filled a vacant void, giving a grieving woman a new purpose now that motherhood had been cruelly snatched away.

  That initial excitement had transitioned into nervousness. She had spent the nights these past few weeks researching her target, as she had been trained. Its habits, its history, and perhaps most importantly, its weaknesses. A Brownie. An ancient creature, the folklore of it stretching across the length and breadth of Britain. Drusilla straightened her back taking her weight from off the sink. It was commonly mistaken for a fairy but was a separate but similar kind of creature, though it shared its cousin’s fondness for sweet treats. Her research stated that they worked for a household, completing chores, cooking, cleaning, until they were gifted a piece of clothing or enraged by some slight. Then they would move on, finding a new home. Drusilla wasn’t shocked. They always turn nasty, it was their nature, the horrible nightmare things that stalked in the shadows. Lurking just out of sight, waiting to take vicious petty pleasure from inflicting pain, like the thing that had killed her boy. She was doing the right thing, the just thing. One less shadow in the darkness.

  She found the brownie in the kitchen, putting a tray into the oven, its surface slick with the cake batter. She closed the oven door with a clang and slipped off her oven gloves, hanging over the metal handle that was affixed to the small glass door.

  “Find everything ok?” she asked, wiping her hands clean on her dress. Drusilla finally got a good look at her. She seemed to be an older lady in her late fifties, her hair was fine and coarse, curled into neat ringlets. They were blonde, the kind of off-white blonde you only got from cheap bottle jobs, from hours bent over a sink with clear plastic gloves and a squeezy bottle of peroxide. Her dress was a mess, a tatty thing covered in stitched on patches of mismatched fabrics.

  “Yes fine,” replied Drusilla, “I want to thank you again.”

  “It’s not a problem.” The words sounded friendly enough, but the brownie eyed her warily. “You’ll be on your way then?”


  "Yes of course," Drusilla said reaching into her jacket, her hands digging deep into the pocket sewn on the opposite side to the one that held the twisting jutting metal. "Before I go could I offer you a drink?"

  The brownie looked confused. “You mean you would like a drink?”

  “No, I want to offer you one,” said Drusilla producing a small hipflask from the pocket. She unscrewed the lid. The brownies nose began to twitch. She shifted uneasily, like a dog waiting for its owner to release a treat. Drusilla tipped the flask, and a white liquid slopped out. It was thick and came out in glugs and spurts, splashing onto the kitchen floor, garish bright pink linoleum. “Would you like some cream? I’m afraid it’s a bit warm from my jacket.” The brownie stared at the pooling gunge, the cream half rancid from the long car ride spent next to Drusilla’s chest. She visibly shook as she struggled to control herself. "What's the matter? My gift not good enough for you?" Drusilla shocked herself with her tone, she was enjoying this. The brownies willpower finally broke and she rushed down onto her knees. She began lapping at the foul slime eagerly. "Well, you are welcome."

  Drusilla stepped over to the large American style fridge freezer, the one modern appliance in what otherwise seemed to be a kitchen suite assembled from charity shop cast-offs. She heaved the door open, finding the noise of the rubber seal opening oddly satisfying. Inside was row after row of cartons, all cream. It was the traditional payment from a household to its brownie, a sign of their unholy compact. The Legion taught that all such gifts were forms of addiction. Cream, blood, flesh, souls. Drusilla took a carton from the fridge, opened it and poured it onto the floor. Then another. The brownie crawled about lapping it in, tears streaming down her face from the shame.

  “You’re a fucking monster, you know that?” whispered Drusilla as she crouched down by its ear. “A sickening thing that worms its way around, taking advantage of the innocent, snaking your way into their homes.”

  “It’s…it’s…not like that,” sobbed the brownie in between mouthfuls of curdling cream. It ran down her chin, mixing with her tears. “I just want to help people.”

  Drusilla felt her rage build, erupting out in the form of a kick. The tips of her sensible black wedges struck deeply into the brownies gut. She collapsed onto her side, the wind knocked from her. Cream soaked slowly into her tattered dress. “Shut your mouth, monster,” said Drusilla, spitting the last word like venom. “You won’t hurt anyone else.” She reached into her jacket and grabbed the twirling metal. She pulled, revealing a long dagger, the helix the hilt of the blade.

  “Please, please,” begged the brownie. She rolled onto her back, hands held out in front of her assailant, who loomed over her.

  “You won’t hurt anyone else,” repeated Drusilla as she thrust the blade downwards. It slid easily into the creature, who simply let out a loud rattling gasp, a balloon releasing its air. Drusilla pulled out the blade and struck again. And Again. And Again. She was lost now, pulled into a storm of pent up rage and malice, each thrust another strike of lightning hitting the hated earth. Blood erupted from every gash, it was bright red, almost too bright, as though it were drawn in crayon by a child. It trickled from the wounds into the sea of cream, staining it a vivid pink. The brownie shuddered as it died, its glamour fading, its true form squeezing out from under its sorcerous veil. Its skin was a dark brown, covered in thick matted hair. Its face was wrinkled and twisted with a pointed upturned snout. Its chiropteran body a twisted mixture of bat and man. Drusilla panted as she sat on the creature’s motionless chest, blade held high above her. She screamed as she plunged it a final time, the dagger digging deep between its eyes. Finally satisfied, she stood up and walked out, thick white footprints trailing behind her.

  “Good afternoon Drusilla,” said the man as he sat down on the park bench beside her. He was wearing a lycra running outfit. Gaudy purple and yellows in a matching top and shorts. It was much too tight, stretching awkwardly as he sat down. “Got anything for me?”

  Drusilla glanced around nervously, before producing a brown paper bag from her large tan handbag. It was heavy, listing slightly in her hand as she lifted it. Within was her still bloody dagger, the symbol of a job done. She handed it over to the runner. He nodded, took the package and stood up, jogging off into the park.

  Days passed, Drusilla fading away, leaving Linda remaining. She went back to her everyday life. The boring routine, work, home, work, home. The unending cycle of everyday life. It began to fade, feeling like some strange dream, a forgotten memory of half-remembered vengeance. She had thought that joining the Legion, fighting against these unknowable lurking things would ease her hollowness, but Linda was surprised to find the pit had grown darker. It ached inside her, hungry for more. She was pleased then, to receive a knock at the door and a package left on her doorstep.

  Inside was a sealed wooden box. Excitedly she took it into the kitchen, using a butter knife to pry out the small tacks that held the thin lid to the box. They pinged across her kitchen like bullets. Once loose, she lifted the lid and gazed at the box’s contents. Nestled inside, sat on a bed of dried hay was her dagger. Its blade had been cleaned, polished to a gleam. She gripped its twisted handle and held it aloft, proud. A small notch had been cut into the coin that formed its pommel. Beneath the weapon was a letter, the same eagle grinning at her from the wax. “Drusilla” was written across the front. She pulled it out, slid the tip of her dagger beneath the wax, and broke the seal.

  Cameras flashed, and a barrage of light blasted across the crime scene. A thin blue and white tape separated the kitchen from the hallway as the technicians meticulously catalogued and recorded the gory display. Behind the tape were two uniformed officers, ostensibly to stand guard, but the weird display before them was proving too distracting.

  “What do you think happened?” asked one, adjusting his helmet slightly as he spoke. He tucked an errant lock of hair under its brim.

  “No idea,” admitted his colleague, a younger woman with mousy brown hair. She had assumed the default posture of police everywhere, hands resting inside her bright yellow outer vest. “I mean, where would you even start? The cream? How she looks? I wouldn’t even want to investigate this.”

  The male officer nodded in agreement. “What do you think is up with her? She’s so hairy and her face is all weird, what’s left of it.” The layer of cream covering the kitchen had sat for a few days, its smell attracting the local rats who had eagerly feasted on the woman’s festering flesh.

  "Maybe it's like those people, you know the ones in South America? With that genetic condition," mused the policewoman. "Why so much cream? I mean like it's a lot. There are cartons and cartons of it in the fridge."

  “Maybe it’s for coffee? Americans do that you know.”

  “Cream? In coffee, that doesn’t sound right.”

  “I swear,” he said, “my cousin Gregg said so.”

  “Is this the same cousin Gregg who said that a secret society runs the government on behalf of the snake people?" The female officer squinted at her colleague.

  “Lizard people, and yes. But he’s right about this, I swear I’ve heard it on telly and stuff.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Are you sure he’s not thinking of non-dairy creamer. That’s just like, coffee mate or those little pots of not quite milk you get at cheap cafés.”

  “Definitely cream,” reiterated her colleague. "Anyway, this is a lot. God, it fucking stinks doesn't it. Glad our boys aren't looking at this, they would risk dragging this stench back to the station. Some London bigwigs coming up apparently. Specialist team they said."

  "Specialists at what? Dairy-based crime? Solved the great cheese theft of nineteen eighty, did they?" She looked out at the scene before her. A horrid congealed mass of rotten cream and blood. At its centre a dark body, its thick hair matted with rotten clumps. Deep knife wounds covered the body, angry marks cut deep into the flesh. Whoever had done this had done so in a rage, stabbing constantly until the mist had cl
eared from their eyes. She had seen stabbings before, but never with this ferocity. “If they want to take over this fucking mess, they are more than welcome.”

  Chapter Two

  The corridor was dark, its maintenance one of the first things reduced in an era of budget cuts. The pale blue paint on the walls flaked off in places, stripped from the brick by dripping pipes or the scrape of a passing gurney. Jess walked the corridor, her footsteps echoing as the heels of her sensible black pumps struck the hard tile of the floor, the white ceramic having turned a faint beige with time. She pulled her arms close to her body, the hospital corridor had a chill in its air, a faint breeze sliding in from somewhere unseen. It made sense, the cold, the dark. Her quarry would naturally find its way here. The small walkie clipped to her windbreaker startled her as it crackled to life.

  “He just offloaded a box into a van. Looks like he’s going back inside for another load,” came the voice of Mark, her partner. “Heads up he should be coming your way. Over.”

  “Got it, move in from his entrance, we’ll pin him in between us.” Jess released the button from her radio and placed her hands into her pockets. Her fingers ran over the small glass bottle inside, a powerful weapon against the creature lurking in the hospital’s depths. She straightened herself, took a deep breath, and picked up the pace, breaking into a slight jog.

  Brian placed the box into the back of his van carefully, eager not to damage its precious contents. The wind had slowly grown from a mild breeze to a strong gale as the night had progressed, its gusts pressing his light green scrubs against his skin. He pushed the white plastic box further into the van and then closed the door. One more, he thought. Need to be careful not to take too much. He turned and walked back up the concrete ramp to the small loading door. He hadn't believed his luck when he had found it, half stuck open, its mechanism jammed from lack of use. Hidden in the oldest part of the hospital, through what seemed like miles of endless abandoned corridor, it was perfect for his needs. He ducked under the rusted shutter, out from under the lone remaining spotlight outside into the dark, damp, guts of the hospital. He bent down slightly and grabbed the last box. It was cheap thin white plastic, the kind normally used to store clothes or toys. It was filled halfway with ice, still solid in the cool of the night. Tucking the box under his arm, he strolled off down the corridor.