The snow fell in large flakes, gently drifting from the sky to add to the blanket that already covered the ground. He trudged through it slowly, careful not to slip and fall, each footfall marked by a crunching sound as he crushed and compacted the snow beneath his feet. This was virgin snow, a heavy fall that had begun some two hours ago when the sun had already been set for the same amount of time. The interconnecting paths were hidden beneath the monotonous whiteness and so he made his own way across the park, ploughed his own route, leaving behind footprints that were already becoming obliterated by more snow within minutes of his passing. Only those with good reason would be out in these conditions.

"Snow falls in a 7/8 time signature!" he remembered his mother's words as - indeed - he did every time wintry conditions arrived, remembered that first fall of snow all those years ago when she was still a part of his life, the rock to which he bound himself.

"I don't know what you mean Mum" he'd replied.

"Then I'll show you!" So saying she'd raised the violin to her chin and began to pluck a simple melody from its strings. "Watch the snow and count along with me" she'd said, continuing to play, "one, two-three-four, five, six, seven. One, two-three-four, five, six, seven… you see!"

And he had seen - as much as an eight-year-old's level of sophistication would allow - saw also the look of joy on his mother's face as she played, losing herself completely in the simple melody. "Does everything happen in time to music?" he'd asked.

"No sweetheart, but it should! Music is the most powerful thing in the world. Always let it be a part of your life - promise me that."

"I promise Mum."

"And of course you know what the saddest music in the whole world is don't you?" 

"No Mum, what is it?"

"The saddest music in the whole world is a slow waltz. Listen…" She returned the violin to beneath her chin and began to play again, this time drawing the bow across the strings, the sound produced deep and intense, more than seemed possible from such a delicate instrument. A long drawn out note followed by two shorter ones, almost echoes of the original. The melody progressed slowly, sometimes it was the first note of the group of three that changed, sometimes one of the two echoes that moved the tune forward. He had felt the sadness, both of the melody and the slow, ponderous rhythm. His mother was sad too, he could see that - even though her eyes were closed as she played - she was crying.

It seemed, as he walked past an ornate fountain, its waters frozen to sheets of ice, icicles hanging like stalactites in a subterranean cavern, that a slow waltz had been the soundtrack to his life. Music had been his mother's life. The day the brain tumour took away her ability to play the violin was the day she truly died, not those many painful months later when the flesh and blood of her body finally succumbed. Her soul had left her that day, returning only briefly the moment before she had passed away. He'd been at her bedside in the hospital, when she'd awoken from the deep slumber into which she'd fallen. A light had shone in her eyes and she'd spoken, the words little more than a whisper, "now I can play…" Then she'd closed her eyes and was gone.

The subway loomed into view ahead of him, emerging from the snow like the maw of a huge beast waiting to consume him. Once inside, the ground underfoot was wet but not snowy and his footsteps echoed along the tunnel as he made his way along it. A streetlight stood at the far exit of the subway, illuminating the snow at the end of the tunnel so it looked like a veil had been drawn across it.

A movement, accompanied by a scuffling noise, startled him and he stopped in his tracks. The rat was a large one, big enough to see even in the darkness of the subway as it scuttled away from him.

"Spare some change for a cuppa guv..?"

The voice came from ahead of him, on the other side of the tunnel. He walked towards the sound, slowly saw a shape emerge from the gloom.

"Only I'm dreadful thirsty like…"

He now stood over the dishevelled figure, looked down at the man propped up against the subway wall, woollen hat atop his head, dirtily stained Parka covering his top half, his legs wrapped in a sleeping bag of indeterminate colour. Bags of varying size were piled up around him. One arm was outstretched, the fingerless-gloved hand holding an empty Starbucks coffee cup which he waggled from side to side.

"Not if you're going to buy it from there," he said, "oh, and your accent could do with some work, it's shocking."

The beggar gave a deep, throaty chuckle. "Oh John, always the one for the pithy comment! Why do you treat me so badly? After all I do for you?"

"Cut the crap Belphegor, Just tell me what you've got."

"I've got this..!" So saying, he reached into the pile of bags beside him, selected one and threw it towards John. "Stole it earlier, gonna eat it for me supper!"

John looked down at the carrier bag which, on impact with the ground at his feet, had burst open. A tiny arm poked out through the tear in the plastic, palm upwards, delicate fingers curling together, the skin as pale as alabaster, already mottled with tinges of blue.

John took an involuntary gasp before regaining his composure. "Don't try your tricks on me you nasty little shit, you know they don't work."

The prone man shrugged, let out another dry cackle. John took a step towards him, kicking the bag away as he went. From the corner of his eye he saw the arm revert back to the rat's tail it had always been. "So, what do you have for me? It better be good, dragging me out on a night like this."

"Well, John. Seems like the people you work for aren't the only secret organisation delving into… how shall I put it… esoteric matters!"

"Go on…"

"You heard of the Institute of Thanantology John? Okay, I'll take that as a "no". Look it up - oh, what the hell, I'll tell you! It's the study of death, John, and there's a whole organisation been set up to do it thoroughly."

"And this is of interest to me because..?"

Belphegor cackled again, rubbed his hands together in glee. "Seems they overstepped the mark, went somewhere they shouldn't have. Got their fingers burned…"

"How badly were they burned?"

"Ah well John, that's for you to find out for yourself I'm afraid. Rumour and superstition, that's all I deal in, I just point you in the right direction. Let's put it this way, they've got themselves a situation going on - one that requires your special skills."

"So why haven't I heard about it, why do I have to find out from you?"

Belphegor smiled, revealed a mouth of rotten teeth visible even in the gloom of the tunnel. "Well, that's secret organisations for you. So secret they don't even want to talk to each other! Good luck John - you're gonna need it!"

John turned, thrust his hands deep into his pockets and began walking towards the light at the end of the tunnel. Behind him he heard Belphegor cackling again, "should've just asked you what happens when you die shouldn't they!" He ignored the words, carried on walking. "Gonna be some retribution coming your way when you finally shuffle off your mortal coil - won't there John!" He continued to stride out and within seconds he had left the gloom of the tunnel and was once more wrapped in the blanket of swirling snow.

*

He settled into his seat, the ice cubes in his whiskey clinking as he sat down. In the background Von by Sigur Ros played, filling the room with its unsettling ambience.

He scrolled down the list of contacts on his phone, found the name he required and pressed the call button. His call was answered on the third ring, the voice at the other end of the line sounded tired, weary.

"John. What can I do for you?"

"The Institute of Thanatology. Tell me what you know."

The voice suddenly seemed more alert now. "How did you find out about that? That place is hidden behind so many levels of security…"

"Let's just say I have my sources," John interrupted, "and they tell me there's a problem there that's going to require some… intervention."

"Then you know more than I do John. There's very little I can tell you -because I don't know anything."

"Can you get me in?"

"Not easily."

"Can you get me in?"

A pause at the end of the line. "As I said, it won't be easy but yes, I can get you in."

"Then do it. Let me know when it's sorted."  He hung up, tossed the phone onto the coffee table in front of him. Ghostly, ethereal music from the hi-fi swirled around the room. He took a swig from his glass, felt the whiskey burn its way down his throat. Belphegor's words from the subway still gnawed at the back of his mind, words meant simply as taunts but which carried a weight of truth behind them.

"Gonna be some retribution coming your way…"

"What goes around, comes around…" he muttered to himself. He drained his glass with one more swig, allowing the ice cubes into his mouth, relishing the cold of them against his gums, cooling the burning of the alcohol.

*

He was relieved to see that his name was on the list the security man held in his hand, relieved that his contact had come through and gotten him an appointment at the Institute. The huge metal gates slowly swung open, granting access to a tarmac driveway which cut its way through snow-covered fields towards a copse of trees some hundred and fifty yards ahead.

"Just stay on the road till you get through the trees, you can't miss it" the guard said, unnecessarily. John pushed the gearstick of the 4x4 into first and slowly pulled away.

Exiting the copse of trees brought The Institute of Thanatology into view. Any romantic notion of a gothic mansion with towering spires were quickly dispelled as the building presented itself as a modern design, red brick with lots of glass and steel. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the 4x4 as he pulled to a halt in the parking area in front of the building. As he got out of the car and made his way to the main entrance of the Institute he glanced at the vehicles he shared the car-park with; A selection of BMWs, Audis and - nearest the entrance/exit to the car park, a dark blue Jaguar XF with a personalised number plate, DM1.

Must be a lot of money in death… he mused to himself.

Entry into the building was achieved via a revolving door - he was surprised there was no buzzing-in system but guessed that the checkpoint at the entrance to the grounds, plus the Institute's remote location probably made such a measure superfluous.

Once inside, he strode across the marbled floor to the reception desk. He handed his card to the nurse behind the desk, "I'm here to see Dr Marks."

The nurse glanced at the proffered card. "Is he expecting you?"

"Yes, he's expecting me. I have an appointment."

"Just a moment…" She picked up the phone in front of her and typed in a four digit number. "Dr Marks? Hello, it's Jenny on reception. I have a…" she squinted at the card in her hand, "John Drake here to see you."

John couldn't hear the reply but got the impression from the look on the nurse's face as she listened to it that Dr Marks was less than happy that he was here.

"Okay," she eventually said, "I will do." She replaced the phone in its cradle and gave John a harassed smile. "If you'd like to take a seat, Dr Marks will be out to see you soon."

"Soon" - as it turned out - was ten minutes later. John saw a young man - much younger than he had expected - approaching him, arm extended offering a handshake. He rose to greet the white-coated man, gripping his hand firmly as he shook it.

"Mr Drake, it's… good to see you."

John noticed the hesitation in the other man's voice. "It's Father."

Marks looked momentarily non-plussed.

"It's Father Drake, not Mister."

"Oh, my apologies… Father. I don't wish to appear rude but I am very busy at the moment and this visit of yours is, well it's not exactly convenient."

"Well, Dr Marks, I'm sorry for the inconvenience but I understand you have a situation here - one that I may be able to help you with." Even as he spoke the words John could see by the young doctor's expression that the reason for him being here hadn't been fully explained. If at all. The colour seemed to have drained from Marks' face.

"I'm not entirely sure I know what you're referring to, Father Drake." His voice wavered slightly as he spoke, betraying the unease he felt.

"Shit…" John muttered, under his breath, "look, to save us both some time I suggest you give this number a ring." So saying, he withdrew another card and handed it to Marks. The doctor looked suspiciously at the number written on the card, gave John an equally distrustful look. Eventually he turned away. "Okay, give me a minute."

Marks' estimation of time was more accurate this time. Within a minute he had returned after making the call, a now somewhat sheepish look on his face. "Well, that explains everything," he said, "apologies for being so brusque before. Come with me… I'm David by the way, may I call you John?"

"No. You may not," John replied, "now, show me the room."

*

The fluorescent light pings once, twice, three times before illuminating, casting harsh yellow light over the room, adding to that which seeps in through a gap in the badly drawn curtains, a sliver of light from the weak sun that reflects on the snow covered world outside.

The room is small, barely enough space for the two men who have just entered it to stand at the foot of the bed, alongside which stands an array of monitoring equipment, green lines erratically traversing screens, visual representations of the vitality of the bed's occupant.

It is cold, so cold that the breath of the two men plumes in front of them as clouds of vapour that hang in the air for a few seconds before dispersing. Those same clouds emanate from the mouth of the figure on the bed but its breathing is rapid, ragged the sound of it hoarse and rasping - almost feral. It is the predominant sound in the room, masks even the beeps and clicks of the monitors next to the bed.

Wires and leads run from those monitors to the figure on the bed. It is a man - or at the very least is something in the shape of a man. His chest heaves up and down, expelling those clouds of vapour with hideous rasping noises. This is the only movement he exhibits, "we have him sedated…" one of the men tells the other, "heavily sedated." 

The taller of the two men takes a step forward, to more closely examine the figure on the bed. He gasps at what he sees.

Something is moving beneath the skin of the man on the bed. Something that is visible as a rippling of the flesh of his face but also because something has happened to that skin and flesh, making it transparent - not completely, more like ground or smoked glass - but enough so that the movement of whatever is inside the man can be clearly seen. As the tall man watches, the face of the sedated man bulges alarmingly at the temple, the flesh stretching as if a balloon is being blown up beneath it. The tumour is short lived however, within seconds of reaching the point where surely the skin must tear to release the pressure beneath, it disappears, deflates - only to reappear, this time beneath the man's chin, a hideous goitre that tilts the man's head backwards, pushes it into the pillow.

His eyes are closed but momentarily a red glow appears behind them. Behind - beneath - his face, another appears, skeletal, where the nose should be simply a hole, or rather two holes, a mouth lined with jagged, pointed teeth. The tall man watches in horror as a tongue, black and forked, pushes out from between those teeth and out through the mouth of the man playing host to whatever this creature may be. The tongue waves around in the air, sensing it like that of a snake, before flopping down to rest against the man's cheek. Slowly, the tongue withdraws back into the man's mouth like a snail retreating into its shell. The face-beneath-a-face disappears, the red glow diminishes and goes out. Still the man's chest heaves, expelling plumes of vapour into the air.

"Okay," the tall man says, "I've seen enough." He turns to his companion. "We need to talk".

*

"So people come here to die and allow you to study what happens?" They were in Marks' office, sat facing each other across the doctor's impressively large oak desk.

"If you want to put it like that, then yes. Donating your body for medical research isn't exactly a new concept and our… patients receive the very best in palliative care whilst they're here."

"And all this research is paying dividends? You've made some important discoveries?"

Marks bristled at John's tone. "Yes, we have as a matter of fact. We've made some significant progress in understanding the process of dying."

"Was one of these significant progressions anything to do with what I've just seen in that room?"

Marks now looked uneasy, shuffled in his seat. "In a manner of speaking yes. It would appear that a particular line of investigation brought about some unforeseen consequences."

John chuckled though there was no humour in the sound. "An experiment went wrong you mean?"

Marks didn't reply but the expression on his face was answer enough.

"Tell me what happened Dr Marks. If I'm going to do anything about this situation then I need to know exactly what happened."

Marks sighed, slumped back in his chair. "The man in the room is Dr Robert Mannheim, he was - he is - one of our leading endocrinologists. His particular field of interest was near-death experiences, you know the kind of thing - the feeling of floating out of your body, travelling down a tunnel with a light at the end of it - he was testing the hypothesis that these experiences were hallucinations, chemically induced by the body at the point of death."

"As opposed to the sensation being that of the soul physically leaving the body?" John asked, and as he did the image of his mother, the light that shone in her eyes at the moment of her passing, filled his mind. Now I can play…

"Yes," Marks replied, "that would be the alternative hypothesis."

"And was he successful in his research?"

"Extremely successful," Marks leaned forward again, his former reticence now replaced by enthusiasm. "Robert managed to isolate a hormone that was produced at the point of death in a number of our patients. It's a small peptide hormone, very similar in structure to Prolactin. His studies on post-mortem tissue showed the hormone was produced in the hypothalamus and acted on the pineal gland. Before his… accident, he'd refined the hormone in vitro - he' even given it a name -Pineotrophic Hormone, PT for short. Autopsies on a number of different individuals showed that they all produced PT when they died. The numbers are too small as yet to reach any robust conclusions but even the small amount of evidence we have already seems compelling"

"Why would the body produce a hormone as it's dying?" John asked.

"Our best guess is that it somehow eases the process of dying, provides a distraction if you like, filling the mind with reassuring, calming images as the body undergoes the trauma of death. I mentioned the classic images before - they're classic because they're common to every reported description of near-death experiences. Little wonder, if we all produce the same hormone - we all experience the same thing."

"Or it acts as a trigger to release the soul…"

Marks smirked. "A romantic notion I'm sure, but not one I'm certain has any basis in scientific fact!"

"So tell me how Dr Mannheim went from the golden boy of hormone analysis to that thing we saw in the room."

The smirk disappeared from Marks' face almost as quickly as it had appeared. "Robert had reached a point in his research where the effects of the hormone needed to be evaluated. The theory, the hypothesis was there that PT produces the classic near-death experiences - but that's all we had, a theory. The hormone had to be tested…"

"And so he tested it on himself..?"

"He's not the first scientist to have done so," Marks' voice had a defensive tone now, "so many advances in medicine are due to brave men and women having the courage of their convictions, willing to put their lives on the line to help…"

"Spare me the eulogy Dr Marks," John interrupted, "tell me what happened. Tell me what went wrong."

 Marks slumped back into his seat. Head downcast, unwilling to make eye contact with John, he began to speak, his voice quiet, little more than a whisper…

"It's not too late you know, we can stop this right now."

"I'm fine David, really, stop worrying so much."

"I don't think my concerns are too out of place Robert - it's a hell of a thing you're doing here."
"And that's exactly why I have to do it. We're on the brink of something huge here David… my God, aren't you excited..?"

Marks smiled, the smile became a grin. "Christ yes, beyond excited..!"

Mannheim, dressed in T-shirt and sweat pants grinned too, grabbed his colleague's arm. "This is our time, the time to carve out our place in history my friend. Soon our names will be up there with the greats!"

"Well, if you put it like that…" He picked up the syringe from the tray on top of the bedside table. "What are we waiting for?"

Mannheim released his hold on the other man's arm, settled back into the bed, pressing his head into the pillow behind it. He glanced around the room, watched as the assembled medics and technicians went about their business. He sensed the air of anticipation in the room, sensed also an undercurrent of anxiety. They - no, more correctly he - were on the brink of a major discovery, the threshold of a whole new world of understanding. No one returned his gaze, too busy with their allotted tasks or, perhaps, too afraid to make eye contact with him, wary of transmitting their fears to him. 

He turned his head to look across at the window, felt the tug of the sticky pads holding the electrodes to his forehead. The blind had been lowered across the window and bright sunlight filtered in between the slats, casting alternating rungs of light and shadow across the wall.  A stairway to heaven he thought to himself, and smiled again.

"Okay Robert, we're ready to go." Marks' voice interrupted his reverie.

"Then I am too," he said and then louder, addressing the whole room, "wish me luck everyone! Time to boldly go!"

"Good luck Robert," Marks' words this time whispered, "see you on the other side."

And it was then, as his friend and colleague gently pushed the needle into the raised vein on his arm, slowly depressed the plunger of the syringe, as the fluid (pale yellow, the colour of piss, of dead leaves) was forced into his bloodstream, that the first doubts crossed his mind and a tingle of fear crept slowly up his spine.

"Too late…" he thought, and then his world turned to light.

*

It was just like he'd gone to sleep, almost as if he'd slipped into a coma. And that had been his fear, that his colleague - his friend - had, through his own brave decision, brought about devastating, possibly irreparable damage upon himself. That was before whatever had subsequently happened to Mannheim and he now found himself wishing that a coma was the worst he had to worry about.

Within seconds of the administration of the PT, Mannheim's vital signs had slowed to almost a stop. Brain and cardiac activity had decreased to a point where no-one in the room could believe that the endocrinologist was still alive. Alive he was though, his heart still beating, albeit at a rate of one beat every six seconds, the EEG readings still showing brainwave activity although again at a rate far below what would normally be expected. The monitoring equipment beeped, pauses between the noises reflecting the reduced activity. One beep then two more, a pause - one beep then two more, Mannheim's vitality played out as a slow waltz…

Mannheim had lain in this state of suspended animation for eleven hours and six minutes following the administration of the synthetic PT hormone.

Then the change had occurred.

The terrified look on the face of the technician had shocked Marks when the man had burst into his office but what he'd felt then had paled into insignificance compared to the horror he'd experienced when he saw what had happened to Mannheim.

Dear God, he'd thought, what have we done..?

Marks finally looked up at John when he finished recounting the events. He was visibly shaken, the mere telling of what had happened having had a profound effect on him.

"And that's how he's been ever since?" John asked.

Marks merely nodded by way of reply.

"And all this happened..?"

Marks' head drooped again. "Two weeks ago."

"Fuck's sake…" John muttered under his breath.

Anger flared in Marks' eyes. "You know, for a priest you have a filthy mouth!"

"And for a doctor you have scant regard for human life! You have no idea what you've been meddling with here. What on earth did you think you were doing? Just what kind of doctor are you..?"

"I'm an expert in my field!" Marks' anger was palpable now.

"Well I'm an expert in my field too - and thank God for that!" John got to his feet, his movement sudden, rapid, his chair pushed back with enough force to topple it onto the floor. "We need to go now, there's still a chance I can help you."

"How?" Marks replied, shouting the words at John, "what exactly are you going to do?"

John lunged forward, grabbed Marks by the arm. "Can't you see? You gave him that drug and it did exactly what it was supposed to do."

"Which was..?" Marks shrugged his arm but failed to dislodge the other man's grip on it.

"You released his soul. Congratulations, you truly have achieved a first…"

"What on…"

"You released his soul Dr Marks, and left behind the shell of his body."

"This is preposterous..!"

"Except the shell's not empty any more - something has moved in."

Marks smirked, snorted a laugh.

"Something has moved in?"

John leant in towards Marks, close enough that their faces were almost touching, "exactly! And - to save your reputation - I'm going to evict it for you."

"You're going to perform an exorcism?"

John nodded. "Eventually - yes."

"What do you mean - eventually?"

"I can't do it while Mannheim's soul is missing. The rite of exorcism addresses both the demon in possession and the possessed soul."

Marks still smirked but his eyes betrayed his confusion. "So..?"

"So I need to retrieve his soul." The words said matter-of-factly, like they were the most natural things in the world to say. "You gave him the drug, you released his soul. Something happened - something very bad - and instead of his soul returning to his body something else got there first."

"And how exactly do you intend to retrieve his… soul" Marks' discomfort at even having to say the last word, never mind accept what John was telling him, was all too apparent in his voice.

"You're going to give me the drug Dr Marks, you're going to inject me with PT. I'm going after him."

*

He lies alongside the bed on which Mannheim's body rests. Its tenant is visible once more, the endocrinologist's flesh ripples and bulges in response to the movement beneath it. His view of the other man is obliterated as a figure moves between the beds.

Marks is wearing his white coat, his hands covered by purple latex gloves.

"Looking every inch the doctor now…" he thinks, "an expert in his field."

"We're ready," Marks says, "if you are..?"

He nods. "I've signed the disclaimers, I'm here on the bed. As far as I can see I'm ready to go."

Marks does not reply. Instead, he lowers himself onto the chair alongside the bed. Deftly, he peels the sterile wrapping from a syringe, the same for a needle, short and fine, the hub and plastic sheath a bright orange colour. He attaches the needle to the syringe, loosens the sheath on the needle, places the assembly into a metal kidney bowl. He reaches for a small glass vial, unscrews its lid. Inverting the bottle in one hand, with the other he picks up the syringe, flicks off the plastic sheath of the needle with his thumb. It lands in the kidney bowl with a faint clang.

"Then let's do it" he says, though his gaze remains on the equipment in his hands, he does not look at John.

"Let's do it."

Marks plunges the needle into the bottle, piercing the rubber seal that stretches across its neck. He withdraws the handle of the syringe and the yellow fluid floods into it. The requisite amount deployed, he removes the needle from the vial. One tap, two to dislodge any bubbles then a slight depression of the plunger to expel a tiny amount of the liquid.

"Slight scratch coming up" he says, the words delivered in a flat monotone, words he must have delivered hundreds of times in his career.

He watches the needle as it pierces his skin, hooking into the blue vein that bulges just below the crook of his elbow, feels the scratch of it as it goes in. Feels then the pressure in his arm as Marks depresses the plunger, forces the hormone into him…

Light - a blinding, white light, fills his world. Intense as it is, he feels no pain, no burning sensation in his eyes. Indeed, he keeps them open, eager to experience whatever is about to happen to the full. 

And then a sensation of movement, a shifting, as he feels himself float upwards, off the bed. As he moves, so the light around him diminishes to once again reveal the room and its inhabitants. He floats ever higher, feels himself rotate so that he now looks down upon the bed - the bed on which he still reclines, eyes closed, a look of contentment playing across his features. Around him, the medics and technical staff go about their business as if nothing has happened and - in truth - nothing has happened, in their world at least.

A noise behind him - above him. He once more rotates, turns his gaze away from the room below to look at the ceiling, little more than inches above him. It begins to shimmer, the white painted plaster undulating as ripples spread out from a central point, as if a stone has been thrown into the now somehow liquid surface. The centre of the wave pattern slowly expands, the diameter of the circle increasing.  Beyond it a light shines, at the end of a long tunnel, the tunnel itself pitch black, as dark as a starless night. The sound of a thousand cellos fills his ears, a low bass rumble that he feels as well as hears.

And then he's hurtling into that dark tunnel, pulled into its gaping maw by a force so strong that it propels him at a speed beyond imagining. He feels his movement along the tunnel - the darkness is profound, the only visual clue to his progression along it the ever nearing light at its end. Within seconds the light becomes overwhelming as he plunges into it, is lost in its brilliance…

A desolate landscape stretched in front of him, surrounded him. A desert, but a desert in which the sand was grey, black almost - like that of a volcanic atoll. The greyness extended as far as he could see, undulating into dunes that towered high above him. Atop one of these dunes, some quarter of a mile distant, stood a tree - a lone sentinel bent by wind so that its branches, bereft of foliage, extended sideways from it, like skeletal arms grasping at the air around them.

A slight breeze blew across his face, the same wind picking up the grey sand here and there, spinning the grains around in whirling patterns that danced across the surface. 

He scanned the world around him, traced the line of the horizon. There, far in the distance, he could make out the outlines of buildings, tall skyscrapers reaching into the sky. Grey against grey, their distance from him robbing them of any detail, they looked to him like huge headstones marking the graves of fallen giants.

And there, separate from the buildings (the city..?), a tower, a huge spike of the same grey as the desert surrounding him, tapering to a point reaching high into the sky. At its tip clouds roiled around it, circling in a whirlpool formation.

The city was some miles distant, the tower beyond it still. No birds flew in the turbulent sky, no creatures moved across the grey landscape. He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, relished the feeling of solitude.

Not entirely alone though. Beside him, at his feet, lay the body of Robert Mannheim. Unconscious, he lay on the sand only paces from two pulsing orbs of light - his, and John's - entry point to this desolate world.

Entry and exit points. John had been here for over ten minutes now, eager to experience as much of this place as he could, and still his light had not diminished. The way back was still open to him...

Mannheim's way back too and, aware of his reason for being here, John crouched over the prone body, hooked his arms under the other man's and began to drag him across the sand towards the glowing orb - the portal. This close to the scientist, he could see the abrasion on his forehead - the wound made by whatever demon had attacked him before stepping itself  into the portal.

The grey sand was soft and yielding and provided little resistance to John as he dragged the other man across it. Soon he had reached the portal which hovered slightly above the ground.

He would return Mannheim to his body then make the return journey himself through his own portal. Back in the Institute, with Mannheim's soul and body reunited he could perform the exorcism.

That was his plan at least. This was unchartered territory for John - in more ways than one - and he was working on instinct alone now. The consequences of what he was in the process of doing right now were unfathomable.

"Only one way to find out!" He said, hefting Mannheim onto his shoulder. Shuffling a few steps closer to the glowing orb he let the man fall into it. Even as the scientist disappeared into the light, John felt the same force that had propelled him here take hold of the man's body, pulling it away from him.

"John…"

The sound of a voice made him jump, spin round quickly to see who had spoken. Heart pounding he scanned the desolation around him. There, on the crest of a distant dune, a figure. 

"John…" the voice sounded as if it were inside his own head but as he heard his name repeated he saw the distant figure raise its arms towards him, reaching out, beckoning him closer…

Adrenaline flooded his system and - for the first time in many years - he felt fear course through him. He took a step backwards, stumbled, fell into the cold sand.  He scrambled to his feet, glanced over his shoulder to see the figure still there, arms still outstretched towards him. 

He ran, fear lending him speed, crossing the ground quickly. Focussed as he was on his own escape, out of the corner of his eye he still managed to see Mannheim's portal disappear, blinking out of existence. Still running, his momentum took him flying into his own portal…

*

He awakens with a jolt, sitting bolt upright, gasping for air like a surfacing diver. His heart hammers in his chest, the blood pounding around his body. For a brief moment he is disorientated, unsure of where he is, but then the familiar surroundings of the room in the Institute become apparent.

The noise too then becomes apparent. There is a commotion in the room, white-coated figures surround the bed alongside him. Pulling the electrodes from his forehead and chest he swings his legs out over the bed to stand, the better to see what is going on.

Marks and three other men are struggling to hold Mannheim down on the bed. The scientist bucks and thrashes, limbs and face contorting.

"Hold him tighter!" Marks shouts, "we need to keep him still so I can sedate him!"

Mannheim emits an unearthly growl, thrashes his head from side to side. Spittle  sprays from his open mouth.

"Hold him…" Marks shouts again but his words are interrupted by an eruption of blood from Mannheim's mouth, a hawked-up gout of claret that spatters against Marks' white coat.

"Fuck's sake…" it is not Marks who speaks this time but one of the other technicians as he releases his grip on the thrashing body, takes a step away from the bed…

Marks does the same, as do the other two men. Mannheim's body stills. 

"What's happening..?" John asks.

Marks turns on him, fury in his eyes. "What's happening!" he shouts, "you tell me what the fuck's happening..!"

He lunges for John but his blow lands ineffectively on the priest's shoulder. "What have you done?" he screams.

John grabs Marks, restrains him from any more violence.  "Oh God, look..!" the words of one of the technicians distracts them from their confrontation.

On the bed, Mannheim's face is bulging, the flesh swelling, distorting his features. His eyes disappear beneath folds of skin and all in the room hear the crack of his jaw dislocating, the bones of the front of his skull fracturing.

"Shit..!"

And then his face explodes, erupting in a fountain of red that arcs high enough to spatter against the ceiling. Blood flies sideways too, covering the men around the bed - one turns away to vomit, another runs to the door, finds an escape from the horror within. The other stands stock still, frozen in disbelief at what is happening. John releases his grip on Marks and the two of them watch on, sharing the technician's incomprehension.

A howl issues from somewhere the headless body on the bed as the torso begins to twitch spasmodically. Something moves beneath the surface of the skin there, bulging and pulsing. And then another huge crack, a grinding noise as Mannheim's chest splits open along the line of the breastbone. More blood explodes from the ever widening wound as the scientist's ribcage unfurls, swinging open on the hinge of his spine like double doors opening. Blood flows from the opened body, runs in streams off the bed to spatter and pool on the tiled floor. Another howl, a scream of rage and pain, guttural and primeval as Mannheim's viscera explode from his body to land on the bed, the floor, where they slowly settle and flatten, no longer given shape by muscle and bone.

Steam rises from the body to fill the room and condense against the windows where it mixes with blood to form pale pink rivulets that run down the glass.

The screaming stops.

*

"Just what kind of expert are you..?"

Marks' words rang in his ears as John had stormed out of the institute and now, hours later, they still did, worming their way into his psyche. 

A good question. A very good question - and one to which, even after the administration of significant quantities of whiskey - he was unable to give an answer.

Maybe it had been his immediate dislike of Marks that had made him act the way he did, stepping far beyond the limits of his experience, his knowledge. Or maybe it was something else, something darker. 

He took another swig of whiskey but illumination proved to be no closer as a result of it. Music blared from the hi-fi, Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies by Biffy Clyro. He smiled at the irony and emptied his glass.

In a day of horrors it was one incident in particular that had affected him the most. The figure calling his name in… Limbo, Purgatory - that other place. Who had it been and what did they want?

And why had he been so scared?

"Shit," he mumbled, standing too quickly, feeling light-headed and dizzy courtesy of the single malt. Even thinking of the encounter now sent shivers of unease - no, of fear - down his back.

Who - or what - had it been?

He made his way to the kitchen, a feeling somewhat similar to resolve filling him. Opening the fridge door he reached in and retrieved a small bottle.

He'd been frightened yes, but at least he'd felt something - more than he could say for the life he lived here in the real world, a life of disillusionment and bitterness. Out there though…

He placed the vial on the kitchen bench and unscrewed the lid. A souvenir of his trip to the institute. From his pocket he retrieved a strip of needles, a couple of syringes.

All that mayhem had presented an opportunity…

He peeled the wrapping from a needle, attached it to the syringe. With hands no longer trembling he pierced the seal of the bottle and drew a small amount of the yellow fluid into it.

Now, he thought, now I can play…