Wha’sname

I woke up to absolute pandemonium. Banging. Shouting. Someone crying. The noise filled the room so completely it felt like it was pressing on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I looked at my friends. Their faces were white as sheets. A horrible mixture of regret, fear and guilt stretched across both of them. Their mouths were moving far too fast, desperate to explain something, anything, but no single sound made it through. Everything arrived at once, jammed together, useless.

Then the banging stopped.

The silence was worse.

A slow creaking sound slid into the living room.

We all turned to the door.

The handle began to turn.

* * *

“So, I think, sod this, and I just leg it.” Charlie was getting animated now. He always did near the end of his stories, ready to hit us with the run-of-the-mill climax.

“He starts chasing after me, right.” Charlie’s arms began pumping as if he were running, just in case anyone wasn’t quite sure what running looked like from the waist up.

“I was running out of steam. I couldn’t carry on.” He was breathing heavily now. I wasn’t sure if that was for dramatic effect, or because he actually was that unfit.

“I turned around, ready to fight whoever this bell-end was,” he continued, building towards his big moment.

“I got into my fighting stance,” Charlie said, actually getting into his fighting stance. “Then I squinted, had another look, and it was… erm… wha’sname.”

A truly dreadful ending.

“Are you kidding me?” snapped Max. “We just sat through at least twenty minutes of some of the worst storytelling ever spoken out loud, and then the big M. Night Shyamalan twist is that we have to figure it out ourselves because Memento over here can’t keep a single thing in his head.”

“Alright, Max,” I said. He had a habit of really going off on Charlie. The thing was, Max always knew this was how the story would end. It always did. The trick was not to get invested. That way, you were never disappointed.

“It was… er, thingy,” Charlie battled on. “He went to school with us. Used to eat crayons.”

“Ohhh, Simon Parker?” I shouted, like I was answering a question for a million pounds.

“Yeah, Simon Parker,” Charlie smiled, relieved.

I chuckled. Max offered nothing but stink eye.

“Come on, it’s a funny story,” Charlie said. “A classic mistaken identity.”

“It would’ve been an average story if you hadn’t forgotten the main part of it,” Max replied, guiltily offering something close to constructive criticism.

“It’d be like,” I added, unhelpfully, “if at the end of The Usual Suspects they said, ‘And it turns out Keyser Söze was… erm… thingymabob.’”

Max laughed. Charlie gave an unconvincing smile.

I often felt bad for Charlie. He was a lovely guy. He just struggled. He wasn’t stupid, just socially thick. Always looked uncomfortable having to actually be himself. I wanted to look out for him, which made me feel unjustifiably arrogant. As if I were better than him. A sort of, I don’t think you’re stupid, I just think you don’t know how to do this yet feeling.

“Anyway,” Max said, stretching the word out to increase the awkward tension hanging in the air. “Charlie, you’d better not scare anyone away with your god-awful stos.”

“What’s a sto?” asked Charlie.

“S T O. Half a story, dickhead,” Max snapped.

“Nope, that’s horrendous,” I said. “You’ve just lost the entire argument with whatever the hell that was.”

Charlie smiled at me with gratitude.

I felt proud. Then awful again. That damn arrogance.

* * *

We were off to Passion nightclub. Every surface was sticky, even the seats. Charlie said it smelled like alcohol three ways. Old beer, old piss, and old vomit. It was full of girls and nob-heads. Those two weren’t mutually exclusive.

There was a cigarette butt that had been sitting in a the urinal for as long as we’d been going there. Which means that it has either never cleaned, or the person who scrubbed it each night rewarded themselves with a celebratory cigarette.

Max was convinced it was the perfect place to meet girlfriends. The women there, however, seemed to prefer the nob-heads. I suppose to them, we were the nob-heads. It was all relative. I never let it get to me. Max, on the other hand, lived out a tragic love story every time we went. Each leading lady unaware of the desire and inevitable heartbreak she caused. Every night ended at the kebab shop, collecting the shattered pieces of his heart.

This night ended the same. Cheesy chips and a retelling of a one-sided epic. Her name was Cleo, and she told him to get lost.

For never was a story of more woe, than this of Max and his Cleo.

As we left, Charlie tripped over his own feet and fell into a table of proper nob-heads.

“Are you serious?” one of them bellowed.

“I’m so sorry,” Charlie said, scrambling up.

“You need to watch where you’re going, you fat prick.”

“Yeah, well you need to flipping fuck off, mate,” Charlie slurred back, alcohol and wounded pride writing cheques he absolutely could not cash.

We pulled him away, apologising rapidly, hoping to escape with everything still attached to our bodies.

“We’ll find you,” one of them called out. His tone was gentle. Honest. Terrifying.

“You’re such an idiot,” Max hissed as we hurried down the street, checking every direction. Not entirely sure what we’d do if we saw them.

Turns out we didn’t see them.

They just appeared.

Two shoved Max and me aside, holding us back. The third knocked Charlie to the ground and began kicking him, methodically, like he had a checklist to complete.

I tried to push forward, still working out how I might help, before I was punched to the pavement. I got up, numb, and moved again. Another punch sent me back down. This one cut through any illusion of beer armour. I made a selfish decision not to get back up.

I couldn’t see Charlie, but I could hear the dull thuds and his increasingly panicked cries.

Then one of my captors shouted, “Ricky, stop. You’re gonna kill him.”

They vanished as quickly as they’d arrived.

Charlie lay on the pavement, a sobbing, broken mess.

Max and I rushed over. I arrogantly pulled him into a hug, convinced my arms could fix everything. Despite the patronising cradle, Charlie clutched me back, tight. I didn’t let go. Neither did he.

“Jon,” Max said, “I think Charlie might be a bit too sore to make love to you tonight.”

Still hugging, we both stuck our middle fingers up at him.

* * *

The next part is not first-hand.

We went back to Max’s and decided the best way to deal with the situation was to drink until we didn’t care about it anymore.

I drank too much. I was halfway between being in the room and being somewhere the world spun at violent speeds.

This account comes from Charlie and Max.

I was slumped in the corner of the sofa doing my best Weekend at Bernie’s impression while they went into graphic detail about what they’d do if they ever saw Ricky again. Their plans existed in a world where they were both masters of every known fighting technique.

Realising they had the survival instincts of clinically depressed lemmings, the conversation took a turn.

“We need a way to hurt him,” Charlie slurred. “But by people who know how to hurt.”

“What, like a hit-man?” Max half laughed, half announced it like a revelation.

“Max, we couldn’t afford a taxi and this bottle of vodka,” Charlie snorted. “We definitely don’t have professional killer money.”

“I’m not saying that,” Max mumbled, taking a regrettable swig. “I know about this thing. And I swear it’s one hundred percent real.”

Charlie sat up, then the room began to twist, so he lay back down.

“My auntie knows someone who can communicate with the other side,” Max said.

“That is one hundred percent not true,” Charlie laughed. “But carry on. Your stupidity is numbing the pain.”

“Fine,” Max sulked. “Let’s forget it.”

“No, come on. Let’s do it,” Charlie said quickly. “Even if it’s fake, which it is, it’ll be a laugh.”

“Alright then,” Max grinned. “It’s on my phone.”

“Of course it is,” Charlie sighed.

“My auntie posted it in the family WhatsApp when my sister was having trouble with her ex. Mum made her delete it, but I screenshotted it first.”

He scrolled until he found it and showed Charlie.

Charlie decided that if he was doing this, he was doing it properly. Logic and intelligence were temporarily off the table.

“So what is it?” he asked.

“It’s a name-binding summon,” Max said, suddenly serious. “You read it, say a name at the end, and something turns up to deal with them.”

“Simple,” Charlie said sceptically.

“Yeah. Also not real.” Max tried to confirm.

“Yeah,” Charlie agreed, unsure.

For the record, had I been conscious, I would have thought this was an awful idea. I also would not have had the guts to say that.

“So you just read it,” Max said, “and add his name.”

“Right,” Charlie nodded. “Richie.”

“No. Ricky.”

“I don’t know his surname.”

“It’s fine. You don’t know any other Rickys.”

“Ricky Martin.”

“I think we’re good,” Max said through gritted teeth.

Charlie began.

“Let the debt walk. Let it wear a face,” he whispered.

“I do not ask for blood. I ask for inevitability.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“What follows is not my hand. What follows knows its way.”

“This is the name that closes the door.”

“Don’t mess this up, Chuck,” Max whispered.

Charlie nodded.

“We can’t have a monster hunting for wha’sname,” Max added, barely containing himself.

“For once in your life,” Max muttered.

“MAX!” Charlie shouted.

Silence.

The lights went out.

Neither of them spoke. Their breathing said enough.

The lights flickered back on.

Charlie opened his mouth to apologise.

A loud knock at the door stopped him.

* * *

This was the pandemonium I woke up to.

The door handle turned, and the door pushed forward, or at least tried to. Some much-needed serendipity revealed itself in the form of a lock.

The knocking started again almost immediately.

“What the hell is going on?” I croaked, my throat painfully dry.

“We messed up, Jon,” Charlie sobbed. His entire body was slick with sweat and tears.

“What happened?” I asked, sitting up, trying to clear some of the fog from my head.

“Right,” Max began. His face was so pale his features seemed to blur together, his nose melting into his cheeks. “We don’t have time for you not to believe us. Because whether it’s true or not, it’s happening right now.”

They explained everything. Quickly. Nervously. Absolutely petrified.

I couldn’t tell you if I believed them. But I believed that they believed it, and that was enough.

“So,” I said, raising my voice over the renewed pounding at the door, “is it just after Max?”

“Brilliant,” Max yelled. “You two get yourselves off. I’ll hang back and see what this guy’s all about.”

“No,” I snapped. “I mean, if me and Charlie are safe, we can open the door, distract him, and you leg it.”

“That is an atrocious plan,” Charlie shouted. Max nodded enthusiastically.

“Sorry, lads,” I said, sarcasm cutting through the panic. “I had three shots of vodka, passed out, and woke up to a hired assassin from the underworld knocking on the door because you two made the worst drunken decision imaginable.”

The outburst helped. A little.

“Can we sneak out the back?” Charlie asked, already moving.

“Get down and crawl,” Max hissed.

We dragged ourselves across the living room, every sound feeling too loud.

The banging stopped.

From behind the door came a whisper, long and wet and sneering.

“Maaaaax.”

We froze.

“I have been sent for you.”

The voice continued, its politeness curdling. “I have been quite patient until now. Please understand, I have the power to tear this house in half and rip each one of you limb from limb.”

Max looked back at me, eyes wide, pleading for reassurance. I had none.

“Just come out, Max,” the whisper deepened into a growl, each word rattling the door. “I do not wish to harm anyone else. But I will.”

The frame began to creak. Wood splintered. The door would not hold.

We scrambled up and ran for the back door.

The voice followed us, now booming.

“I will annihilate everyone you know. I will end your entire bloodline tonight.”

“It was an accident,” Charlie cried, immediately regretting it.

“There are no accidents,” the thing replied. “I make no mistakes.”

“You’ve pissed him off now,” Max hissed.

“I think he was already pretty pissed,” I said. “Grab anything. Anything that might hurt him.”

We armed ourselves with knives, pans, anything that might, possibly, do something.

The door groaned. The top began to curl inward, like a sticker being peeled away.

Then it was gone.

No barrier. No protection.

We stood waiting.

The figure stepped forward, growling and shrieking, its body shaking with murderous intent.

And standing in the doorway, foaming at the mouth, was a small girl. No older than six or seven.

“What?” yelled Charlie. “I’m not hitting a little kid.”

“I am not a little kid,” the girl said, her voice cracking and conjoining with itself, like too many people speaking through one mouth. “I am the destroyer of men. I am the debt that walks. I am what answers when names are spoken by pathetic humans.”

We looked at one another, our brains arguing with themselves. She was barely three and a half feet tall. There were three of us. We had knives. It should have been simple.

She had also torn the door off its hinges like it was made of toilet paper.

Charlie’s face hardened into something that might have been bravery if it had been achievable. He took a step forward.

I shook my head.

He stopped. His eyes screamed gratitude.

“I do not care for your fear,” the demon continued, its voices now perfectly aligned. “I do not care for your confusion. I was patient because I chose to be patient. I knocked because I was being polite. But understand this now. I am here because I was invited, and I will have what I was sent for.”

“Is there nothing we can do to stop this?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Is there anything you want?” Charlie added. “Anything at all?”

“I have no need for want,” it said. “I am here to complete the task I was assigned.”

It stepped into the house.

With each step, its body stretched. Taller. Wider. Longer. By the time it stopped, newly formed horns scraped the kitchen ceiling.

Any thoughts of fighting evaporated.

“I would like this to be simple,” it said softly. The voice floated, almost gentle. “If the one known as Max would please step forward, I will destroy your body quickly and be on my way.”

No one moved.

“If not,” it continued, cheerful now, “I will assume that all of you are Max. I will visit everyone you love. I will unmake them. When they cease to live, I will ensure they continue suffering.”

Its enormous mouth split into a grin.

“Your call.”

I looked at Max.

He was curled in on himself, head buried in his hands. He was anywhere but there.

Something twisted in my stomach. At first, I thought it was fear. Then it burned.

Rage.

I was angry at him for not stepping forward. Angry that he wouldn’t save us. Angry that there was no anguish in him, only avoidance.

If it were me, I thought, I would step forward.

There it was again. That arrogance. Even now, shivering and soaked in dread, part of me still thought I was better.

I don’t know if I stepped forward to make amends for that. Or because I wanted to be remembered as a hero.

Probably both.

Charlie cried out.

Max didn’t move.

The demon looked at me and shrugged.

Then it raised its arms and brought them down.

Again.

And again.

Until the world went black.

* * *

Then there was light.

Blinding, endless light.

I squinted, trying to make sense of it.

Was this heaven? Had I been rewarded for my selflessness?

I felt justified.

A noise behind me made me spin around.

Max stood there, waving sheepishly.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. I was relieved. And furious.

“After it smashed you into something unrecognisable,” he said, “it realised you weren’t me. It screamed that it was going to eat our future children. I was inspired by your sacrifice, so I stood up and told it I was Max.”

He smiled, equal parts proud and smug.

“It beat the absolute crap out of me.”

He hugged me so tightly I felt airless.

“You’re the best person in the world,” he whispered.

The arrogance came back.

This time, it felt earned.

“Alright, lads.”

We turned.

Charlie stood there, grinning like an idiot.

“I didn’t want to be left out,” he said. “So I let it pulverise me as well.”

I was too dead to be angry.

He joined the hug. The three of us clutched together, stupid and perfect.

When we pulled apart, the light was gone.

The air was thick. Heavy. Pressing down on us.

“What’s happening?” Charlie asked.

Sulphur burned the back of my throat.

“Either Saint Peter’s just farted,” Max said, “or we’re screwed.”

We laughed. Too loudly. Too hard.

Maybe because we knew it might be the last time.

We haven't found too much to joke about since the torture started.

But we’ve got an eternity.

So I’m still hopeful.