The chalk marks ran across the wooden floor of his top floor flat. John Constantine stood over a large divination sigil, which ran practically from one end of the room to the other. He was standing there maybe twenty minutes after it was drawn. Rolling his lighter, he lit a cigarette, and then moved the silver lighter towards a small candle at his bedside. The pitter-patter of rain drops was heard not only outside, but also inside near the door and close to his mattress. What a shit hole. There wasn’t a room in the building that didn’t creak, crack, or leak from time to time. Water dripped onto the floor because he only had one bucket, and that was by the bed. He could see some of the water already forming above the sketched sigil. He began.

“Bith a bhi na m’shial…”

His words followed in a string for only a few seconds. It’s the simple divination that used only one natural resource. It would be hard for someone to pick up on, and that’s exactly what he didn’t need. The only problem was its reliability. Rain drops could be the most intricate thing available, but it was just that – available. The weather was a trick, as long as the water got into the room it was at the mercy of magic. This is how he was going to find where to go next. Waiting, he inhaled and looked to the ceiling. The first drop fell to the floor almost dead center to the inner circle.

He already knew it was his location. He needed another. A second fell, this time nearer the edge. John pulled a map off his bed, already partially wet from the splattering of drops. He looked from the drawing to the map with two short glances.

“Hmm…” he mumbled

This wasn’t the first thought he’d been handed, but it was a defiant priority; another loose end that needed shortening. For a while nothing happened. The rain must have died down in the matter of minutes and the drops simply ceased. John tossed his map back on the bed and moved to snuff out the candle before he noticed another splash onto the floor. Another drop of water hit almost completely to his shoe, which was outside of the boundaries of sigil. For a moment he stood in confusion, wandering if his spell had run its amateur course, but all of that vanished from his mind. They vanished when he noticed the drop began to run directly upwards into the circle. It was as if the room had been completely reversed and gravity had no longer been a concern. It ran upwards continuously through the middle of the sigil as John watched. Cutting through the chalk and washing away the lines and small symbols. Minuscule puddles of white smeared the floor as a slow bead of water stopped at its dead center.

He almost paused for a reflection, and then knelt down examining the work which consisted of most of the entire lower circle was completely washed away in one straight line. The outer portions were unscathed but this wasn’t a look into the future, just a location. Just then someone whispered into the night.

How is it doing this? What’s going on? Where am I?

John looked once again to the spot where the water dropped and saw its place outside the circle. Whatever it was it wasn’t in the way of worldly boundaries, and it moved all the way to the beginning of the circle where he intended his chosen location. A small sigh emitted as he felt the only thing that bothered him more than not knowing where it came from…but not knowing who it was.

He snuffed out the candle and moved by the light of the moon and ember of his cigarette to a pack near the door. Throwing over his coat he moved out of his room quietly as to not disturb the others.

He didn’t know what it was, or who it came from…not yet anyway.

Inside the room shortly after there was another drop that fell to the floor. This one landed just short of the last, only much smaller. Likewise it moved to the center at a slow rate, though unlike the first, began to rotate around the first point and back around to the middle once more. Then…well then the roof caved in.

“YOU DID THIS!” he screamed

The last thing he remembered before he woke up was being crushed to death. John jerked up out of bed, his shirt sticking to his chest in his cold sweat. He looked around, rubbing his forehead with a deep breath.

It was just a dream. Just another one of the nightmares he has been enduring for the past week and a half. It’s ever since his meeting with someone else’s demons did he decide to pay a visit to his own. He looked at his watch on the night stand.

12:30 a.m.

He grunted, tossing the watch back and grabbing his last cigarette from the pack. He’d wanted to save it for the morning, but these last few nights having been as promising as he’d have expected. He lit it and inhaled with sick desperation. The smoke swirled up to the broken blades of his ceiling fan. His rented apartment was like a dungeon. He has to use this place as an escape. It was in Hackney and not a very secluded area after that mess with Tate’s Club. It might have been instinct, or maybe stupidity. Whatever the excuse was he didn’t know how to phrase it in logical terms. Being here meant that he was right in harms way. So why has it taken them weeks upon unnecessary weeks to be found? He started to wonder why he was having these nightmares.

“If they wanted me dead, then I would be by now.” he said quietly.

He sat up, moving himself to the edge of the bed. He buried his head into his hands and pushed his hair back. For a minute he sat and enjoyed the last of his cigarette. It only took him about a minute later to notice his closet. The only thing that took up most of the occupied space were his dozens of books. The ones that usually sat in his lock up, the same ones he used to cheat Satan. The boxes, which usually sat inside small boxes neatly tucked away from the rest of the normal world, were scattered, tipped over and lying in the open.

He didn’t get drunk. He didn’t have a mental relapse. He wouldn’t have even touched those things if he had to. At first he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to announce this particular problem. Still in a half-lucid state, he quietly approached the mess. Kneeling down he began to gather them up.

“Evening.” a sudden voice said, breaking through the all too perfect silence.

John stumbled back, abruptly shocked by the short glimpse of terror.

“I was hoping you’d expect this. I mean we’ve all been hoping you would.”

John stared horridly at the sight of a man drenched in his own blood. The sight of Ric the Vic standing in the doorway of his small bathroom. Half his head was missing, and the other half in a concave wedge. His clerical suit was stained a deep purple from his blood mixing with the dark blue fabric. His steps were small and quiet, as if he hadn’t realized he was dead yet.

“Oh, please tell me I’ve caught you at a loss for words. I might get at least some credibility in being first.” Ric said moving closer to the window

John wasn’t at a loss for words. He chose not to speak. For all he knew this was another nightmare he couldn’t wake up…

“You might as well say something, John; because I can assure you it’s not.”

“Just waiting to ask if you had a cigarette…I’ve been itching for one.” John said warily

“You see, John my boy. This is why I wanted to be here first. I don’t think I could stand to see the bitter side of you by the end of the night. I want to hear that playful humor. The kind you put front row when the most horrid thoughts in your mind start to bubble to the surface.” Ric replied.

John picked himself up from the floor, standing not more than five feet from his very dead mate.

“Then give me the story, Ric. What the fuck is this “first” business?” John asked, still keeping his distance.

“’The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge: but fools despise wisdom and instruction.’” Ric replied, simply

“Proverbs chapter one, verse seven…” John began

“I knew you weren’t completely lost, Johnny.” Ric fired back

John noticed the sound of his voice. It was muffled with gurgles and chokes. It grinded against his nerves, and the moist puddle of sweat forming on the middle of his back gave him a joint of realization that this was real.

“Stop stalling, Ric. It doesn’t take me long to figure out what’s going on here. The Grimorum scattered about, and my dead mates coming back to haunt me. What’s the score? Who’s putting you here and why?” John questioned, his tone rising with the tension in his shoulders.

“That “who” is the same cocky, foolish man I’m looking at now. The one that made me put the gruesome end of a gun to my head. The one that escaped my fate too many times before, and the same man who’s going to find out that he’s fallen too deep to recover. For a lad with the best luck, you sure don’t have much intuition, John. I’ve always found that rather ironic.” Ric said with a small, deranged laugh.

“You’ve been dead too long, Ric. You smell too much like the place you’ve tried to keep your congregation out of. Why should I believe you?”

“You won’t have to. Soon the others will come.” Ric said with what can only be guessed at was a smirk.

John suddenly had a flash of realization. The sacred texts had been out for at least an hour. The nightmares he’d been having have kept him tossing and turning but who knew exactly how long they’d been out since he noticed only a few minutes ago. Someone was trying to set him up for a big downfall.

Is this what they wanted? Bring back the dead to finish a job that they couldn’t? Fuck me sideways, I don’t believe it. Get it together, John. You don’t know what’s…

“…at stake?” Ric said

“Don’t do this, Ric.” John said, his teeth locked together, paralyzed by the confusion.

“I’m not the main act, John. There’s plenty to keep you occupied. I’m merely a pawn. Do you actually think that the ones who want you dead would send me to do it? I’m flattered, but this has nothing to do with your current worries. This goes way, way too deep for it to be that.”

Ric’s silhouette outline around the window evaporated like stream before there was nothing left. John stood, staring at the night outside, no longer seeing Ric’s spirit, no longer smelling the off sent of dead flesh and mold. John’s mind was numb, and it wasn’t because of what he saw. Something that Ric said set him off like a time bomb.

Was it supposed to happen? Fuck…FUCK…I can’t get a grip.

He tried to make it too his bed, but his legs turned to putty and he landed on the ground with his palms out to catch his fall. He saw a small bit of blood drip from his nose, and as he stood up he could hear a hiss. It was like the sound that a furnace makes when it fired back up. Those eyes looked up again, this time lowering at the source of the sound.

“The ‘ol vicar’s right, John. There is something worse than death. There is something worse than suffering, even for you. I call it realization.”

John would have imagined he would have to have been next. Even if he was in a state of disbelief and unpredictability he could sense himself from a mile away. He saw the trench coat, the smell of not only cigarettes, but also rottenness, and that wide gin that emitted a bellowing laugh.

“But I’m sure we’ll come to that. Better watch the time, though, you clever bastard. The rules say were not here for the usual chinwag.” John’s demon twin said with a smile.

John’s attempts at anything considered a verbal phrase were hindered by his heavy breathing. He could feel the walls around them closing, and then expanding like his own chest. He didn’t know if the whole room was being swallowed, or if it was just him. The only thing that stopped him from fainting was the sudden clap of two hands in front of him.

“Get it together, squire.” it ordered as he stubbed his cigarette out on the floor.

“This isn’t real. You’re not…” John began

“Supposed to be here? Well of course not, but you see we all have our little methods of escape. Just like yourself, Constantine, we all can scheme and plan behind the curtain. If we really wanted too of course. With the right intentions one can do just about anything in Hell. After all you said it your bloody self. Of course you don’t know whether this is real or not, at least you don’t know yet. For all you know you could wake up any minute now.”

“If I know myself, and I’d like to think I do, I couldn’t count on it. You’ve still got maybe ten more minutes of bullshitting before this’ll end, eh?” John said smirking, pulling himself up to the bed, but his demonic half had disappeared in that instant. The static feeling of uncertainty crept up John’s spine like a spider. He looked around slowly, half exhausted and panicked. It wasn’t till he felt the stretching, and burning of his body did he realize what had happened.

Flung to the ceiling, John lay outstretched at the top of the room. The Demon Constantine was now lying on his bed, quietly observing Constantine’s struggle.

“How many people has it been? How many people have you fucked with my help? The dead always out weigh the living John, and everyone has sins they have to atoll for. The list is longer than you think.” it said in a whispering breath that made the walls peel and the tight skin on John’s body crawl.

“We’re not the same!” John screamed, agonized by pain.

“Why would you say that? Because you were clever enough or smart enough to put the worst parts of yourself in me? You’re missing the big picture, Johnny boy. That is the reason you’re having the nightmares, the reason you can’t escape fear anymore. This world is mad and you realize it.”

The Demon Constantine stood at the foot of John’s bed now, eyeing him with a sinister smile. Even though he couldn’t see it, he felt the burn as his not so better half planted the end of his cigarette on the right side of John’s torso.

“GhaaaAAAA!” John screamed

The pain ceased. Everything, the blink of an eye, changed. He saw his pillow in front of his face. He jerked up from the bed, lying now where the demon was just then. He looked around, frantic in his movements, but saw nothing. The room was empty again. There were sudden moments of silence. John stood poised like a cat, his eyes darting around in every direction, and that sudden dread of anticipation for some shockwave to hit him dead center was looming over him like an addiction. The nicotine cravings were driving him insane, let alone the voices whispering in his head. He felt like a crowd was outside the building; slowly coming closer and closer with each step. The whispers continued, masked only by individual verbal raping.

“Why did leave us there to die, John?”

He could only hear the sound of them coming into the room. The ghosts with a thousand faces met him in his window as he looked up like a scared dog. It was like the crumpling of paper until there was nothing but silence. The teeth of what he thought were maybe a thousand faces. The death rings of the lost souls. They were plaguing just by their presence. John didn’t care whether they spoke or not.

The air thickened, and beads of sweat ran down John’s back. The bodies formed more slowly than the faces, but enough of them to fill the room manifested there. Each one wore the same particular smile. It was the smiling of lunatics and schizopenacs; the smile of the dead. He couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, but the only thing that managed to escape was a fleeting cough. There were hundreds of faces clouding the room. There were the faces he knew that haunted him for years, and then there were the ones that he refused to see, but couldn’t help stare dead into the decrepit eyes.

The voices drifted through his empty flat, gurgling and echoing like a manic clown in a deranged carnival.

“Not far now, and then Hell’s music will accompany your screams. Can you hear them?”

It was like the fragments sequence of a nightmare, but all of the voices (the ones John chose to hear) reverberated around him. The increased with volume and pitch, something even the worst singer couldn’t produce. The apparitions made the air thicker and harder to breath. Even if he wanted to he couldn’t for all intensive purposes even think about having a cigarette. He was so damn sure that the minute he did the smoke would curl up in his lungs and solidify to stop his heart.

His feet slid on the cold floor as he crawled towards the door, deafened by the sounds of wailing and whispers. With his hands pressed against his ears, he saw the tattered pages of his books strewn about the floor. He couldn’t take it anymore; his eyes were starting to roll back, and his skin crawled with a cold sweat. He was slipping out, loosing his concentration…

...and then everything went black.

--

5:30 a.m.

There are some good things that have come out of Ravenscar. The doctors had a way of handling his condition back then even without the use of brute force and neglect. When you’re used to waking up to nightmares, you learn to cope with what’s real or not. John Constantine’s method was simple: the first thing he did was grab the first thing that was real – a cigarette. This morning he didn’t have a one, and nicotine cravings go a long way with the bad nights. This one didn’t make sense to him, but when he woke up on the floor of his flat there were bits of blood and drool on his shirt. These were real, and so was the stinging blister on his small love handle. Remembering everything isn’t the normal way at escaping from a nightmare either, so you do what you have to do to keep you mind off of the really horrible bits. He had packed a small suitcase which rested against the wall next to his door.

The overhead light clicked off, and John stood with the door half opened.

Another trick is to try and logically retrace your memories to see if anything pops up that could explain the occurrences in your dreams. He didn’t think this was retaliation, but he didn’t rule it out. As he gathered what he needed, he closed the door behind him and stood at the door for several moments, and then he pulled a small piece of paper from his coat. With his lighter he lit the left corner of it and waited for the flames to cover its majority. As soon as it did he dropped it at the foot of the door and turned to walk away. A torn page of the book burned quickly as the sound of John’s footsteps ricocheted off the empty walls of the complex.

There’s a trick to sorting out the nightmares. It’s just one of the tricks that'll stop the mind from becoming trapped in the thoughts of dead men.

Ric’s voice still lingered in the room with its leaky gurgles.

“There’s quiet comfort in not feeling any pain when you die. Don’t worry, Johnny my friend. When you meet him, you won’t feel anything either. You won’t know what hit you…”