The Nyaff

Every town has its demons. Most of the netherworld denizens are, like the human citizenry, proles. They spend their days possessing whatever weak mind they can infiltrate and then killing a bunch of prostitutes before pissing off leaving their hosts to face the music. There are others who have higher callings and can create mass hysteria or even inspire wars. There were even a couple, so it was claimed, that could bring an end to the world itself. The Nyaff was not that ostentatious. In over six hundred years it had never once been caught, never once been banished or exorcised and yet it's death count had been steady and efficient all that time.

The Nyaff wasn't in it for the death, it preferred the torment. It was, after all, conjured for specifically that purpose. It had been originally called into being as a curse. Shat into the material world with the worm-filled diarrhoea of a particularly aggressive West Highland terrier that had spent its days tormenting Seer Cruithilean of the Dusk.

Cruithilean was one of “The Folk”, one of the handful of Sidhé left on Scotland's material shores. He cursed the dog's owner to be tormented by a spirit as the dog had tormented him and thus The Nyaff came into being. Cruithilean left for Tir Na Nog shortly after that, but the spell continued and so did the Nyaff. Over six hundred years it had lived in Glasgow, given free reign to do it's singular task, which it delighted in.

He would spend days haunting the geriatric units at visiting times and lying to the confused oldies about everything. Sometimes he'd tell them it was a hundred years in the future and that they were in suspended animation, their brains being kept alive by sharing a computer generated landscape. Other times he'd drop L.S.D down their throats.

He'd go invisible and run around the house of a deeply superstitious Catholic family in Castlemilk, whispering filthy things in the ear of the mother and daughter and driving the father mad by constantly messing around with his D.V.D collection. He split when they finally got one of the priests around. Likely the priest had no actual power, hardly any of them even believed their own faith these days but he wasn't taking any chances.

The Nyaff marvelled at such toys as the humans had given him. Each generation or so had created technologies to make his job easier and his magic more potent. None had been so transformative as the internet. Using only symbols on a screen he began crushing a sexually confused fourteen year old boy, tearing him down until the kid swallowed way too many pills and kicked out. Once that experiment succeeded there was no stopping him. He would rage at people, stalk them, pretend to be them. He even learned the term “catfish” and gleefully took to pretending to be a million heart's desires. The Nyaff became a hidden global epidemic. Goading suicides and heart-attacks and mental breakdowns with some magical wiggles of his thumbs. People lost jobs, livelihoods, businesses, went mad and shot up their schools, offices and families. The Nyaff had become an ongoing humanitarian disaster albeit one cautious enough to remain invisible. He was even responsible, indirectly, for a massacre in a small town in Eastern Europe and some ethnic riots in China.

All of that was just in his down-time. The Nyaff loved to do his work up close and personal. He took pride in it too, considered the way he stripped a person of their soul, if not an art then at least a highly skilled craft. To the Nyaff, creatures like the Black Worm may have awesome power but so did earthquakes and thunderstorms and no one ever considered those phenomena particularly intelligent. The Nyaff's actions were methodical, deliberate and with intent. He allowed himself to think this made him on par with the other forces that stalked the streets of the city. They knew of him and left him alone, that suited him just fine. He didn't want them interfering in his business.

In the past there'd been accidents, he'd once drove a Lanarkshire lad to jump in the Clyde but he hadn't known the victim was protected by Morton's boys and they'd caught him. Morton saw what he was beneath the human he was wearing, they'd made a deal. They'd all made deals, the Sisters, Skinner, Mental Dunkie, all of which had reduced the Nyaff's working territory to a square mile or two, luckily that territory included the Southern and hospitals were perfect hunting grounds.

The hospital was still in transition and as he stood at the bus stop watching the construction of the new hospital over the rubble of the old, he felt nostalgic, remembering when the hospital was first built. He was waiting on the 23 to take him to Govan Cross where the council offices were. There was a housing officer he'd taken an interest in of late, just the right side of snide, a little dick who most people would have been happy to see have a strip of two torn from him. The Nyaff had decided to leave his very being in rags. If the bus ever got by the chaotic slalom of roadworks it was weaving through slowly.

He drank in a little of the collective frustration of those at the bus stop with him. He'd done this every day since the roadworks went up, it was like a shot of coffee before he started his day.

Eventually the stressed and apologetic looking driver managed to arrive at the stop. The bus was already packed and the ten or so at the stop made it a tight squeeze. The place was rank with the delicious aromas of stress pheromones, to the Nyaff it was akin to walking into a delicatessen. He was hit by the warm rich gamey redolence so hard that the stomach of the vessel he wore rumbled. Quite a feat considering it had been dead for nigh on a year.

Being the Nyaff, there was only one thing he could do. Annoy the fuck out of everyone, again. “Mornin' folks. Ye aw aff tae yer wurks?” He crowed as he waddled past the driver.

It had the desired effect. Everyone looked away from him. A sharp, zesty wave of panic washed through the stress, complimenting it perfectly. Boom! Like fireworks for the nose, almost intoxicating. The Nyaff scanned the assembled humanity half-heartedly, he'd had enough to keep him going, there was bigger game at the cross.

And then his eyes locked with another set, a scowl that flicked away as soon as they met. Eyes that were impatient, displayed baffling amounts of arrogance and were deep down, terrified. The Nyaff took in this potential victim; medium height, too scrawny for the suit he was in, shaved head, young, perhaps in his late twenties.

He decided to test the waters. Pushing through the crowd of passengers he managed to get up to the seat of his potential victim. “Awright big yin? Aff tae work?”

The lad didn't even look his way just shot out with a very curt “aye.”

“Oh, cheeky fucker” the Nyaff chuckled to himself. It was turning out to be a good morning. To the world he exclaimed “Oh, ahm sooorrry mate, Ah didnae realise that ah wis speakin' ta ma betters. Please forgive me fur tryin' tae be pleasant.”

The lad stirred slightly exuding a slippery icy surge of anger but subdued it. Instead he turned and faced the Nyaff and in a threatening voice said “Gies peace will ye?”

In that moment the housing officer was forgotten, the Nyaff had a new project to work on. “Aye, sorry tae huv disturbed ye.” he said, as pitifully and indignantly as he could muster.

There was beads of sweat on the young man's brow, his rage was seeping out of him and reeked of the by-products of cheap narcotics, a bitter chemically smell. The guy was a fuck-up, if handled right, the Nyaff knew the results could be glorious.

Cautiously, he turned from the young man, waited on the bus 'til they all spilled off at the underground and then as he was passing stole the guy's wallet. He needed to know all about his latest plaything. He could've taken the phone but people were too precious about them, might have called the cops. The buses all had cameras, everyone had cameras. The last thing he wanted was to end up in the cells, he was a careful Nyaff.

Instead he stayed on the bus right past the cross and left at the Quay where all the drab peons of T.V. land shuffled in towards their days in glass boxes to make things for people to watch on other glass boxes. He walked to the Squinty Bridge, crossed it and headed up Finnieston street towards a café where he'd convinced the waitress, who clearly had learning difficulties, that her murdered brother was actually still alive and in hiding, in a witness protection programme. The project had been on the go for several months and was not only the source of great amusement but of free breakfasts. He didn't milk it, perhaps only once or twice a month. Today was her lucky day. The Nyaff was hungry and had decided he had more news for her.

After scrambled eggs on toast he spun another deception, this time culminating in an address just outside Alicante where, he told her, her brother was waiting to see her. The Nyaff insisted she go right away, that he was only there for a few days.

He could see she was desperate, poor and confused about what to do. He paid his bill and as she opened the till said “There's a fair bit of cash in there” before convincing her that her manager, Jim, was a nice guy and would understand.

He sat by the water considering his next move regarding his latest project. The Nyaff was pondering between two options. The first, more risky option, was to ingratiate himself, to phone the guy and say he'd found his wallet. The second and easier option was to try and rob him blind, perhaps even steal his identity and wear it for a while. He considered the lad was probably not the magnanimous type and so headed east into the city in hopes of a shopping spree.

He was in luck, for a while. Around midday the card was taken from him but there was no fuss, just an apologetic middle aged woman with a terrible haircut and buck teeth. He got on the underground at Buchanan Street, spread all his bags of ill-gotten gains out on the seats beside him and waited for someone to start with him. The crowded cab was mostly filled with students, who did nothing but give a few disapproving glances, even when he farted and tried to start a conversation about it.

Back at Govan Cross, he kicked up a fuck after being short-changed in Greggs the bakers, which lead to a large queue of increasingly impatient lunch-time staff, including the housing officer he'd forgotten all about. That tickled him.

Eventually two recovering smack-heads in tracksuits dragged him out and noised him up a bit. He submitted to their threats and walked away, just far enough to call them a couple of junkie cunts and run without them being able to catch up.

He was pleased with himself all the way back to the flat that he'd been living in, the flat of his dead host. He knew that when things finally caught up with him he'd leave the cops, once again, with a month old stiff to blame. The last few times he'd even went so far as to set them up as to imply they all had the same interests and belonged to some hidden cult. He saw no reason not to fuck with the police as long as he could stay out of their clutches. He imagined that there was some office in Pitt Street, where some bewildered little man puzzled over how three long dead people could all have caused so much harm and each of them had died after writing “Hail Garzuthma!” on the walls of their homes.

He chuckled and as he swung open the door of the flat he cried “Hail Garzuthma!” as if greeting some noble figure.

It was then he noticed the man sitting on the couch. Fear was not something the Nyaff was used to and for several seconds he became rigid, wide eyed and terrified.

“Been a long time.” The man said. He looked like a smack-head that had lived for a hundred years, wrinkled like a prune, his grey skin mottled with yellow stains.

The Nyaff's terror faded into an unease. This event was a new experience to him. A stranger had entered his world unannounced, the control he normally held over every situation was gone. For the Nyaff, the uncertainty was worse than the fear. There was a cloud of acrid burning contempt surrounding the wasted individual but nothing familiar.

“Am I meant tae know you or something?” He asked, aggressively, dropping his bags of stolen goods.

“Ye could say that aye. As I said, it has been a long time.” The man answered calmly and yet with a menace that the Nyaff could almost taste.

“Well, is it no clear I huv nae idea who ye ur? How about you clue me in?” The Nyaff said, determined to get control of the situation.

The man laughed. “Ya wee fucker. Ye really don't remember me. I'm Gav Jackson. Name ring a bell?”

It was more like a bomb going off than the even elegant tone of a bell. Gav Jackson. The Nyaff had tormented him decades ago, good times, but in his memory Jackson killed himself. Not that any of that mattered right now, the only thing that mattered was that he play dumb. No matter what this guy thought he might know, he knew fuck all. “Naw, I knew a Freddy Jackson at school, ur you his da?”

“Naw I'm no Freddy Jackson's fuckin' da, ya wee fud. Don't try an' kid oan that ye don't know me, ye might be wearing a different body but that disnae matter tae me.” Gav Jackson stated.

There were bells now, alarm bells and several off them all ringing in the Nyaff's mind. This sort of thing shouldn't happen. How could he know, how could he possibly know? “Look man, I think you've mistook me for some other cunt. If I were you I'd split before things get out of hand.”

Jackson gave a small exhalation of disbelief. “Twenty two fuckin' years I've looked for you, you nearly drove me to an early grave and I promised mysel' that wan day I'd fuckin' find ye, and noo, here I am. How many people huv you killed and worn since ye fucked me oor? Eight? Nine?”

The Nyaff's resolve began to crumble and he found himself internally repeating “he knows nothing” over and over again. “This is yer last warnin' pal, we can do this the easy way or the-”

The Nyaff stopped as Gav Jackson pulled out a handgun and aimed it at him. “Aw come on, gies a brek, eh?”

“Oh I'll gie ye a brek alright. How about I put a bullet in yer fuckin' spine?” Jackson threatened. With the gun he beckoned to the chair. “Sit doon.”

The Nyaff did as he was told. He'd had a few scrapes before but nothing like this. He could die, he always knew it was possible but he'd always set up so many escape routes than no one ever caught up with him, not until now. How was it possible that this clown would be the one to do so? He remembered Jackson as a boy, a snivelling mother's boy who'd practically begged for his abuse. It had hardly been a difficult task to push him over the edge. Somehow, unbeknownst to the Nyaff, he'd managed to not only cling to the edge but somehow follow the Nyaff all the way back to his home.

For the first time in its existence the Nyaff truly feared for his life. “Look, I don't know whit aw this is aboot mate but there's nae need for the shooter. Jist... let's talk right, whit is it you think I've done?”

“You know fine fuckin' well whit ye did. Tae me, tae others. See at first I thought it wis me, then I thought you were just a vicious wee shite. Took me years tae cotton on to your game eh?” Jackson said.

He didn't lower the gun but he did talk rather than shoot. The Nyaff saw this as potentially a good sign. He knows nothing, he kept repeating. “Honestly mate, I don't know what you want me tae say I don't know aboot any game.”

This agitated Jackson quite considerably and he stood up and pointed the gun down towards the Nyaff's skull. “Knock it off, I'm serious. I know aw aboot ye. See a couple of years later, efter I'd recovered, ma aunt telt us aw aboot a similar situation happenin' tae some wee guy who's maw worked wae her. You might remember him. Noel Ferguson? He disappeared wan night, was never found. Fifteen years of age. You fuckin' monster.”

“You think I killed this guy?” The Nyaff said, worried that perhaps Jackson might, might know something.

“Oh worse than that. See couple of months efter that I'm watchin' Scotland today and this reporter's on Union Street and staunin' at the bus stop behind him is good old Noel Ferguson. I couldnae believe it, I didnae know the boy that well but I suspected somethin' wisnae right. Ye confirmed that soon enough. Remember Jessica Carson fae Bishopbriggs? She went aboot braggin' aboot her new toy boy? The wan that robbed her of her life savin's efter ruinin' her relationship wae her family. The wan that goat her hooked on charlie? Well she took photies of her lover-boy. I don't need to tell you it wis good old Noel.”

“You think I'm someone called Noel?”

“No, ye ditched him shortly after poor auld Jessica jumped in front o' the express train, just aboot the time the police came lookin' fur him. He seemed tae vanish intae thin air again. Well until the police fun his body in Rouken Glen Park the following week. Ye just dumped it an ran aff. That wis a fuckin' human bein' an you jist wore him like a halloween costume.”

“I don't really know what ye expect me tae say tae that.”

“You don't say nothin', I dae the talkin', you listen, right? Ye vanished efter than and to be honest efter they fun Ferguson I thought it wis aw oor. Ye slipped up though.”

“How?” was the first question that came to the Nyaff's mind, quickly followed by “how do I get out of this?”. He couldn't let his curiosity get the better of him, he had to keep stalling until he came up with a plan. “Did I? How?” he asked.

Jackson breathed a tiny laugh, a small jab of air. “Ye couldnae stop bein' a right little cunt. Ye started tae drive Darren Nesbitt up the wall. That wis when it aw came oot you see. I'm in the pub an' my mate's tellin' us aboot this gangster bloke who wis lookin' fur information about this creepy bastard that wis tormentin' wan of his boy's brothers. Turns oot that wis Skinner right?”

Skinner, even the name made the Nyaff's throat tighten. Had Skinner sent this guy after him? That didn't make sense, they had an agreement and he'd been careful. “You mean the guy in the papers, the wan they called Big Skinny? I don't know anybody that shady.”

“Aye, he telt me ye'd say somethin' like that, said ye'd dae almost anythin' tae worm yer way oot of this. He even telt me whit ye were. A wee nyaff eh? A wee spirit called intae existence by a grumpy fuck who forgot aw aboot ye. Ye can only possess the recently died, particularly those who had weak minds and wills. I realised ye were usin' suicides, probably best described as murder since ye drove them tae it, eh?”

“I didnae murder anybody, I'm no in cahoots wae the Weegie Mafia an' I'm no a fuckin' spirit possessin' some deid guy, are you listenin' tae yersel'?”

It was then that Jackson smiled, a thin “gotcha” of a smile. “See the thing is, this whole world is noo interconnected. Used tae be that aw the local news and events stayed local, but when an unidentified corpse disappears fae a morgue these days disnae take long tae find a picture. Didnae take long for the polis an' the parents tae identify a missing 22 year old with violence and learning issues who'd been tormented by his former carer. And yet here he is walkin' up an' doon the street's o Glasgow like he's never been deid at all.”

With his free hand he went into his jacket pocket and pulled out a picture and news article attached to a card. “Police ask for help in identifying anonymous corpse.” was the headline. The photo was of the boy the Nyaff was still wearing.

“Shit.” Thought the Nyaff. “He knows.”

Jackson smiled then, satisfied. “Ye can speak noo if ye want.”

The Nyaff decided to go on the offensive. “Shoot me then ya worthless prick.”

“Whit?” Jackson said.

“Shoot me.” He shouted.

Jackson looked baffled for a second and it took him several more to regain his composure. “I will shoot ye.”

“Well go on, dae it. Ye always wur a cowardly wee prick, remember that time I made you wank off tae a porno mag in the park and then telt ye if ye didnae gies five quid every Wednesday I'd tell yer maw? Yer a shitebag. Nae cunt ever liked ye, ye should have been thankful that I at least took an interest.” The Nyaff spat.

Jackson waved the gun at him. “I'm no kiddin' cut it oot or I'll-”

“Alright, alright, just let me ask ye this, ye merried?”

“Naw, whit's that got tae dae wae anythin'?”

“Aye, that's whit a thought. Ye don't huv a girlfriend either dae ye? Nae weans, dae ye even huv a job these days?”

“Naw, so whit?”

The Nyaff started laughing. “Oh Gav you stupid wee fuck. You got a second chance, you could have lived, got oor aw the pish I put ye through an' hid a laugh, but naw. You don't dae any o' that dae ye? Naw, you spend twinty years huntin' me doon, tryin' tae get revenge. You should've jist topped yersel; ya fuckin' loser.”

“Ye think? Well smartarse, I'm the wan haudin' the gun.”

“Big fuckin' deal, whit's the worst ye kin dae? Ye said it yersel' I'm a spirit, wearin' this deid prick. Sure I might huv tae split this realm if ye ruin this corpse, but you know whit? I'll be right fuckin' back. You, you're the gift that keeps oan giein' int ye? Twinty years o' misery, wastin' yer life. Fuckin' laughable. Go on, shoot. Take yer revenge an' fuck right off back to yer hollow empty life. I won, ya cock.”

There was an explosion as Jackson, furious, fired the gun. He missed his shot, destroying the Nyaff's plasma screen T.V. “Ha, ye canny even shoot straight.”

Jackson was almost in tears of rage. “Shut it, shut it!” He barked and fired again. Again he missed. The Nyaff pounced, grabbed at Jackson's arm and pulled him down and the gun with it. Jackson toppled onto the floor but pulled out the pistol and once more fired.

A large chunk of the left shoulder of the corpse the Nyaff wore was torn off as the bullet ricocheted off the collarbone. It didn't matter. He twisted Jackson's arm until there was a grinding crack and the limb and digits went limp. Jackson dropped the gun but was in too much pain to try and grab it. Instead the Nyaff grabbed it and pointed it right at Jackson's head and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet entered through the top of Jackson's skull and exited through the back of his neck, taking a lot of meat, blood and some fair fragments of bone with it. It created a nice spatter pattern over the cream carpet.

The Nyaff stood over Jackson's body, examining the gun. In six hundred years he'd never held a real gun. Sure he'd killed people's beloved pets and the occasional baby with catapults and air-rifles, but this was different, this was heavy, deadly and with a mean aura all of it's own.

The Nyaff had a gun and a chip on his shoulder, Skinner and he had an agreement, now the ugly prick had led Jackson right to him. He'd pay for that. The Nyaff decided Skinner could wait. He wondered how much he could make someone do, just by waving a gun at them. He plucked out the wallet of his latest project and looked at the address, it was time to find out an answer to his question.