Neil Laker combed his hair. The gaunt, grey-bristled old man reflected in the mirror took slow, deliberate strokes across his thinning scalp. The teeth of the comb scraped into his delicate skin, forcing him to realise that the old man he saw was actually himself. How long had he been away this time? A week? A month? A year? Did he have enough time left to save Sarah? The irony of his unstable mental health was that he could forget it all for a while, become lost in a sanctuary of fog where the cruel reality of what was to come never sank its claws into him.

He put the comb down on the side of the sink and leaned on it. The cold porcelain chilled the sweat on the skin of his hands. His eyes, bloodshot and watery, prompted him to peer in closer to the reflection. Was it really such a surprise?

A sound, similar to that of a bird flapping its wings, spooked Neil into looking round. The gloom of the dark bedroom, beyond the open bathroom door, made him nervous. He had an inkling that something was in there, watching. Nothing new about that sensation that's for sure, but the flapping sound was original.

He flicked off the light switch next to the mirror and the world instantaneously turned black. It was easier to hide in the dark, the shadows needed the light.

There's that noise again. What was it? Was the window left open? Highly unlikely. Even if it was, there were no curtains to move against the wind and make that kind of sound.

Neil cleared his throat and pulled his left ear lobe down hard with his finger tips. He remembered that this always helped to make things better. He shuffled in his worn-out slippers across the bathroom linoleum to stand in the doorway, his eyes growing accustomed to the shadows.

Shut tight, as he had predicted, the tall window let in a pale aura of the midnight moon, which absorbed into the still air of the room. It collected on the old leather chair he basically lived in now. The rest of the bumps and angles of furniture around the room had become familiar friends to him; well-studied dark forms and immediately recognisable. All apart from one.

Neil's eyes began to water, his mouth became dry. He forced himself to concentrate harder on this particular shadow.

There. Over beside the chest of drawers, along the wall with the main door. A darker shape, the smooth edges in stark contrast with the brittle lines of furniture, halfway between the drawers and the door.

Wait! That sound. There it was again. This time his hearing pinpointed the noise to be coming from the exact location of that shadow.

Stock still in the doorway, Neil's legs began to tremble. Was that just from the fatigue of standing upright for so long or something else? Was he afraid? Did he remember what fear felt like? The strength of his body dissolved, leaving him crippled, unable to move. His bottom lip quivered uncontrollably, taking on a life of its own. Yes, this was fear. His heart flipped with irregular bangs against his ribs, threatening to burst its way out. A warm, wet sensation collected along the inside of his pyjama leg as he lost control of his bladder.

The shadow shape expanded. It gradually increased upwards and outwards until it took up the entire space of the wall, between drawers and door. Neil swallowed, tears overflowed and cascaded down his hollow cheeks, hot and insistent. He wasn't able to stop watching. The shape, having conquested all the available wall space, now grew denser. The darkness thickened. The flapping sound ceased. Neil wasn't sure if this was a good sign or a bad one. He pulled at his earlobe, this time with more intensity, hurting himself.

As usual, after the ritual Friday evening cleaners had been round, the room had a residual scent of furniture polish and carpet freshener, ensuring that the rooms were fully ready for any weekend visitors. Neil had been enjoying the smell. A welcome break to the daily invasion of cabbage and bleach which entered his domain. Now, captured by this emerging figure, a different odour seeped across the room. Stale and sickly, fettered meat and urine.

The shape was solid. But it wasn't growing anymore. It began to split, dividing its bulk into three distinctly separate solids.

A dull chime came up the stairs from the grandfather clock in the main foyer below, it sounded out the hour of one AM. Had he been standing there for a whole hour?

A new sound came to Neil's senses. He knew what this was straight away. The voices, one low, two higher, weaving and chattering so, so quietly. The Three.

For a second Maria's tortured face reanimated in his mind. Twisting and contorting as the flames consumed her flesh, her eyes burning with passion and pain. They were singing. They were here.

He stared on at the lumps in the dark. They drifted around now, still smooth in shape with fluid, easy movements. Somehow graceful. But that smell lingered. He couldn't be free of it. It seeped into his clothes, into his skin, through his nostrils. He could sense it soaking down into his lungs, clogging him up from the inside. Neil found it hard to breathe.

He spluttered and slapped his hands either side of the wooden door frame. His fingernails dug into the soft plywood, getting a grip into solidity, reality. They had come here for him. He had no doubt. Maria had made her choice to be taken by the Three, over twenty years ago. She had given in to their calls and fire, long before he'd even known they existed. But he wasn't convinced they were three, not three beings of any sort. That was way too simple. This was a collection. Yes, that was it, a collection of God-knows-what kind of evil or power or hell, how would anybody be able to describe it, forming itself into a physical, terrifying life. This was Legion.

The fire had been alive when it took Maria. The voices had given a choice. One of the three. Neil, Sarah or Maria. No options, no negotiation. One of the three. His current state of mind allowed him to remember the facts.

He glared over at the shadows. If that was the case then why were they here to torment him again? A spark of injustice welled up from the pit of his stomach, churning and scorching its way through his body. A fire burning from the inside out. Digging his nails deeper into the door frame, Neil Laker let out a yell of pure frustration.

"Why! Damn you all to hell. Why are you here? Wasn't she enough for you? How dare you come back. There is nothing more precious on this earth you can take from me. Nothing!"

As soon as the word had left his mouth he regretted it. He knew that was a lie. They knew that was a lie. The black shapes hovered in the air and morphed their forms. Slightly increasing here and decreasing there, one became tall and robust, another slighter but shorter in height. The third changed gently, curves of a feminine nature clung to a stature of mid height. Somehow familiar.

Neil's anger had not subsided but the shock of the shape shifting and his realisation of the truth dampened the edge to his fervour.

Sweat ran down his back, soaking his pyjama top. It trickled from his hairline to his jaw; tickling, irritating fingers. He was dying to swipe at it, wipe away the physical evidence of his fear. They mustn't know. He had to keep her safe. That's what Maria had done it all for. He knew it. She'd never given him the choice. Once again, he was overcome by the disbelief that her sacrifice could be in vain. Barely supporting himself upright through his anger, he yelled out at the shadows again.

"How dare you come here! How dare you ask for more! You can't have her. Do you understand me? I won't let you. You won't have her." They had killed Maria, his father had escaped them through his own cancerous death, now they were here for him. Why wasn't it enough? Sarah should have been free, they lied to him. It was all a lie. His fists clenched and his blood raged in his veins. His voice screeched from his constricted throat.
"You lied to me! Devils of hell. You lied. We owe you nothing."

From outside the room, in what seemed to Neil to be another dimension, the voices of the night staff could be heard faintly on the other side of the door. The frantic drumming of feet up and down the staircase nothing but a distant beat.

The shapes had relapsed into their former bulks. The stench of putrid flesh reeked through the room. Three harmonies of voices, rose and rose, non-stop.

Neil's left knee gave way. He scrabbled at the doorway, desperate to keep his grip. To stand his ground. He wasn't going to give in easily. They would have to fight him. This time when he opened his mouth, his voice had lost its power but his strength gathered fully behind it.

"I know what you want. And I've got some bad news for you, you fuckers. I'm not going to let you get anywhere near her. How about that then? You lying, deceitful devils. You want to come for someone, then you try and come for me. Do you hear me, you sick fuckers?"

Neil's will to fight gradually faded. The shapes weaned it away from him, he was certain of it.

From beyond the room, in that other world, the door rattled and banged from the other side. A film clip on constant replay behind the solid shadows.

Neil forced his knee back into line, making his aching muscles submit to his command with sheer willpower.

The shapes moved. They slithered closer. The stench, the voices, the mass.

Neil blinked away dripping sweat from his forehead. Waves of fatigue shivered throughout his body. This time, he talked quietly. Venom lay beneath his words. He spat them out.
"She's not for you. I know you want her. You've always wanted her. But that's just it you see -"

Neil was suddenly racked by nervous laughter. His chest heaving in fits he had no way to stop. Once it began to subside, an unbelievable clarity of fresh thoughts instilled within his mind.
"I'm not afraid of you. I know what you are, and you can't have her. The longer I keep you here with me, the less strength you'll have for her. They're not going to let her go either. The boys aren't going to give in. I know!"

Dark energy pulled at Neil Laker's tired body. It teased at first, tugging like a wind to ease him free from his grip on the doorway.

Then the voices ceased. The rattling of the hall door stopped. The very air, faltered. Everything was dead. Still, stagnant and full of death.

Neil took a deep breath. Something bad was about to happen. This was the calm before the storm. He'd never been more certain of anything in his life. This was it. His knuckles turned white as he begged every sinew and ligament of his body to stay the course. The longer he held on, the longer Sarah would have to escape. They were coming for her, the time to collect had arrived.

A wisp of air, like a lover's kiss blown on a breeze, swept past Neil's cheek. Then a monumental roar of a cyclone engulfed the entire room, picking up furniture and twirling it like children's toys. Screeches of tormented souls screamed in a whirlwind around Neil, ripping at his clothes and hair. Neil clung to the frame, forcing his head down against the storm. He had to hang on.

The shadows absorbed the room. They blocked the light from the window. The thick blackness writhed, alive with fury. The armchair whisked up within a twist of air and slammed into Neil's body.

He screamed out in pain, his ribs crushed by the blow. Never loosening his grip, he grimaced and braced for more. Hold on, hold on!

Books and photo frames launched as missiles hit his scalp, drawing deep cuts and blood. The heavy bed flipped upside down, crashing to the floor, inches from his feet. A solid block of furniture came hurtling towards him and he knew this was it. He wouldn't survive this. Sarah would have to do this by herself. In the final moments, before the chest of drawers threw Neil's head back to break his neck, he wondered if she knew how much she meant to him. If she would ever know how much he loved his little girl. How proud he was of her strength, her beauty, her spirit. His one and only daughter. Sarah Laker.