HORROR SHORTS
BY
DREW BROWN
Published by Apricot Alliance at Smashwords.
Copyright 2011 Drew Brown
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Version 1.2 02/04/2011
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# # # #
Table of Contents
The Grave-Robbing Doctor Hawthorne and the Lady in the Black Veil
INTRODUCTION
Welcome to Horror Shorts, a collection of my short stories. I could, perhaps, have spent more time coming up with a name, something snazzy or catchy, maybe even a little menacing, but to me a spade is simply a spade. Why call it something else?
I did think long and hard about whether to write an introduction to this collection, after all Hollywood directors don’t hang around outside movie theatres telling you about their film as you wait in line with your ticket (at least, they don’t around here - but maybe they do in Hollywood). In the end, I decided that a brief one would be fine. Certainly not one where I yap on about all six stories, explaining where and when they were written, or where the idea first came from. I don’t pretend that these stories are some kind of high-art, to be discussed and analysed, or probed for some kind of deeper meaning. They’re simply stories, entertainment. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Some of them have been gathering dust in my desk drawer for too long, trapped in limbo between taking form and being discovered. They were stuck in a no man’s land between author and reader, and now this is ready I’m glad to have them out in the open. It is a collection of tales about toads, robots, killers and ghosts, and each one is special to me in their own way.
There is a small sample of my novel LAST HOPE contained at the end of this book, but you should feel under no obligation to read it. After your check-up with the good Doctor Hawthorne, you can turn off the light and call it a night. If, however, you have enjoyed this taster of my work, perhaps you’d consider taking a look at it.
Or not, the choice is yours.
So, without further ado, I shall move aside and let you approach the main event. My enjoyment with them is now at an end, but it is my sincere hope that yours is yet to come.
Drew Brown - January 2011
# # # #
TOAD-LICKERS
Nigel told himself there was no reason to be scared.
It was, after all, only a toad.
But it had already eaten Kurt.
With a trembling hand, he rummaged through the ruffled folds of his sleeping bag, searching for the flashlight. Outside the tent, he thought he heard something move. He thought he heard a disturbance in the undergrowth.
“Kurt. Is that you, dude?”
No reply came.
Nigel continued his search for the battery-powered torch. What he’d seen couldn’t be real. There was no way. Something as dangerous as that would definitely have been in the survival guide they’d purchased. If not, if it was a glaring omission, then Nigel wanted a refund. And some compensation wouldn’t go amiss.
It had all been Kurt’s idea.
Free drugs. That’s what he’d said. Free, natural, mind-blowing drugs.
But nothing’s that simple.
* * *
Kurt stepped out into the shade of the trees and then shut the door to his 1973 Oldsmobile Delta Royale. He had steered the car off the dirt-track road and parked it in a small clearing. He took a map from his denim shirt’s breast pocket, unfolded it, and then studied the unfamiliar contours. “It’s this way,” he said, pointing along a narrow pathway of sandy ground.
“Are you sure?”
“Totally.”
“Coz you said that before. An hour ago,” Nigel said as he popped the trunk of the pale yellow Oldsmobile. The car belonged to Kurt’s dad and the two friends had borrowed it for the weekend. Which, with all the driving and the wrong turns, was nearly halfway over. Nigel hauled out the two backpacks and then slammed shut the trunk. “And I’m still not stoned.”
“You will be soon, man,” Kurt said with a smile. He ran his hand through his lank, shoulder-length brown hair and then took his pack from Nigel. “You fancy a joint now?”
“You know I do, dude.”
With their packs over their shoulders, the two men started down the sandy pathway, ambling along the shaded route. Bright sunshine filtered down through the trees, casting irregularly shaped patterns on the ground.
Carefully, Kurt hand-rolled his cigarette, adding cannabis to the tobacco from a small, clear plastic bag. He tightened the paper, lit the end with a green disposable lighter and then took a long, slow pull on the joint. He handed his work to Nigel.
“Thanks, man.”
Kurt reached behind him and took a pocket-sized book from his backpack. Survival in the Colorado Wildernesses. It had cost them eight dollars. He thumbed through it to a section where the pages were creased and dog-eared. Nigel handed him the joint and he took another drag. “Toad-licking was massive in the Sixties. The hippies used to do it. Although, they didn’t really lick the toads: that’s pretty dangerous.”
Nigel shook his head. His friend was six months older than him, but five inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter. They had known each other throughout their schooling and had now elected to attend the same local college, rather than cross the country in the quest for something better.
Not that Kurt took any notice of his education. Nigel knew that his friend was smarter than he was, it came across in everything they did together, but his grades were always lower. Kurt just didn’t pay any attention in class. He thought about other stuff, and not just the girls and parties that Nigel liked to daydream about, but weird stuff, like ways to make hallucinogenic drugs from household products, or where to find rare species of psychoactive toads.
Even so, Kurt could do stupid things and Nigel was confused at his previous comment. “But you said we were gonna come toad-licking. You said we’d get high.”
“They, like, call it toad-licking to make it sound nicer. But that’s not what you do. I’m sorry man, I should’ve said earlier, but I thought you might bail. We gotta eat the toads.”
“I ain’t eating a toad.”
“Not the whole thing, that’d be gross. Just the skin.”
“And that’s not gross, because?”
“The Indians used to do it. Man, it’s gonna be totally awesome.”
Nigel trudged along the path for a while in silence, gently kicking up the sand with his trainers. He didn’t like the idea of eating toad skin. Taking the last drag of the joint, he dropped the butt to the floor and extinguished the remaining paper with the heel of his trainer.
Kurt carried on a few paces and reached the brow of a slight incline. Looking down beyond it, he smiled. “We found it.”
Nigel hurried to catch up with his friend.
The path dropped away for a hundred yards until it reached the bank of a dark, still pool of water. Around it were the fallen trunks of old trees, and the canopy above was thick and brooding.
“This is definitely the place,” Kurt said happily. “Let’s set up camp and start hunting for toads. We’ll be too high to pitch the tent later, I just know we will.”
* * *
Hunting for toads was more difficult than either one imagined.
They had erected their two tents side-by-side, ten yards from the water’s edge, and had built a small campfire in between. The wood smouldered and gave the area an aroma of smoke that almost hid the repugnant, stagnant smell of the placid water.
Nigel stood from where he was crouched by the bank of the pool and walked back to the campfire. He sat down beside it, stretched his legs and rolled down the sleeves of his green jumper. His hands smelt terrible and were stained with mud from searching through the undergrowth. He picked at a black lump that had lodged beneath a fingernail. “Why are we here again?”
Beside the water, Kurt rolled a three-foot long hollow log further up the bank. Insects swarmed away once their damp home was disturbed, fleeing in all directions. Centipedes, grubs, beetles and ants scattered from the daylight, but there was no sign of a toad. Shrugging his shoulders with disappointment, Kurt returned to the campfire and sat down next to his friend. He stretched over and took the guidebook from his tent. “I can’t believe we can’t find one. This thing said there were hundreds.”
“You should definitely get our money back. It’s been, like, three hours since we started searching this pond.”
“Joint?”
“Yeah.”
Nigel lay back and used a red jacket he wasn’t wearing as a pillow. He looked up through the canopy of branches and leaves at the sky above. The blue was darkening and the bright light of day was fading fast. The air was beginning to take on a chill. “Do you wanna sleep in the car tonight? We can close the doors and smoke the rest of our stash. There doesn’t seem much point being out here.”
“Maybe toads are, like, nocturnal,” Kurt pondered without looking up from the cigarette he was rolling.
“But how will we see them? Or catch them?”
“All right. We’ll go back. Do you want one each?”
“Sure.”
Kurt finished preparing the first joint and then handed it to his friend.
Nigel slipped a lighter from his pocket and then sparked up. He remained lying down and closed his eyes. The warmth from the dying fire was pleasant on the right-hand side of his face, and the gentle rustle of leaves high above was soothing. He felt the drug’s usual sensation of bliss wash over him. After a while, he heard the click of Kurt’s lighter.
“I can’t believe we drove all this way and can’t find a stupid toad,” Nigel said, stifling a laugh. “Do you think it’s the stupidest thing we’ve ever done?”
Kurt didn’t answer.
“Come on, dude. Don’t take it personally. I think it’s funny.”
There was still no reply.
Nigel turned his head to his side and opened his eyes.
Kurt had his index finger held vertically across his lips and was staring down towards the water. The joint in his other hand hung between two fingers. It had almost extinguished itself.
Following his friend’s eyes, Nigel looked to the motionless pond.
A toad sat twelve inches from the dark water, surrounded by open mud. Its body was the size of a fist and its warty, brown skin blended well with the damp ground. In front of two bulbous lumps on the back of its head, the small toad’s eyes flickered around.
Slowly, Kurt turned the pages of his guidebook. He looked down at a photograph that he had circled. “That’s the one,” he whispered and then he stirred from his sitting position. He pulled his long hair back from out of his eyes, secured his joint between his lips, and took several paces towards the toad. The little creature made a small jump, turning its body around so that it faced the water. The toad’s movement caused Kurt to stop, but once it had its back to him, he crept forwards again until he was only three yards away. He crouched down, held his arms out ahead of him and then dived forwards.
Lying by the fire, Nigel couldn’t see what happened; Kurt’s prone body obscured his view. But a noise that sounded like a scream broke the quiet of their surroundings. Kurt rolled onto his back and sat up. He had the toad held in his hands. He smiled happily, although the joint was gone from his mouth.
“I got it,” he exclaimed.
The toad was still screaming, its small chest puffing up and its legs kicking outside the cup of Kurt’s palms.
“Well done, dude,” Nigel called back.
Kurt carried the toad back to the campfire and then sat down. “There’s a pot in my rucksack, go and get it.”
Nigel cast the butt of his joint onto the fire and then hurried to Kurt’s tent. He opened the rucksack and fumbled through the contents. “So, like, how do we kill it?”
Kurt didn’t answer until Nigel had returned from his tent brandishing a plastic ice-cream tub. Several holes had already been punched in the lid. “I was only messing with you, man. We’re keeping this little fella.”
“Keeping it?”
“Yeah, we can, like, milk the bufotoxins out once a month.”
“Milk it?”
“Like a cow, except with drugs. How awesome is this? Free drugs forever, man. I think I’m gonna call him Beatnik.”
Beatnik still screamed and struggled, but Kurt held him tight. “Open up my tobacco pouch and put it on the ground for me.”
Nigel did as he was told and then sat back down. The growing darkness and cold were forgotten as he watched Kurt change the way he held Beatnik. “What are you doing?”
Kurt secured Beatnik around his body with one hand. The toad’s arms and legs flailed and his soft underbelly was exposed. Kurt positioned him so that the bulbous lumps on the back of his head were above the tobacco pouch and then, with the index finger of his free hand, he started to stroke Beatnik under his chin. “The bufotoxins are in the venom, and doing this will get it out.”
Drips of poison ejected from the glands behind the toad’s head and dripped down onto the tobacco.
“It’s working,” Nigel said.
Kurt kept going until the fluid stopped leaking out and then he held Beatnik up to his face. “You’re totally awesome, little dude. Now, go in your new home.”
Nigel watched as Kurt peeled back the lid from the ice-cream tub and placed Beatnik inside. He pushed the seal back on tightly. “We’ll need some leaves and insects for him later. It’ll take a month to replenish his venom.”
“What do we do now?” Nigel asked.
Kurt isolated the damp tobacco using his finger and then sat back. “We gotta wait until this stuff is dry before we can smoke it, but, like, it shouldn’t take long. Fancy another joint?”
Nigel laughed. “Oh yeah.”
* * *
As Nigel lay there, half in and out of his tent, looking up at the starry sky through a gap in the canopy, he found it difficult to accurately judge the effects of the bufotoxins. Not only had they smoked all of the toad’s venomous output, but they had also finished the rest of Kurt’s more traditional fare.
All Nigel knew for sure was that he was certainly high.
And it felt great.
He didn’t notice the cold.
He didn’t mind the dark or the insects that buzzed around the campfire and crawled along the ground beside him.
He was happy. “Man this feels good.”
“You got that right,” Kurt replied. His voice was distant and relaxed. “What’s wrong, Beatnik. Eat your grubs.”
Inside the ice-cream tub, the toad hopped and bounced about, ignoring the insects Kurt had gathered for him. There were also leaves, mud and twigs to hide amongst. Nevertheless, Beatnik appeared increasingly agitated.
“He is one cool toad,” Nigel said, and then he closed his eyes. His head felt like it was floating, circling the campfire. He laughed a little.
“Did you hear that?”
Nigel opened his eyes. “Hear what?”
“By the water.”
“Nope,” Nigel replied with a shake of his head. The sensation felt funny and he laughed again.
Kurt took a flashlight from his tent and switched it on. Sitting where he was, he shone the beam across the section of the bank nearest them, scanning from left to right. There was nothing to be seen, the water was still and the muddy bank was empty.
“You’re hearing things, dude.”
Fumbling for the switch to turn off the torch, Kurt caught sight of a disturbance on the water’s surface. It had started much further out, beyond the light of the torch, and the ripples flowed after one another towards the bank. “There’s something there, man.”
Reluctantly, Nigel sat up and turned around so that he was facing the water. He watched as Kurt got to his feet and walked down to the pond’s edge, shining the light out across the water.
At first, all that could be seen were the approaching ripples, but then, ten yards out, the light captured something else. Kurt stopped, peering at the object that protruded through the surface of the water.
Back in his tent, Nigel thought that the object looked a little like a log, rotten and hollow. To the right, about five feet away, was another, similarly shaped object.
Beatnik started to hop with more vigour and caused the ice-cream tub to topple over.
The lid stayed on.
More ripples spread from the two objects, which started to rise out of the water.
Nigel gasped.
The objects became clear when they blinked.
They were eyes.
“Oh, man. What is that?” Kurt said. He started to back away from the shallow bank.
Nigel watched with an open mouth as the yellow and black eyes emerged fully, only to be followed by a connecting bridge of brown skin. Water cascaded down from the creature as it rose up, splashing into the pool around it.
Even though it had eyes bigger than Nigel’s own head, and a mouth that was six-foot wide, there was no mistaking the identity of the monster that rose from the pond.
It was a toad.
For the briefest of moments, Nigel thought he saw the closed lips of the toad start to open; but by then it was already too late.
The tongue was too quick.
The long, pink feeler shot out of the toad’s mouth, skimming above the water and up the bank to latch onto Kurt’s leg. In a flash, he was on his back and being dragged leg-first across the mud. He let go of the torch and it fell to the ground, still alight, illuminating his journey towards the gargantuan toad.
Kurt screamed in terror; his arms were behind his head and his hands clawed for purchase on the ground as he fought to keep himself from going into the water.
It was no use; his body continued down the bank, plunging into the stinking, putrid pool. His scream was cut short when his head dipped below the surface.
The tongue continued to reel him in.
Panic-struck, Nigel shuffled back into his tent and fumbled for the zip. Once the opening was closed, he placed his head in his hands and started to cry.
He couldn’t believe what he’d seen.
The toad was enormous.
Kurt was gone.
Nigel sat there for a while, trying to calm himself. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his hands trembling with fear.
It couldn’t be true.
It couldn’t be real.
He knew there was a torch in his tent and he searched the folded sleeping bag for it. He had to stay calm. It must be the drugs, he told himself. That’s all it is.
Kurt’s out there. He’s alive. This is a dream, a hallucination.
A noise outside in the undergrowth disturbed Nigel’s thoughts.
“Kurt. Is that you, dude?”
There was no reply.
I’ll wake up soon.
Beyond the flimsy walls of the tent, Nigel could hear the noisy silence of the woodland. Leaves moved in the trees and insects hummed with life. His breathing seemed to echo around the stuffy, domed interior. He reached forwards and took hold of the zip, inching it down to reveal the cool air and darkness outside.
Kurt’s flashlight still shone out over the water.
The toad was real.
Impossibly large, the creature had come ashore. The bulk of its body was as wide as the Delta Royale was long. Nigel thought of the car, thought of running to the Oldsmobile, but he knew that he was trapped.
The toad was sitting on the bank and had its wild black and yellow eyes focused on the tent.
Hanging from the corner of the toad’s mouth was the denim shirtsleeve of Kurt’s arm. At its end, lifeless and still, was his blood-covered hand.
As Nigel watched, the toad’s mouth changed shape slightly. Its middle seemed to flatten off and its ends curved up. The toad seemed to smile.
Nigel pulled the zip back up to the top.
It must be the drugs. They’ll wear off soon.
I can wait.
* * *
Park Ranger Hank Johnson pulled his 2003 Dodge Ram truck off the bumpy road and parked behind the Oldsmobile Delta Royale. The pale yellow exterior was covered with grime. He read the license plate and checked it against the number he had written on a notepad.
The license checked out.
He’d found the two missing kids.
Johnson climbed down from his Dodge and approached the old car.
The inside was empty.
He looked around the area; there was nowhere to go except for a narrow pathway that led into the woods. “Hello,” he called out.
His voice echoed back to him.
Johnson started down the path. He strolled along the sandy trail, looking around at his environment. Twenty-five years working in the sprawling park had given him a great respect for nature, and he liked to observe it whenever he could. Searching for the two missing boys gave him a good excuse.
The sandy path started to drop away; down at the edge of a pool of water was a campsite.
“Hello,” Johnson called out again. He knew his voice was loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.
He continued to the campsite. There were two tents. One with its flap wide open and the other sealed off. He paused by the remains of an old campfire. The ash had long since cooled.
He approached the closed tent.
There was a buzzing noise from inside it, the sound of flies. When he got nearer, a foul smell forced him to cup his mouth and nose with his hand. The smell overcame the faint scent of his leather gloves.
“Is someone in there?” Johnson asked as he took hold of the zip between his thumb and finger. He pulled it down slowly.
Sickened, he recoiled from what was inside, fighting down the urge to vomit. A cloud of flies erupted out as he backed away.
There was a body.
The face was gaunt, with yellow, dry skin, the eyes were missing, and there had been flies going in and out of the mouth, nose and ears. The smell was unbearable. Sitting upright, with crossed legs, the fully dressed corpse was facing the tent’s opening.
Far enough away to get some clean air, Johnson took a deep breath. The two boys had been missing for nearly two weeks. He wondered where the other one could be. Johnson approached the other tent and peered inside. There was a rucksack and a sleeping bag, which implied that the other occupant was still around.
Or had left in a hurry.
Johnson scooped down and picked up an old ice-cream tub. There were some dried up leaves and a couple of sticks inside it.
And a toad’s dead body.
Carrying the tub, Johnson walked over to the campfire. On the edge, just inside the ring of stones, was the butt-end of a hand-rolled cigarette.
Johnson started to form a mental picture of what could have happened. A couple of stoners, filled with rumours and misconceptions, had headed into the woods to lick toads. It happened from time to time, kids hear stories and decide to try them out. Maybe one had got poisoned from the toad, or, more likely, overdosed on some other drug they’d brought along for the occasion. Even the hard stuff was cheap now, cheap enough for a couple of college kids to get hold of. After that, scared, alone and probably high, the dead one’s companion had fled.
Johnson was sure the other kid would turn up somewhere.
Knowing it was time to go back to the Dodge and signal dispatches of his discovery, Johnson put down the ice-cream tub. A strange imprint in the moist ground caught his eye. It was like the footprint of a bird, with three toes at the front and a longer one going back.
But there was no way that it could be what it resembled. Even though a portion of the imprint disappeared beneath the surface of the water, what he could see was more than six-foot long and four-foot wide.
He looked further up the bank to his right.
There was a similar imprint.
Puzzled, Hank Johnson rubbed his glove against the faint, greying stubble on his chin.
There was a noise in the undergrowth behind him, but although he started to turn around, he never saw the flash of pink that shot out to stick to his back.
The tongue dragged him, screaming, from his feet.
# # # #
THE WASHROOM
Tucked away at one end of the Children’s Ward, on the third floor of Bloomington College Hospital, was a ladies washroom that did not feature on any of the maps.
The caretaker had deliberately omitted it.
Twice, he had been the first to see. The first to arrive. But there had been nothing he could do to help.
When it was all over, he had unscrewed the brass sign and left the door blank.
The children, however, already knew where it was, although very few chose to use it. Most preferred the longer trip to the washroom on the floor below. In the dark, at night, the young residents would tell stories about what lurked behind the sprung-loaded door. They would whisper the names of those who had died.
They told off the terrors within.
One boy, Harry Campbell, had dared to use the washroom. He went in on the night before he was due to be discharged. Several other children waited in the corridor, dressed in green gowns or home-brought pyjamas, huddled together in nervous anticipation.
When Harry crept back out, a dark stain of fresh urine on the front of his blue bottoms, the other children were disappointed to find that he had little to say. He mentioned the white tiles behind the four sinks, the long mirror and the line of cubicles with their closed doors. He said that the fluorescent-tube lights really did flicker and that the room was smaller than he’d imagined.
But he would say nothing more about what he’d seen, except that he wished that he’d refused the dare. Ushered by a nurse, who arrived in the elevator and admonished the children for being out of their beds, the small group returned to their rooms, sure that they would learn more in the morning.
Harry Campbell cried beneath his bed covers until dawn and went home without so much as a goodbye.
After that, even fewer people ventured into the 3rd Floor Ladies Washroom. Most knew the stories and had heard the macabre rhyme that went with them.
But sometimes, sometimes people were forced to venture inside.
* * *
Both of the fluorescent-tube lights flickered to their own beat.
The starter-motors hummed much louder than was usual.
The scalpel gleamed.
Tara gripped the rim of the hand-basin so tight that her knuckles were as white as the porcelain she clung to. Salty tears lined her face, having washed clear a path through her make-up. The grey drops, coloured with a mixture of eyeliner and foundation, splashed into the basin.
At the bottom, lying across the open plughole, was the scalpel.
Tara didn’t know why she’d taken it. Stealing the blade had been an impulse. But there it was, sparkling in the unsteady light.
Tara cried.
The emotion caught in her chest and stifled her breathing. She gasped for air between each violent sob. Not that breathing mattered to her now. Her battle for air was instinctive; a reflex buried deep beneath her conscious thoughts.
All of these concerned her son.
Jamie.
Tara raised her gaze from the scalpel to the mirror. Behind her reflection was the image of the washroom. It had clinical white walls, a tiled floor and cream cubicles, but she did not see any of these things. It was as if her eyes failed to register her surroundings and instead she replayed memories in her mind, snippets of the past that flashed by like old video clips.
She saw Jamie running across the park, his mop of blond hair bouncing around his face. Then he was sat at the dinner table, smiling as he ate his food with his red plastic spoon. She remembered the feeling of his arms around her neck, while his sleeping head rested on her shoulder.
Her little boy.
Her brave little boy.
Then she saw something else.
A clearer image. The colours were fresher in her head, the sounds and smells more recent. Tara closed her eyes, hoping to dispel the memory.
But it had already taken hold.
She saw Jamie on the bed, his small body pierced with tubes and drips. His chest rose and fell, but not by much. The beeps of the heart-rate monitor became further and further apart.
She screamed at the doctors and nurses; begged them to do more.
The medical staff offered sincere apologies: there was nothing they could do.
Tara cursed and spat at them as she watched her little boy slip away.
He died in her arms.
Why hadn’t they saved him?
Why had they let him die?
She hated the staff at the hospital, hated them all.
With the memory at its conclusion, she looked down at the scalpel.
Why had she taken it? She didn’t remember.
She sunk down to the cold floor and crawled into the corner of the room. With her back to the wall she wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging her legs tight to her chest. She cried into the soft denim. The clothes were tainted by the chemical-cleaner smell of the hospital.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d left. The window showed a world outside that was bereft of meaning. To her, the sky was neither night nor day, sunny nor dark.
All she had were her memories, the recollections of a life now gone.
Tara cried.
A waft of warm air touched her exposed skin and she raised her head in time to see the nearest of the four cubicle doors close. Through the watery haze of her eyes she watched the little indicator switch from green to red, showing that the door had been locked.
Someone else was in the washroom.
Tara tried to breathe more easily, tried to calm herself enough to go unnoticed.
She didn’t want someone to ask if she was okay.
What would someone think if they saw the scalpel? Spurred by the question, she climbed to her feet. Her mirror image was there to greet her. It was no worse and no better than what she expected to see. She was what she was.
A mother without a child.
She rubbed her tear-stained face with the sleeve of her jumper. The make-up smeared, clumping on the green material. It was no use; she knew she could not make herself look presentable enough to avoid attention. The scalpel blade chinked on the porcelain basin as Tara snatched it up, coiling her palm and fingers around the metal handle.
Slipping across the floor, Tara aimed for the furthest of the free cubicles. She pushed the door shut as soon as she was inside and then sat down on the lowered lid of the toilet.
The smell of disinfectant filled her nostrils.
In black marker pen, someone had sprawled on the back of the door: Harry was ’ere. There ain’t no ghost. There ain’t no–
The writing trailed off to become a long black line.
Tara listened to the sounds of the washroom. She wanted to hear the flush from the other occupied cubicle and the sound of the lock disengaging. Most of all, Tara wanted to be alone again. She didn’t want someone else around.
Beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights, and her own ragged breathing, Tara caught the sound of a soft voice. It was the voice of a female, quiet and gentle.
“This bloomin’ hospital, is bloomin’ great.
“They kill your loved ones when they operate.
“Don’t go to sleep, or shut your eyes.
“Coz every time you do, someone dies.”
The voice maintained the simple tune and repeated the words over a second time.
Tara’s hand tightened around the scalpel. Who would sing such a thing? The lyrics seemed to mock her plight. “Be quiet,” she shouted.
The voice stumbled to a halt, but after a few seconds it began the song from the beginning.
“This bloomin’ hospital, is bloomin’ great.”
“Stop singing,” Tara shouted. She kicked the closed door in front of her, which shook the cubicles. “Stop singing now, bitch.”
“They kill your loved ones when they operate.”
Tara jumped to her feet and opened the door. There were more tears streaming down her face, blurring her vision. Her grief had transformed into anger and the emotion focused on the first of the four cubicles.
Her tormentor was still inside.
The door remained closed.
The little indicator still showed red.
“This bloomin’ hospital, is bloomin’ great,
“They kill your loved–”
Tara beat her closed fists and forearms against the cubicle door. It vibrated with the blows, rattling in its housing. “Stop it, bitch,” Tara cursed. “Come out here now.”
Above her head, the fluorescent strips flickered with greater intensity.
In response, the singing grew louder.
“Don’t go to sleep, or shut your eyes.”
“Damn it, bitch. Stop!”
“Coz every time you do, someone dies.”
Tara stepped back and launched a kick at the door. As her body twisted, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Even she thought the image was terrifying. Her face was a mask of smudged colours and her eyes were small and bloodshot. Her hair was matted and strands of it clung to her wet cheeks.
The scalpel blade shone in her balled fist.
The lock gave way beneath the sole of her shoe and the door flung inward. It struck the cubical wall and started to bounce back.
Tara was already inside.
A young girl rose wide-eyed from the toilet. She had a folded piece of toilet paper in one hand and was pulling her black dress down with the other.
She gaped at Tara’s entrance.
The little girl’s blonde hair was cut in a bob that curled up at the sides of her head. There were jaunty silver pins thrust through the hair to keep it in place, along with a red and black band that was adorned with long loops of pearls. White foundation covered her face and neck, contrasting the bright red lipstick around her mouth. Large gold earrings hung from her lobes.
“Why are you singing that?” Tara said. Her rage had left her breathless.
The little girl dropped the toilet paper to the floor and locked eyes with Tara. She rocked back and forth uncomfortably on shiny black high-healed shoes. She looked as though she had walked straight out of the 1920’s.
“Why are you singing?”
“This bloomin’ hospital, is bloomin’ great.”
“Stop it now!” Tara shouted. She felt a jolt of anger twang through her body. With her left hand, the one without the scalpel, she swung a slap at the small child.
Her pale hand went right through the girl’s face.
Tara felt a tingling in her fingers where the contact should have been. It was like a small electric shock. The girl’s face seemed to shimmer.
Tara stumbled back out of the cubicle. “What are you?”
The little girl followed, her high heels clipping on the tiled floor and a long pearl necklace jangling around her neck. Now that she was moving, the air of transparency about her was easier to see. The faintest outline of the toilet and its cistern could be seen through her slight form. Her singing had morphed into more of a chant and she sped through the words.
“They kill your loved ones when they operate.
“Don’t go to sleep, or shut your eyes.”
Tara staggered back, recoiling from the little girl. The rhythm of the song filled her head. She slashed with the scalpel as she retreated, slicing it from side to side. “What are you, a ghost?” she screamed.
As the little girl lurched forwards, her hair slipped away to land at her feet. Her head was bald beneath the wig.
She kept chanting.
Her skin looked thin, weak and flaky, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.
Tara could hear herself screaming.
The hairless little girl stopped walking.
“This bloomin’ hospital, is bloomin’ great,
“They kill your loved ones when they operate.”
Tara’s back bumped against the door. It only opened inwards. She fell to her knees. “Help me!” she cried. “Somebody help me.”
The little girl watched. Her chanting was quieter now, but she held the rhythm.
“Don’t go to sleep, or shut your eyes.
“Coz every time you do, someone dies!”
Tara raised her left arm, turned her hand so that her palm faced upward and then pulled back her sweatshirt sleeve. She looked at her wrist.
She brought the shining blade of the scalpel towards it.
“No,” she whispered. She wanted to stop but couldn’t. The motion of her hands continued.
The cold steel touched her skin.
Her breathing was shallow.
She cut from left to right and her skin and flesh parted around the blade.
Blood welled up from the wound.
“Please, no.”
She sliced her wrist with the scalpel again, this time harder, cutting down to the bone. The severed tendons left her hand limp.
“Please help me,” Tara said. “I need help.”
Blood poured from the injuries to flow down the grout lines like rivers, criss-crossing the washroom. The bald-headed girl watched Tara, standing over her as she bled.
The scalpel clattered to the floor amid a pool of blood. The memories came back with a rush. Tara’s vision was greying out, fading to black. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Why didn’t they save him? Children shouldn’t die. The bastards let him die. I’m sorry. I miss my boy, I miss my Jamie.”
A final scream rang out in the washroom.
* * *
“Is that gum, young man? Spit it in my hand.”
Kirsty Laymon received the chewing gum in her palm then smiled. “That’s better. Now, catch up with the others.”
“Yes, Nurse Laymon.”
Kirsty stood up and watched as the nine-year-old ran down the corridor. The play was going to be a good one this month. The children always enjoyed the afternoon, regardless of whether they were healthy enough to be involved, or so poorly that they were confined to the audience.
The sound of a scream echoed down the corridor.
Kirsty spun around.
The stairwell to the right appeared empty. The elevator doors were closed. That left the two washrooms.
The scream came again.
Kirsty thought she had pinpointed the source.
She pulled open the door to the ladies washroom.
The fluorescent light was steady.
Standing in the centre of the floor was Rebecca Morris, one of the ward’s cancer patients. Her blonde wig was on the ground beside her, crumpled in a heap. There were tears on her cheeks.
“What’s the matter, Becky?”
“I saw the ghost, Nurse Laymon.”
Kirsty felt a chill run across her skin. She’d seen the police photographs.
A woman had killed herself in the washroom. Her dead body had been found slumped against the door. A few months after that, a doctor had slit her own throat in one of the cubicles. “There’s no ghost, Becky,” the nurse said. She tossed the piece of chewing gum into the waist bin and then offered her hand.
The sprung-loaded door closed behind her.
“Come on, the play’s about to start. The other children can’t start Bugsy Malone without Tallulah.”
“I did see her,” Rebecca said. She bent down to pick up her wig. “I sung the song and she went away. She said she still misses her son. She doesn’t like hospital people.”
The two fluorescent tubes went out and Rebecca Morris gasped with fright.
Nurse Laymon’s eyes were drawn to the mirror. In the dim light from the window, she saw a shadow-like reflection behind her. She thought she heard a whisper.
“Why did my boy have to die?”
The scalpel touched her neck.
“Sing the song,” Rebecca cried out.
It was already too late.
# # # #
CROWNFORD’S SECRET
Very few people in the village of Crownford had bothered to use their cars to attend the Neighbourhood Watch meeting at the local hall, despite the inclement weather. Wind swept across the hill, howling down the chimneys and bringing with it rain that lashed against the sash windows.
By the time the doors opened and the thirty-five gathered villagers began to leave, huddled inside overcoats and protected by flat-caps or umbrellas, there were deep puddles on the old road. Water streamed along the gutters, carrying a flotilla of fallen leaves from the surrounding woodland.
If any of the attendees were uncomfortable with the meeting’s decision, a suggestion put forward by the newest resident, the distinguished geneticist, Albert von Mainz, none of them showed it. The German immigrant and his English wife had only lived in the village for twenty-one years, a short time by local standards, where houses often belonged to the same family for several generations, but there was no dissent, no questions beside those that concerned the credibility of the scientist’s proposal.
After these had been addressed, validated by the images inside von Mainz’s red photograph album, the decision was unanimous.
After all, their world was changing. The gutter-folk of civilisation were spreading from the nearby towns and cities, bringing with them an epidemic of crime and burglaries that now plagued the residents of Crownford.
To preserve their way of life, something had to be done.
And now they knew what.
* * *
WHAT IS CROWNFORD’S SECRET?
The headline captured Jason Shepherd’s imagination. The newspaper article went on to highlight the fact that the village of Crownford had not suffered a single reported crime for more than two years.
There was no doubt it was a strange statistic.
Crime was on the up elsewhere in the county. The records showed it rising year on year. Almost every type of criminal activity was above the national average, especially the number of missing persons. Other villages in the local area were riddled with burglaries, so much so that some of the more affluent ones had even invested in extra security, employing firms to keep guard at night.
But not Crownford.
Its residents were forced to take no such measures. The journalist had ended the article without an answer to his opening question, but Shepherd had an idea.
Luck.
He had robbed many places, thieving was his work, but he had never stolen from Crownford. Indeed, he had hardly known of its existence, except for reference to it on a scattering of road signs.
That would change, and the newspaper article had given him the idea. After all, with so long since the village had suffered a crime, they would probably be complacent. They would not expect a one-man crime-wave to take place on a single night.
And that is what Jason Shepherd intended to be.
* * *
There was no one about.
The wind slipped through the nearby trees and bushes, rustling the leaves, but there was no other noise beside the soft tap of his footsteps. Happy that the small courtyard was empty, Shepherd approached the Land Rover, crossing the damp cobblestones. A line of second-floor windows overlooked him, but all of the lights were switched off.
Shepherd reached the car and tried the handle.
It wasn’t even locked.
Opening the front-passenger door, he slid up onto the seat and rummaged through the glove box and door pockets. He ignored some loose change in the ashtray, as it would jangle in his pockets. In the glove box he found an MP-3 player and a switched-off mobile phone, which he took and stashed in his small rucksack, adding to the bounty he’d already plundered.
He still wanted more.
Shepherd dropped from the Land Rover and quietly closed the door. He glanced around the courtyard again, checking that he was still alone. His eyes went to a stone wall covered in creeping ivy. There was a black-painted iron gate in its centre.
The old hinges squeaked as Shepherd eased the gate open enough to pass through. Staying in the shadow of the wall, he knelt down and scanned the area. Before him was a long path, lined on either side with well-manicured turf. On the lawn a few feet ahead of him was a signpost.
STABLES.
Above the word was an arrow pointing to the right.
Shepherd went that way, following the path as it ran between the stone wall and a dense, seven-foot tall hedge. All he could see was the route that lay ahead; a hundred yards of concrete slabs, bathed in shadows, a space so narrow that two people could not have walked side-by-side along its uneven surface.
He kept his footsteps as light as possible.
At its end, the path led out onto a dirt-track road that was lined on either side with a shallow drainage ditch and the occasional tree.
The cloudless sky was cold and bleak.
Shepherd crouched down and looked left and right, up and down the new road, unsure which direction to take. He spotted the stables on his right, a further two hundred yards away.
He crept along the dirt track.
At the makeshift-road’s end were two brick pillars, one of which was mounted with a plaque that read: ‘Crownford Hall Stable Yard’.
Below it was another sign: ‘Beware of the Dogs’.
Beyond the pillars was a gravel-covered open space, a fifty-yard square, which lay before a large barn. In its centre, the wooden building rose to a peaked roof, thirty-feet tall.
Directly opposite the road in the centre of the barn was a pair of massive doors, both of which were propped fully open.
The sight surprised Shepherd; horses cost a lot.
Moonlight crept in through the open doors, illuminating a few yards of straw-covered floor. Further inside, he could see only darkness.
The barn, however, was not the reason Shepherd had come to the stables. He wanted to find the office, the small administrative centre that any business needs. It stood to the left of the barn; a small flat-roofed room made from red bricks. There was a window beside the single door, but before Shepherd moved towards it, he cursed and dropped to the ground.
There was a kennel outside the office.
Shepherd gazed around, frightened that the guard dog might already be padding across the gravel. He sighed with relief when he saw no sign of one, but he still considered leaving the stables. There would, he was sure, be much easier pickings elsewhere in the village, and there was still plenty of night left before he needed to leave the grand, sprawling scene of his crimes.
Before he turned to search for somewhere else, he noticed something about the kennel that intrigued him enough to creep forwards. His feet crunched the loose stones as he crossed the gravel, approaching the large metal kennel.
Finally, he was close enough to be sure.
There was a sturdy grill across the arched opening, sealing it closed. Lying with its head on its front paws, and looking out through the metal bars, was a fully-grown Doberman.
The dog was a prisoner in its home.
Shepherd almost laughed as the tension he felt washed away. He got back up to his feet and started once more towards the office. He skirted around the kennel because of cautious habit rather than necessity. The Doberman’s black eyes followed him closely, but the dog made no objection to his approach.
It neither growled nor barked.
Upon reaching the office, the door handle creaked as Shepherd started to turn it.
He froze.
A sound had rippled out across the still air. It was as if someone had started to rev a motorcycle, except that the noise was more fluid than any engine Shepherd had ever heard. As light-footed as he could be, he ran to the corner of the office and crouched down.
Inside its kennel, the guard dog whimpered.
The noise’s source was inside the stable.
Shepherd slunk into the shadows, retreating back across the gravel to where he’d entered. Slowly, keeping out of the glare of the moon, he moved towards the road. His eyes darted from place to place as he went, although they were often drawn back to the empty space of the open stable doors.
He felt sweat on his forehead inside his balaclava and the palms of his hands moistened within the confines of their leather gloves. He struggled to think what the noise from the stable could be. If it was an engine, then it implied that someone was inside the wooden building. But there were no lights switched on, and the noise did not sound exactly like the mechanical rhythm an engine would produce. It sounded more organic, natural, more as though it was created by a living thing.
But it was too loud.
The Doberman had gone from view, hidden inside its metal kennel, whining in the darkness.
Shepherd rounded the brick pillar and stood with his back pressed against it, facing up the road. With his exit clear, his breathing returned to normal. The tempo of his heart lowered and he closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves.
You’re being stupid, he told himself. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just an old generator.
Feeling better, he peeked around the brick pillar, back across the gravel.
His jaw dropped open and his eyes went wide.
Two yellow ovals hovered in the blackness between the barn doors. They seemed to hang, unsupported, twelve feet above the ground. They were widest horizontally, at least a foot across, and they were located a couple of feet apart.
Shepherd knew what the yellow-glowing objects looked like, but that was impossible.
He thought they were eyes.
There was nothing to see beyond the yellow ovals; they simply seemed to float in the dark shadows of the wooden stable.
They can’t be.
Gracefully, the ovals came forwards.
Jason Shepherd gasped.
The creature walked out of the barn at a leisurely pace, although it was forced to lower its head so that its ears could pass below the underside of the doorframe. Paws the size of dustbin lids crunched the gravel as it stepped into the moonlight, revealing a fur coat of black and white blotches. Sniffing at the fresh air with a pink nose, the creature’s head moved from side to side. It looked to the metal kennel, pricking its ears towards the dog’s whimpering.
When its entire body had left the barn, the creature’s tail rose to point upwards. The tip was almost the height of the peaked roof.
Shepherd pulled his head back behind the pillar.
A cat, he thought. A big cat.
But not in the sense of a lion or a tiger
No, this was a giant, monstrous freak-of-nature of a cat that, even excluding the tail, towered more than twice Shepherd’s height.
He would not have to duck to run between its legs.
The engine noise, the purring, he corrected himself, stopped and there was no sound other than the wind in the trees. The guard dog was silent. Gradually, Shepherd allowed half of his balaclava-hidden face to peer out from the pillar.
The cat was looking right at him, the yellow eyes staring out from a face that was black except for a white patch around the left eye. It had sunk down low, almost prone across the gravel, and had its massive front paws stretched out ahead of it. The trunk of the cat’s body was still, but, pointing vertically, the tail swished back and forth like an inverted clock pendulum.
Shepherd knew the feline-giant had spotted him.
There were twenty-five yards between them, but for the cat, Shepherd could see, such a distance mattered nothing. It would cross the gravel in a flash.
His face began to itch with the mix of perspiration and balaclava wool. His hands shook and his heart thundered.
Across the stable yard, the cat edged one front paw forwards, preparing to pounce.
This can’t be.
Shepherd broke cover and ran.
He dashed back along the road, skirting the edge of the drainage ditch.
Adrenaline flowed through his veins.
Beneath the soles of his feet, the dirt-track road sped by. He spotted the entrance to the path along the stone-built wall and he careered towards it, wishing for the cover of the shadows.
He risked a look over his shoulder.
Bounding along behind him was the cat, which didn’t appear to be moving with any particular effort. It merely kept pace, following at a distance of ten yards. The feline eyes were on Shepherd, flashing yellow in the moonlight.
Tears of desperation streamed from Shepherd.
He knew the creature was toying with him.
What is this thing?
His vision was blurred by the time he reached the narrow path, but he plunged into the gap between the wall and the hedge, running along the concrete slabs with all the speed he could muster.
A scraping noise to his rear caused him to look around. He saw the cat grind to a halt out on the road. It’s head dropped and it looked along the pathway, its eyes following Shepherd.
The cat was too wide for the narrow path. Its whiskers twitched and, high above, its tail swung from side to side. The creature’s frustration was clear to see.
Shepherd felt elated. I’ll escape, he thought.
The cat raised its head and then sprung from a standing position to leap over the stone wall. Landing on the far side of the six-foot high structure, the cat was lost from Shepherd’s view, but then its gargantuan black and white head appeared over the top of the wall and, having seen its prey, the creature continued the chase.
Shepherd used his sleeve to dry his eyes. His body was gripped with fear and there was a warm sensation around his groin.
He knew what he’d done.
This can’t be happening.
His shoes continued to pound the concrete slabs.
The hedge gave way to the view of the lawn, but Shepherd focused instead on the iron gate to his left. Although the cat was following along a perpendicular route, and going through the gate would seem to put Shepherd in the cat’s path, he remembered that the courtyard had been enclosed.
There would be at least one more obstacle in the cat’s way.
He pushed through the gate, unconcerned with the noise he made.
The Land Rover was still there.
For a moment, Shepherd considered its sanctuary, but the thought of being confined in such a small space, trapped like a fish in a bowl for the cat to see, filled him with terror.
He had a better idea.
Discarding his rucksack, Shepherd slithered beneath the vehicle. As soon as he was in the centre, he stopped and laid still. He tried to quieten his breathing and to listen for sounds beyond the pumping of his heart. His nostrils were filled with the scent of diesel.
From out in the courtyard came a thud as the cat landed on the cobblestone ground. The nearest paw was five yards from the Land Rover, almost level with Shepherd’s eyes.
The feline took a pace forwards, and then its front right paw rose up, vanishing from the narrow vista Shepherd had between the cobbles and the underside of the Land Rover.
With tears once more falling from his eyes, Shepherd feared what could happen. That the cat would see through his deception and push the Land Rover aside to get to him, or, if the effort proved too great, it would simply wait until he was forced to emerge.
There were still many hours until daybreak.
Shepherd’s entire body trembled with fear; suddenly, the gap between the Land Rover’s base and ground seemed much smaller, much more confined.
The rucksack vanished following a swipe from the lost front paw.
The pack shot up, crossing the courtyard to slam back to the cobbles. Even while the rucksack was still airborne, the cat was already pouncing, and as it landed it brought it massive front left paw down on the pack, covering it over.
After the briefest wait, the cat’s paw came up a fraction, as if allowing the pack a chance to escape.
When it remained still, the cat’s paw dropped once more.
Beneath the Land Rover, Shepherd watched the cat run through the game a second time. As the rucksack still did not move, the cat tired of playing with it and turned away.
It came closer to the Land Rover and then stopped.
Shepherd wondered what the creature was doing, whether it was sniffing the air or looking down at his shelter. He waited for the cat’s eyes to appear beneath the Land Rover’s edge. He was sure they would; he was sure the cat would find him and play with him like it had the rucksack.
He closed his eyes, blinking back his tears.
Please, please, please.
When he opened them, the paws were gone.
He moved his head all around, looking over every section of the courtyard. The only movement was the occasional leaf blowing across the cobblestones.
The cat had left.
Shepherd smiled. He laughed through his tears.
As his adrenaline level’s dropped, he began to feel the cold rising through his body from the stony ground.
But he was safe. And there was no rush.
He would wait beneath the Land Rover until he was sure. Then he would go to the house and raise help. His car was parked more than a mile away and he could not face the thought of crossing the dark lanes and country roads.
Never again, not while that thing was out stalking the night.
A police cell was much more favourable. Shepherd decided to remain in his shelter until the sun was in the sky and then turn himself in to the first person he could find.
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