The Darkness Rising

by David Stuart Davies

  THE DARKNESS RISING

  A Supernatural Thriller

  David Stuart Davies

  © David Stuart Davies 2020.

  David Stuart Davies has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2020 by Sharpe Books.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  ONE

  Kate stared out at the grey mist rolling in from the sea. It moved on the faint chill breeze, coiling its tentacles around objects in its path. Soon it would envelop the little cottage like a shroud, pressing its moist breath against the windows, holding her in its thrall. Already the trees, which five minutes ago had been distinct silhouettes, were now just vague spectral shadows fingering the growing gloom.

  Kate gave an involuntary shudder; and yet somehow she welcomed the mist, welcomed its isolating protection. The longer she could keep the world at a distance, out of focus, a blur, so much the better.

  The old kitchen clock whirred and struck the hour, breaking the ticking quiet. She gave a little start at the noise and then smiled at her own uneasiness.

  Michael.

  His name came to her again. From out of nowhere. It just slipped unbidden into her consciousness. But then, it never really left her. It lay crouched in some corner of her mind like a spider, waiting for an opportunity to scuttle out.

  Michael.

  It wasn't surrender exactly; it was simply that she had no defence against its power. She couldn't fight it or maybe she didn’t want to. Once again, she found to her surprise and annoyance warm tears on her face. For a moment she held still, closing her eyes, pressing the lids tightly shut.

  ‘Michael’.

  She said his name softly and slowly, like a child who makes a secret wish or tries to break a magic curse.

  ***

  ‘And for God's sake, don't be late for the script conference on Monday. Parker's got something pretty big up his sleeve.’

  ‘His secretary claims another location,’ grinned David, hastily cramming papers into his briefcase.

  Rob Moore's expression softened slightly, his square features shifting into a smile. Brief and polite. ‘I mean it, David. I've had these dastardly emails before and they always mean big trouble. Formal and sinister they are. Take a look.’ He thrust the printout under David's nose. ‘You mark my words: a 'death' is imminent.’

  David read Parker's memo:

  'FOR THE ATTENTION OF:

  Rob Moore, script co-ordinator

  VERNON & SONS

  Special script panel meeting for Monday 10th–10.30 Prompt

  Agenda: Discuss falling ratings, possible remedies.

  Please inform all script panel members.

  NELSON PARKER Head of Popular Drama L.T.V.'

  ‘Whose death did you have in mind?’ asked David passing the memo back to Rob.

  He shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘It's not for me to say, but if I had my way, I'd kill off that cow, Vera Cooper.’

  ‘Oh come now, Rob,’ said David, ‘I believe I hear the gentle sound of sour grapes being trodden. Just because our dear Vera gave your come on the brush off, there's no need to go around arranging a massive overdose of Valium for her.’

  Rob grinned, eyes sparking with wicked merriment. ‘Crushed by a runaway juggernaut is what I had in mind. Lots of blood and Geordie screaming. Might even have her bloody wig fly off.’

  ‘You are heartless bastard,’ said David lightly, returning the grin, before grabbing his coat and heading for the door. ‘Besides,’ he added, turning to throw Rob an afterthought, ‘Vera adds sex appeal to the show. All those tight sweaters with the generous flash of cleavage must do something for the ratings. If you're going to bump someone off, I reckon Sir Thomas Vernon is your man. Important character in the firm, big funeral, reshuffle in the board room, family squabbles over the will—plenty of mileage.’

  Rob frowned. ‘It's an idea, but it'd be a bit tough on old Rex Mulligan.’

  ‘It'll be tough on whoever gets the chop, but that's showbiz. One minute you're heading a thriving family business twice weekly in all regions and the next you're down the job centre to see if they want any extras for a laxative commercial.’

  ‘You'll go far in television, David Cole. You've got the two main qualities required: a quick brain and a cold heart.’

  ‘Hark at the man. And who was it wanted to squash our dear Vera?’

  ‘On second thoughts, how about her being savaged by a rabid pack of Rottweilers?’ He chuckled to himself and then heaved a sigh. ‘Come on, David, let's drift off and have a few drinks and put this sordid world a little out of focus.’

  ‘Not tonight, Rob. I'm going down to the cottage. Anyway, perhaps we'll both need it more after Monday's session.’

  ‘Maybe’, he sighed and then after a thought he grimaced and nodded decisively. ‘Definitely!’

  David glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I've got to be off. I want to get there before it gets really dark.’

  ‘OK. See you. How is Kate by the way?’

  David's face clouded. ‘I don't really know. She worries me.’

  ***

  Michael.

  Kate cradled a cup of coffee in her hands, the warmth of it strangely comforting as she peered out of the window at the mist, which now completely obliterated the view of the sea and most of the garden. In the stillness she could hear the breakers, but they seemed so far away, like distant strange whispers belonging to another world.

  It was somehow reassuring to stare at the shimmering, shifting leaden wall. There was nothing precise, nothing definite out there—just an intangible greyness. From the dull convoluted grey coils she fashioned shapes like a child who picks out faces in the patterns of wallpaper. Smokey lions prowled and stalked invisible prey out there, while bushes, root-free it seemed, floated wildly in the air.

  And there were man-shapes, too. Well, one man-shape.

  Michael.

  At that thought, Kate turned instinctively away from the window. Her eyes darting around the room, seeking refuge. They finally rested on the kitchen clock. David would be here soon. However, somehow this thought did not cheer her. His arrival wouldn't actually solve anything. Like the isolation of the cottage, he was just another of her ploys for keeping reality at bay.

  Irresistibly, she found her gaze drawn back to the grey world beyond the glass.

  The man-shape was still there.

  She turned away abruptly. Better check the oven timer.

  And the central heating thermostat. It seemed cooler now.

  ***

  They had been let down on purpose, he was sure of that. One, even two flat tyres could be seen as Old Mother Fate kicking you in the crutch, but not all four. Which nasty bastard had it in for him so much?

  David kicked one of the wheels and cursed. Now he really would be late and Kate would not like that. He tried ringing her on his mobile with no success. The bloody internet connection at the cottage was as unreliable as a fairground goldfish.

  With a muttered expletive, he opened the boot and reached for the foot pump.

  ***

  Kate continued to busy herself with minor chores for another ten minutes. Mechanical habit led her through the routines while her mind was fixed elsewhere.

  Michael.

  When at last she'd finished, she knew she would have to go back to the window. It was like a magnet to her. Despite the reluctant nagging at the back of her mind, she wanted to go back. Ind
eed, she needed to. The temptation was too great.

  It was with a mixture of disappointment and relief that she saw that there was nothing there. The glaucous shapes had gone, exorcised by the gentle breeze. But her first glance had lied to her, deceived her in order to protect her. As her eyes focused on the dark world beyond the glass, she did see something there. In the centre of the garden it stood, blacker and more distinct than the other shapes had been: it was that solitary man-shape.

  Michael.

  She snatched at the empty coffee cup. Must wash this up, she told herself. Her grasp was shaky; the cup slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. She gave a soft gasp of despair as the noise of the smashing cup pierced the silence like a scream, the fragments skating in all directions.

  Yet she did not move. And neither did the shape.

  Or did it?

  Was there some subtle, gentle undulating movement, or was it just the eddies of mist around the shape? Around it? What was she thinking? It was the mist—a part, an element of it.

  But no. It was moving. To hell with logic: it was moving. The thick grey tendrils rose and fell in a regular motion as thought it was attempting to communicate with her. Kate's hand flew to her mouth and she issued a brief sob as though the worst, and yet the inevitable, had happened. The grey intangible thing out there was actually beckoning her to join it.

  ***

  By the time the credits were rolling to the accompaniment of the faintly martial theme tune concluding another episode of 'Vernon & Sons', Matron was already asleep. It was a regular occurrence. She used the programme as a means of stimulating her fatigue resulting from a long day dealing with a series of schoolboy ailments from boils to bronchitis.

  'Vernon & Sons' held no interest for her apart from its soporific qualities and she hardly survived more than five minutes into the episode before her flickering eyelids lowered, finally surrendering to sleep. It was better and indeed healthier than sleeping tablets. However, her awakening was more erratic. Sometimes she would doze on for an hour, at other times the changing rhythm of sound brought about by the brash commercials which followed 'Vernon & Sons' would disturb her sleep pattern and ease her into consciousness. On this occasion, however, her arousal was far more abrupt and disturbing. It was precipitated by a sequence of loud, insistent staccato knocks on her study door; these were accompanied by several, almost frantic calls to her.

  With a sigh of resignation, Matron retrieved her discarded shoes from under her chair, snapped off the television and opened the door. There she found Collier, one of the senior prefects, in a state of agitation.

  ‘Matron, come quickly.’

  ‘What is it, Collier? Is the school on fire?’

  ‘It's Barlow. Tim Barlow, one of the lads in my dormitory. I think he's having a fit.’

  ***

  When Matron reached the dormitory, she found that Barlow was being held down on his bed by four of the bigger boys, while the rest, white-faced and silent, stood at a distance, watching uneasily.

  Timothy Barlow was a small, dark-haired boy with fine, delicate, almost feminine features and an unnaturally pale complexion. As Matron approached his bedside, the boy's contortions lessened but he still continued to twist his head from side to side, his eyes rolling so wildly that, intermittently, only the whites were visible. Froth collected at the corners of his mouth as he muttered unintelligibly.

  ‘Leave him be,’ Matron instructed the boys who had been holding him down. They did as she ordered and the she bent over him and held his head still. She felt his forehead: it was ice-cold.

  ‘Timothy. Timothy.’ She spoke in soft, soothing tones, the like of which most of the boys had never her use before. They exchanged surprised glances, but no one dared utter a word. She was quietly confident there was no real problem here. He wasn't the first pupil in her charge to suffer an epileptic fit. If she could calm him, he would be back to normal within five minutes, probably remembering nothing of the attack. All she had to be sure of was that he didn't swallow his tongue.

  ‘Timothy, can you hear me?’ She gently ran her fingers over his forehead. ‘All is well. Just breathe deeply. Relax. Simply relax.’

  Her voice was soft but persuasive and after a few moments his body grew less agitated and the features less tense.

  Matron stroked the boy’s cheek. ‘That’s right, Timothy. Just relax. Let the demon go.’

  He gazed at her in wonder at these words and then his body suddenly became limp. For a moment he lay still and then slowly he turned to face her, his eyes widening with apparent recognition, a smile touching his lips. It was a very unpleasant smile.

  ‘You are all right now, Timothy. You are back with us once more,’ Matron cooed.

  With a sudden fierce effort, the boy pulled himself free of her restraint and sat up on the bed facing her. ‘Kate,’ he whispered; but the voice that issued from his lips was not that of a ten year old child, but the deep bass tones of a mature adult. ‘Kate, my darling,’ the voice said again.

  And then without warning, Timothy Barlow flung his arms around Matron's neck, and pulling her to him, he kissed her with force and passion. His lips slid smoothly on to hers and his tongue penetrated her mouth.

  With a cry of disgust, Matron thrust the boy from her back onto the bed, where, like a deflated balloon, he collapsed into a dead faint.

  ***

  Kate pulled the raincoat further round her shoulders, for the evening was really chilly and the mist, clammy and moist, pressed against her face. Despite being outside, away from the confines of the cottage, she began to feel claustrophobic.

  What the hell was she doing in the garden anyway?

  Michael.

  The click of her heels on the path echoed like some eerie Morse code. The light from the kitchen window projected a faint golden rectangle onto the lawn. Straining her eyes, she peered beyond it into the undulating grey whorls for the strange man-shape she has glimpsed when inside.

  It was still there, but it had retreated and now hovered, or so it seemed, at the edge of the lawn. Kate knew she was crazy to be out there at all, but she astounded herself by actually addressing the vague, animated fragment of darkness.

  ‘Don't go,’ she whispered with some urgency and then added tentatively and tenderly ‘Michael?’

  For an instant the mist shifted and cleared around the figure. It raised a ghostly arm and beckoned to her. Instinctively, she moved forward, feeling her feet squelch softly into the wet lawn. The figure remained. It was waiting now. Waiting for her.

  ***

  The Goddamn roads had never been so busy!

  David cursed silently and gripped the steering wheel in frustration as some incompetent, half-witted, geriatric buffoon in front of him chugged along at thirty miles per hour, hugging the centre of the road for comfort.

  David glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Six-fifty. He was late.

  Some suicidal maniac, with headlights on full beam and horn blasting, pulled by him and swerved out into the opposite lane to pass the bloody slow coach arsehole who, on seeing this dangerous manoeuvre, panicked and braked hard. To avoid a collision, David had to follow suit. He hit the brake pedal and he jerked forward, banging his head on the windscreen.

  ‘Shit!’ he cried.

  Angry horns and flashing headlights from the rear prevented him from examining the extent of the damage to his forehead from where a thin trickle of blood now ran. He quickly started the car up again, clicking his seat belt in this time and he was soon in line again behind the geriatric snail. David glanced into the driving mirror to catch sight of his wound and for one chilling moment he thought the face staring back at him was not his own.

  ***

  Kate held out her hand.

  ‘Michael, it is you, isn't it?’

  There was no reply.

  Of course, there could be no reply. This was sheer madness. She had better stop now before she completely cracked up. It was all her overworked imagination playing trick
s with the fog.

  No. That was not quite true. Really, she wanted it to happen. It would be like an absolution. If only she could explain to him...

  As she stood there, shivering in the cold grey night she admitted the truth to herself for the first time since she had learned of Michael's death. She felt pain and guilt. It was the guilt, like a locked door, which prevented her from moving forwards in her life. If only she could exorcise this guilt. Face up to it. If only she knew how. It needed more than courage. However, there really was only one way to break free from the shadow of the past, one impossible way: she needed to talk to Michael. To explain.

  But he was dead.

  The figure seemed to shift slightly.

  ‘Michael, it is you, isn't it?’ she found herself saying, despite being aware how ridiculous it was. Ridiculous and crazy.

  They were just empty words into empty air. What on earth was she expecting? For Michael's ghost to emerge through the folds of the mist and forgive her?

  ‘You fool,’ she snapped angrily at herself and turned quickly towards the house, but something stopped her dead. Something that chilled her to the bone. Something that squeezed her heart in an icy grasp. It was that on the clammy night air, faintly but clearly, she heard that familiar dark voice calling to her.

  ‘Kate. My darling, Kate.’

  TWO

  David ran into the mist about a mile from the cottage. The Audi slid smoothly into it like a hand into a thick grey glove. Another bloody delay. He cursed again and reduced speed.

  The tightness he felt throughout his whole body, the tension of straining nerves dismayed David. It wasn't like him and he didn't want it to be like him. Despite his feelings—and that word would have to do for the moment—despite his feelings for Kate, he'd never been really fully at ease since he'd known her.