by Blake Croft
As Abbie watched the house, the sun bled into the large body of water and the tall dark windows of the house stared out like blank brooding eyes. She had the acute sense that someone was watching her. A shiver ran up her spine, and she turned away to the lake. The children were playing at the water’s edge, running away from the chasing waves. She was very aware of a sense of not belonging. Born and bred in landlocked Colorado, Abbie couldn’t help but be aware of her location on the map, how New Orleans was right on the edge of a yawning abyss. The sight of the smoldering red waters of Lake Pontchartrain made her wonder how easy it would be to fall off the edge of the earth, swept away on one of the greedy waves, and disappear without a trace.
She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the morbid thoughts that had made a nest in there.
This is all Richard’s fault. Just because you write horror for a living doesn’t mean your road trip stories need to be macabre.
“All right. Boys!” Abbie called out. “That’s enough for today. You can come back to the beach in the morning.”
“Pizza for dinner?” Richard asked, dropping his cigarette in the sand.
“I’m not sure any place will deliver.”
“Why don’t you and the boys take a shower and start settling in. I’ll go into town and get us some dinner.”
She smiled as he kissed her forehead and went off towards the house.
“Come on, boys! I’m going to count to ten.”
They came running back at eight.
Chapter Two
June 10th– 12:31 PM
Beachfront, Lakeshore Drive, Mandeville – Louisiana
There was sand in his eyes. The more Aiden rubbed it, the more painful it became. He screamed, but not in pain. He was furious. He kicked in Dave’s general direction, but his foot didn’t make contact with anything.
“I hate you!” Aiden screamed. “I’m telling. That will teach you to bully me.”
“I wasn’t bullying you,” Dave protested. “I just said you’re too little to play with us, you’ll get hurt. And you did, didn’t you?”
“What a baby,” one of the boys laughed.
Tears of frustration pooled in Aiden’s eyes and dislodged some of the gritty sand; he could see better than he had a moment ago. He looked back at the boys that had ruined the day. They were taller than Dave, but not by much, and they had a beach ball. What wouldn’t Aiden give to have a beach ball of his own. That’d teach stupid Dave, and his stupid new friends, that Aiden wasn’t a baby, and he could play too.
“I’m not a baby! Dave’s the baby. He cried last night for Mommy because he had a nightmare.”
The boys laughed. Dave’s face was red with embarrassment. He pushed Aiden in the sand.
“I’m telling!” Aiden stomped his little foot in the sand and made a mad dash for the beach house.
Filled with righteous fury, Aiden pushed the screen door open with a mighty bang. Abbie stood in the kitchen trying to sort through the boxes that had finally been delivered by the moving van that morning.
“Mom!”
“Hmm?” Abbie opened a box and rolled her eyes. “He’s mislabeled another one.”
“Mom!”
“What, Aiden?” Sharp tone. Not a good start to his righteous crusade against bullying older brothers, and the vagaries of their lofty stature. Yet, Aiden persisted.
“Dave won’t let me play volleyball with his new friends, and he pushed me so I got sand in my eyes, and I hurt my knee!” He tried not to sound too petulant, but he had learnt that a few tears went a long way to soften his mother up, and gain the upper hand.
Not this time, though.
“That’s all very sad, Aiden. Why don’t you help me instead? It’ll be fun. Take this box of your toys upstairs, and store it inside the closet in there. And I mean inside, not scattered all over the floor.”
“But Mom!”
“Thank you.”
Puffing his cheeks in anger at the unfair conduct of adults, Aiden took the small box of toys and hauled it upstairs, step by step.
“Dad! Could you help me with the box?”
“I’m setting up my study, kiddo. Ask Mom,” Richard called from the front of the house.
“I’m busy with the kitchen. Ask Dave.” Abbie’s distracted voice bobbed up the hall like a deflated balloon.
Aiden rolled his eyes. Mom had totally spaced out. She usually got this way when she was upset about something. He started dragging the box up one stair, then the next. It was so like his parents to completely ignore him at times. It felt like nothing he said was taken seriously, and he was someone to be petted and cooed over. He hated being treated like a baby.
I’ll show them. I’ll take this box up and then dump it all on Dave’s bed. Let him sort it out.
Evil plan in place, it became easier to tote the box up the unforgiving stairs and down the hall to the room with a view of the front drive. Aiden would have much preferred the room with the view of the beach, but his parents had laid claim to it. Another unfairness notched against the adults.
Aiden kicked the box the last few feet into the room with twin beds. He hauled the box over to Dave’s bed, the one closer to the bedroom door, the one Dave choose first even though it was Aiden’s turn to do so. Aiden dumped the entire contents of the toy box on to the freshly made bed, giggling with glee.
“What are you doing?”
Aiden screamed and whirled around. His father stood in the door, a mug of coffee in his hands, and a stern frown on his brow.
“Are you trying to get your brother in trouble?”
“No.” Aiden’s voice was as small as he felt.
“Good. You should put those away in the closet.”
The closet handles were wrought iron. Four slats spanned across the wood marking where the hinges were. It was a tatty old thing, dust nestled inside its carvings, and pushed against the far wall. Aiden made a show of collecting the toys back in the box and taking them up to the closet till his father was satisfied and left. As soon as Richard’s footsteps receded down the stairs, Aiden promptly dropped the box on the floor and kicked the closet doors a few times for good measure.
Fuming, he paced the room and formulated a plan to run away to teach his family a lesson. Tantalizing images of his distraught parents and guilt-ridden brother made him smile.
The low creak of protesting wood made him stop in his tracks. The skin on the nape of his neck tickled, and he looked back. The closet door had opened slightly, revealing a sliver of darkness. He must have unlatched it when he kicked it. Aiden peered a little closer, fancying he saw a smudge of red in the gloom. Aiden stepped closer to get a better look. The sudden jangling of music made him jump back a few feet.
Music was coming from the closet. It sounded scratchy and wobbly, like the old vinyl records his grandfather had in his study back home. Aiden tilted his head to hear the music better, taking a cautious step closer. It was a sweet melody, innocuous, yet engaging. Aiden placed his hand on the smooth edges of the closet door and opened it completely, letting in a shaft of light to dispel the darkness. The song seemed to swell in that moment.
A small teddy bear sat propped up in one dark corner of the closet, a tartan red bow tied around its neck. It looked forlorn and lost. Aiden picked it up, his anger and frustration forgotten in the face of a surprising discovery.
The texture of the old toy was unlike any teddy bear Aiden had ever seen. It was rough, and reminded him of the flour and grain sacks at the whole foods store. It was also covered in layers of dust, the tartan bow the color of moldy tomatoes.
Dodo tipititmanman
Manman-w ou pa la
L’alélarivyè
Si ou pa dodo djab la vamanjé-w
Dodo pititkrabnankalalou
The words sounded silly to Aiden, and meant nothing to him, yet he found the song soothing. He checked the teddy bear closely to find the source of the music, his back turned to the open closet. The music stopped. Aiden searched more franticall
y, wanting to hear the song again, an unexplainable pressure building between his shoulders and the nape of his neck in the heavy silence.
“Aiden!”
Aiden looked up, his fingers going still. Dave stood just outside the bedroom door, one side of his face streaked with sand, his cheeks pallid as if all the blood had drained out of him.
“Aiden, come here.” Dave waved him over frantically, standing absolutely still. “Aiden, get back! Hurry!”
But he wasn’t looking at Aiden. He was looking directly behind him at the yawning dark mouth of the open closet.
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The Wishing Box (excerpt)
Summary
When your secret dreams become real-life nightmares… there’s no waking up.
Diana McCullough has been waiting. Watching. For the one thing that can change her life. The one thing that’s always been just out of her reach. Until now.
When Diana McCullough comes into possession of a magic wishing box, she believes her luck has finally changed. But soon she’ll discover that the distance between her expectations and a disturbing reality is rapidly narrowing.
She’s unearthed something dangerous. And it wants more than Diana’s life. But how do you outrun and outsmart what isn’t really there?
The macabre comes to sinister life in this small Scottish village in October 1976. Gothic horror, suspense, and a haunted possession will leave you sleeping with the lights on until your own Wishing Box arrives. Then you won’t be able to sleep at all.
Prologue
Forest Road, Marywell Village – Scotland
12th October 1976
Steven had to bury her to be sure nobody ever found her. He squinted through the fog, glancing surreptitiously in the rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Steven drove slowly, the pea-souper made visibility poor, something he was banking on.
Deep into the forest, along a clearing, Steven stopped the stolen car. He sat a moment in the cold dark interior of the car, staring at the thick mist trailing out of the forest like reaching fingers. His breathing was shaky on each exhale, pregnant with unshed tears. It was exactly this weakness she had preyed on. The evil bitch.
Steven hauled the shovel placed on the front passenger seat, and he stepped out into the fog. Condensation peppered his skin, and he felt soaked within minutes. A sudden cry from the forest made him drop the shovel with a clang. Heart hammering in chest, Steven swallowed.
“Must be an animal or something.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead. Ignoring the chill, he picked up the shovel and his load, and trudged towards the forest.
It was strange how sound echoed in the mist. His footsteps resounded back, making the nape of his neck prickle as if he was being pursued. Straining his head forward, he hunched his shoulders, and ignored the instinct to keep looking behind him for any sign of the authorities rushing at him through the forest.
Steven stopped under an old oak tree, its trunk thick and the roots arching out of the ground like the backs of frightened cats. It was as good a spot as any to bury her. No one would find her here, and the horror would end.
With a grunt, Steven dug between a knot of roots. His arms ached, and his hands were raw by the time he stepped back from the neat hole. Getting down on his knees, Steven pulled a box out of his pockets. His jaw clenched tighter as he looked at the box. He stared down at her. Hateful, malevolent, spiteful her.
Steven had tried to burn her, to burn the bitch, but she didn’t catch. The fire danced around her, producing noxious smoke. She had refused to burn.
That cursed box.
It, or rather she, wasn’t a mere object. She was small enough to fit the palm of his hand. The wood was carved with birds and flowers around a single command, ‘Make a Wish.’ He was convinced a malicious she-demon possessed the box, seducing unsuspecting owners into depravity and ruin. With an animal cry, Steven threw the box inside the hole. He had to make sure no one would find her.
Steven filled the hole in with his bare hands, his palms stinging but he didn’t pay them much attention. Once he had patted the earth down and scattered fallen leaves on top, he got back to his feet, knees creaking in pain.
Finding the way back to the car was harder than he had thought. Twice, he got lost and wondered if the evil box had the ability to trap him in the dark forest to die. He cursed himself for not leaving the car’s headlights on as a marker, but he couldn’t have the police finding him so soon. He finally stumbled on the forest road, the outline of the car dim in the mist that had crept out of the forest to consume it. He thought he saw something moving between the trees. His keys rattled together, scratching the side of the car as he tried to get to the lock. Steven’s eyes darted to the tree line to make sure he hadn’t been seen.
Sirens blared closer. The police were on the move again. He had to leave before they caught up with him. He couldn’t get arrested here. Not so close to where he’d buried her.
Once the key found the lock, Steven rushed inside the car. He started the engine and tore down the road he had come from, not caring about the poor visibility, and his gaze continuously drawn to the rearview mirror.
Chapter One
Marywell Village – Scotland
7th October 1976 – Five days earlier
The McCullough cottage was small and remote, nestled in a hollow of land surrounded by spreading fields. A crow sat on the tiled roof, cawing at the passing of the few cars and people. No sounds came from the house. Smoke blew out from the chimney, the only sign that the cottage was occupied.
Inside, Diana couldn’t take her eyes off the cake. It was the most expensive item of food she had ever seen. In comparison, her kitchen looked shabby and worse for wear than it actually was. The cake had three layers, each put together with a mountain of icing, and topped with sugar flowers. Placing one last covetous finger on the cardboard box, Diana turned to the rest of the groceries Peter had brought from Arbroath.
There was more produce than Diana could ever afford; fresh raspberries, potatoes, peas and carrots, with a fine shank of lamb. She put away half to use later in the week. After placing the stale bread and cheese from the morning into the pigs’ slop pail, she began preparing supper. The radio blasted the latest news on the American elections and President Gerald Ford’s confidence at the lack of Soviet influence on Eastern Europe.
“Ma!” Peter’s head popped in through the kitchen door. “Pa and I are going for a walk along the beach.”
“You tell your Pa you get enough of the sea on that oil rig of yours.”
Peter laughed, and Diana could see how much he had changed in the six months he had been on the job. His skin was several shades darker. The laugh lines around his eyes were deeper, and his lean frame had become broader. Her son had gone to the North Sea a boy, and he came back a man.
“I suspect he wants to show me off in the village along the way.” Peter picked a handful of raspberries.
“And why would he nae?” Diana beamed with pride. “A son on the oil rig, that’s something to boast of in this village.”
“And I woulnae rob you of such an opportunity. Did you know Adam Campbell is also applying for a place on the BP rig? Baldrick, the recruiter, told me of it in Arbroath this morning.”
Diana sniffed. Her mouth pressed in a thin, disapproving line. “Aye, he’s a capable enough lad, but he has no head for tricky situations. Best he doesn’t get it for his own sake.”
Footsteps shuffled behind Peter, and Steven’s florid face poked in the doorframe.
“Smells grand!” He grinned.
“Now if only the kitchen were grander,” Diana remarked. Steven’s smile fell and his brow darkened. His eyes held reproach and he glanced at Peter, as if apologizing for Diana. A bolt of intense anger flared in Diana’s chest.
Peter either didn’t notice, or chose to ignore the exchange between his parents, and bent down to kiss Diana on the crown of her head where her brown hair was white and thinning. “Be
back soon.”
Diana waved them goodbye, then got back to cutting vegetables. Once the shank was in for roasting and the potatoes set to boil, Diana wiped her brow and stepped out in the back garden to have a smoke. It was a vegetable garden, where she tended her pumpkins. They were prized in all of Marywell. They were coming along well, and they would be ready to harvest in another week.
She took a long drag on her cigarette and looked skyward. The clouds were so low it seemed they would graze the top of the roof if they wished. The windows were dark and reflected the oppressive sky.
The taste of the tobacco was smooth, and she marveled at the luxury of a good cigarette. She looked at her yellowing nails, and then the patch of land in her backyard where she spent most of her day breaking her back to produce vegetables she could never eat, because the money they brought in was far more precious.
It had been a hard life for Diana, born between two World Wars. She spent her youth amidst food rations, and the spot of Blitz in Scotland, only to survive the ordeal to find the whole nation changed, and not for the better. But she was reaping the rewards now. Having a son on the oil rig meant a fortune in the bank, and goodness knows she deserved this good turn.
She had only one child, no thanks to Steven who would have had a litter. It was Diana’s foresight, her insistence that she could neither put in the work nor the money that more than one child would cost. So there was just Peter, and they had sacrificed every comfort and luxury for the future of their son.
“And lang may his lum reek.” She puffed her wish up to the sky in tobacco smoke.
Diana inhaled deeply, as she watched a figure detach from the uniform shadows of the woods across the way, and hobble along the McNally’s wheat field.