At The Edge of Night - 28 book horror box set - also contains a link to an additional FREE book

by Bray, Michael

  Anyway, I’m getting side-tracked.

  So, I’ll gather the soul. During this time, you’re still alive, by the way. Still breathing and dreaming. But not for long. I come back out the way I came—through the mouth—and reform by your bed, bringing your soul with me. It's then that the body dies. See the body is just a machine— and a laughably flawed one at that—. And without the soul to pull the strings, it’s a useless organic thing.

  I always watch my human take their last breath.

  Partly to make sure my job is done, and secondly because there’s beautiful about it. That’s when I know it’s over, and my work is done.

  You know the belief that you will go to either heaven or hell depending on how well you lived your life?

  Well, that part is kind of true.

  In the trade, we call it the drop-off.

  Let me try to describe it in a way that your mortal little mind would understand. I’ll be quick, though because I can see you getting ready for bed, and I’m scheduled to take you not long after you go to sleep.

  Imagine a huge chamber, a room that’s immense beyond comprehension. Inside are others like you, fresh souls, confused and aware but helpless until we release you. So we wait for our turn, and together we go to meet with your purgatory advisor to find out where your destination will be. These guys can be sour, and a little short with you, but try to remember that they’re just trying to do their jobs, and with millions of people to see, you can forgive them if they’re a little abrupt.

  They will discuss your life with you, and more importantly if you made the most of it. See that’s the kicker. If you’ve done well, and lived a full, good life, then you get to go upstairs and enjoy peaceful oblivion, or whatever kind of fuzzy goodness goes on up there. But if you haven’t, then you better be prepared for the other place. The place where I come from.

  And you can forget that image that just popped up in your head, too. It’s not all fire and brimstone as you might have been led to believe, in fact, there’s nothing but a cold, black emptiness. Seconds feel like hours. Minutes like weeks, Hours like years. It’s lonely and you will wait there in that void until you’re called upon. It could be days or weeks. If you are lucky, it will just be a few months. Usually, it's years. Some of the bad ones are made to wait for centuries. Let me tell you, just floating around in that void is... well, for want of a better word, it’s hell.

  Eventually, you will be called in front of him.

  Now a word of advice. You don’t want to look him in the eye. In fact, don’t say or do anything. Just keep your eyes down and your ears open. He will assign you a duty. You might be unlucky and get one of the shitty jobs. Fucking poltergeists are the lowest of the low and you don’t want to get stuck doing that forever. Another one to avoid is becoming a demon. A guy I know found himself doing that back in the early 1900’s and has been called up by stupid kids playing on their Ouija boards more times than he can remember.

  If you’re lucky, though, you might get a gig like mine and become a reaper. It’s a good deal. You get to see the world; you get to watch as human life goes on. More than that, though, you get to spend a lot of time away from that dark pit. I have my fingers crossed for you, but the decision isn’t mine to make.

  Ahh, there you go now. You’ve just climbed into bed, and I can see how tired you are. Say goodnight to the world, buddy, it’s almost time.

  Anyway, I digress.

  I’m sure you’d prefer to go up there and live in with the good people but…

  Man, this part is always hard to say.

  You haven’t led a perfect life.

  Not bad by any means, just not perfect. The truth is you’re borderline. I’ve watched you and willed you to do something worthwhile, but it’s always tomorrow. Always soon. Never today. You’ve had a life of opportunities, chances to make a difference, but like it is with so many humans, you waited too long, spent too many hours out drinking or sitting in front of the TV and wasting the time you have. And I’ll be straight with you, chief. I’m worried that it’s too late.

  Ahh, there you go.

  Deep sleep.

  It’s time, but don’t worry, I’ll look after you.

  Just like I promised.

  You look so innocent, so unaware of what’s about to happen. Either way, it’s time we were going. The lines at the purgatory hall are always a bitch, and it’s best if we get there early. I wonder if you will have any regrets when you find out it’s over?

  I think I would, although to tell you the truth, your wife and kids will lead better lives without you there to screw it up. It may be harsh, but it’s true. The world won’t miss you. In fact, it will be better without you in it. That big wheel will keep turning regardless.

  You’re in that place.

  Deep, do not disturb land, and I was never a reaper that needed to be told twice.

  It’s time.

  ONE NIGHT IN OCTOBER

  I haven’t moved for hours. Lying here in the dark, ignoring the cold and damp, and the mildew smell of this rotten shithole of a house, I wait. My brain is a stew, a melting pot of emotions. I realise that I am as cold and barren as this room. The floor is bare apart from the army of empty vodka bottles which stand as a testament to the lifestyle I chose. They shimmer in the moonlight and remind me that I have a pretty severe drinking problem. Rats scratch and scurry in the walls, and rotten pipes drip their monotonous song. I’ll be the first to admit it. This house is a shithole, but at least it’s mine. I don’t have power or hot running water. The walls are thick with black mold that spiders up from the floor, and the sickly yellow wallpaper hangs off in great, wet sheets. Still, I can’t complain. I manage to get by. Cold baths are the perfect penance, the ideal way to cleanse me after I have done the work, and that, as I lie here is what I’m contemplating. I turn my head, feeling the clammy touch of the filthy pillow – the one I use to sleep on and, when the mood takes, stick my dick in. Its crusty familiarity doesn’t bother me, nor does the smell, not anymore. Outside, is a typical English October night. Winds rock the broken house, and drizzle tickles the window pane. I can almost imagine that it is calling to me, telling me to venture out into the night and do what I do best.

  As much as I tell myself that I can’t really be bothered, that I’m not in the mood, I know it's bullshit. Like any addict, I know I’m a slave to it, and a little rain won’t stop me. Hell, I would go out if fireballs were raining from the sky. Welcome, my friends, to addiction.

  I feel something stir in my gut; the dark thing that lives there demands to be sated. Blood rushes to me, and I find myself stiffening. It’s the anticipation of what I’m about to do that usually makes that happen, and I’m resigned to another sleepless night. I pull the pillow from under my head and push down my tatty shorts. As I slide myself between the pillowcase cover, I start to think about the act.

  The warmth of viscera as I squeeze it like tripe between my fingers, the taste of hot, copper blood as I drink it from dying, depressurised veins. God, it’s divine. I think about my first, a sweet girl who I met at a bar. For all the days that blend into each other, I can still remember her. Brown hair, blue eyes. Strong cheekbones. A moan escapes me, and I increase the tempo of my movement and arch my back, pushing my head into the mattress.

  I remember the way she looked as I strangled her, the desperation in her eyes as I squeezed her neck hard enough to burst the blood vessels in her eyes. She wept tears of blood, and as that image came to me, so vivid and detailed even after eight years, I shot my warmth into the pillow, gritting my yellow, gappy teeth in ecstasy as I murmur my bitch of a mother’s name.

  This is my life. This is the life of a killer.

  I’m addicted to two things. Sex and murder. Neither seemed to do it for me alone and so it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to combine the two. I’m still not sure if I’m going to venture out or not tonight, but the black thing inside that guides me seems active, so you never know. Anyhow, let me tell you a li
ttle bit of my modus operendi, as it were.

  I always like to strangle my victim. Always from the front so I can see the light go out in their eyes. That’s when I open them up. Pubic bone to the rib cage. I have a good strong knife for that, part of an old doctor's kit that I picked up at in a second-hand store a few years back. I love to see how people tick. Such complex things. I like to feel the textures, to get the insides outside. I like to squeeze the intestines like tripe. I like to touch the slippery livers to my face, I like to open the stomach and see if I can identify what they last ate.

  I also like to fuck them.

  There is no shame in that. It’s just how it is. Some cultures fuck their dead until they start to rot. It’s nothing new. Besides, I do it a little differently. I like to straddle the head and fuck the mouth whilst I explore their insides. It’s such a rush. I don’t care who it is. Men, women, young old. All are the same inside.

  I can feel myself stiffening again as I think about it, and although I’m tempted to give my pillow another going over, I really do feel like I should go out and find someone.

  You might wonder if I feel guilt or remorse.

  I say a resounding no on both counts.

  One of my victims once told me that god would strike me down, and I couldn’t help but laugh. If he even existed, he would have struck me down long ago.

  No, there is no god. No afterlife. No fucking white light at the end of the tunnel. The planet is full of animals. All of us trying to live and learn, cheat and play, scheme and fuck our way to the top of whatever society deems we should be striving for.

  Screw that. Let me tell you something about life.

  The only guarantee is death. I’m sorry if it sounds blunt, but that’s just the way it is.

  Death is a good thing. It’s an escape from the monotony of this pitiful existence. It’s something which I believe in wholeheartedly, and something which I have devoted my life to. To date, I have killed sixty-seven people. Forty-nine men, the rest women. I have also killed eleven dogs and twenty-four cats. I know what you must be thinking. That I had a troubled upbringing, or that I was abused as a kid right? Wrong. My upbringing was normal. I was raised in a middle-class home with a loving family who always tried to give me what they could. My father worked long hours every day to put food on our table. I have a brother and two sisters, all of which are, as far as I know, perfectly normal. I just knew I was different. Some people excel at sports or music, others in politics or science. My brother plays guitar like a fucking beast. My skill was killing. I turned out to be damn good at it too. The rain continues to probe the glass, breaking me from my train of thought, and I’m having second thoughts about going out tonight. I wonder if I can get another few days out of my last one.

  I can see her bloated, blue-gray corpse propped up in the corner of the room, sitting in a puddle of her own putrid liquefying skin and organs. I can almost imagine that she is still alive and breathing, but I know that it’s just an illusion – a trick played by the army of maggots which are feasting on her. Her open mouth is packed tightly with them, a writing mass of the little bastards. Same goes for her nostrils and even the hole in her arm where the flesh had putrefied and fallen away. Love never lasts for long, and I realise that soon enough I’ll have to put her under the floorboards with the others. I had half hoped that she would last longer, maybe I thought that the cold weather might keep her fresher for more than a couple of weeks. I wonder if I should have bought that chest freezer the other week?

  I give my bloated companion a quick once over, casting my professional gaze and trying to gauge the level of decay. I have become quite good at it actually, and my instincts tell me that perhaps I better go find a new one. God knows I need someone with me. I can’t stand to be alone here. I need the company.

  “Shall I go out tonight?” I whisper to the rotting thing in the corner. She, of course, doesn’t answer, but I hear her voice anyway, sweet and encouraging in my head. The dark stuff bubbles and my dick stirs. I half consider jamming it into her mouthful of maggots, a final farewell if you will, but decide against it.

  Besides, there are always plenty of opportunities out there in the streets. Plenty of people walking around thinking they are safe, either because they have a misplaced sense of self-confidence, or more likely that they have forgotten that monsters like me still exist.

  I roll off my stinking mattress, wiping my hand on the sticky, come stained pillow and get to my feet. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and immediately look away. Too thin, too pale. Too dirty. I must get rid of that fucking mirror.

  I dress slowly.

  All the clothes are second hand, begged or borrowed from shelters or charity shops. Not because I can’t afford them, but because I want any flecks of DNA that might be on them not to be mine. I also put on five pairs of socks to hold the shoes – which are deliberately two sizes too big for me – in place. Fuck you forensics. Ha!

  I tuck my greasy, graying hair under a black beanie hat, and shrug into my hoodie. The rage is growing now, it knows the time is close. I spare a glance at the maggoty thing in the corner and feel as if its remaining milky eye is judging me.

  “I’m heading out for a while,” I croak in the darkness.

  It looks at me, only the constant wet shuffling sound of the maggots for a response.

  “It was never going to work anyway,” I add, feeling sorrow and shame and even guilt towards her. She knows I’m planning to replace her. I can see it in her watery eye.

  Still it looks on.

  Why can’t she just respond?

  It’s too late now because the rage is close to taking over. I can feel it spreading from my stomach and through my veins. I know what is going to happen, and I know it won’t be pretty. I explode and am across the room it two strides. I grab her by the face, intending to pull her to her feet, but the skin is putrid and rotten, and her entire head comes off, bringing a snake of rotten flesh and skin with it. Displaced maggots fall back to her body, looking for new dark places in which to fester. I look her in the eye, squeezing my hands hard into her cheeks, teeth gritted as I watch my palms sink into the slippery flesh, which slides over her skull in such a way that I think, for a second that she is wearing some kind of mask. It's then that I hear her in my head. She is laughing at me.

  They always laugh at me.

  The smell is enough to even make me retch, but despite myself, I have a point to prove, and manage to shove my shorts down with a fumbling hand, and guide my way into her mouth, pushing the maggots aside. The sensation is both wonderful and repulsive as they write against me, and I finish within seconds.

  It would be rude not to.

  I toss her severed head down by her body, and wipe myself clean, using the trusty pillow to do it. I’m ready now, ready to go out and find a fresh companion. I’m feeling it now, the full flow of the rage and I’m ready to kill.

  It’s almost two thirty am on a Saturday night. The streets will be crawling with people, too drunk to care that they are walking home alone, and too out of it to be afraid that someone like me could be lurking in the shadows.

  Maybe tonight is my night.

  Maybe tonight, I’ll find what I’m looking for.

  LONG TALL COFFIN

  It was the first time Charlie had seen Ferguson since high school. He wanted to go over and say hello, but remembering how things used to be, hesitated. Surely, there would be no hard feelings. Not now. After all, it had been eight years, and they were adults now. Still, he stayed where he was, watching his former classmate from across the bar, and trying to decide if he should go over or just slink away before he was spotted. All of that was rendered moot, however, and Ferguson caught his eye, and after a few seconds without reaction, nodded and grinned. Charlie responded, tipping his glass. He slid out of his booth, and taking his beer with him, crossed toward the bar to where Ferguson was sitting.

  “Hey, Charlie. Long time no see.” Ferguson said with a smile.

  “T
ell me about it. How have you been?”

  Ferguson shrugged. “Can’t complain. You?”

  “I’m good, really good actually,” Charlie replied. “God, how long has it been since we were at school together?

  Ferguson frowned, and Charlie noted that even though time had passed, he still looked pretty much exactly the same. Sure, he was a little older, and had changed his hairstyle, but he was still the same kid-

  Fergie Faggott

  - That had been his classmate for their entire school career until, as was life, everyone went off into the world to try to make their mark.

  “Hell it will be... almost nine years now.” Ferguson said.

  “Jesus, time flies huh?”

  “It does. You still play football?”

  “Not anymore, I’m too big for it now,” Charlie said, more than aware that although he was still stocky, he was starting to get soft in the gut and grow an extra chin or two under the crew cut that he had worn since he was a kid.

  “You here with anyone?” Ferguson asked as he sipped his beer.

  “No, I just called in for a quick beer after work. You?”

  Ferguson shook his head. “Same. I usually go down to Shooters, but today I felt like changing the routine.”

  “Small world huh?” Charlie said.

  “That it is.”

  The two men stood silent, each trying as best they could to avoid the elephant in the room.

  “Want a beer?” Ferguson asked.