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

by Bray, Michael

  He was always a man of few words, and as we stood in the mid-morning sun, angry child or not, he was no different. He lit a cigarette, the acrid smoke dragged away by the breeze as he exhaled.

  “We will be ok here Jimmy.” He said to me, nudging my shoulder. “The fresh air will be good for us. Not like that city air.”

  I was unimpressed and let it be known by keeping my mouth shut and my eyes on the tree line of the forest behind the house. It seemed to stretch forever. I had already made my mind up that I would hate living there. I don’t know why, I just knew in the way that kids sometimes, absolutely without question, know things. I was going to tell my father this, but I had started with silence and decided to stick to my guns. He finished his cigarette and dropped it to the ground.

  “Give it a chance at least. Okay, boy?”

  He ruffled my hair, and I knew that no amount of skulking around would make him change his mind. This was a battle I wasn’t going to win.

  “Now come on up and take a look at the house,” He called over his shoulder.

  I scowled and sighed, and then with no other options, followed my father.

  ***

  As much as I hate to admit it, once I got over my initial dissatisfaction, the place grew on me. It was all bare beams and natural oak floors. It even smelt old, if you can understand what I mean. Ancient and dry, like a place which was good at clinging to its secrets. Those first weeks passed quickly, and despite my initial misgivings about such a huge change to my surroundings, I had settled well. It was spring, and I was due to start at a new school a couple of months later. Let me tell you, there is nothing worse than being the new kid starting school during mid-term. By then friendships have already been formed and alliances made. It would be difficult to fit in, and I expected the ‘let’s bully the new kid’ mentality to be in full force.

  The day when it all started to go wrong was a Friday. I was moping around the house, feeling sorry for myself as usual. I tried to find something to do, anything to pass the time. I went through a few boxes in the spare bedroom which still hadn’t been unpacked, hoping to find some forgotten toy or treasure that might relieve the boredom, but all I found were some old photographs, a pair of brass candlesticks and a couple of folded towels.

  I made my way to the kitchen, and there as always was my mother. She was baking, barely glancing over as I began to rummage in the fridge for something to eat.

  “Jimmy get out of there, you've just eaten lunch.” She chastised as she worked the large slab of dough.

  “I’m bored,” I whined back, adding a sigh for emphasis. “There’s nothing to do here.”

  She looked at me, wringing her flour-covered hands as she would when she was agitated.

  “Go outside and explore, there must be something for you to do. Besides, it’s a lovely day.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but closed it again. I knew that this was a non-negotiable request, and when my mother demanded something, then it was a braver child than I that would disobey her. Besides, she was right. It was a beautiful day. With another sigh to make sure I had put my point across, I sloped off through the door, squinting at the brilliant brightness of the sunshine.

  The heat was incredible, dry and fierce, and the slight breeze that there was, did little to cool me, as I walked towards the barn.

  At one time, it would have housed hay or sheltered livestock, but now it was a makeshift garage for our two cars. My father had the hood of the ford pickup truck open and was working away at the engine. I walked into the barn, swatting at the flies as they swerved around my face. My father glanced at me but didn’t say anything. Maybe he was expecting another of my outbursts about the current living arrangements and was waiting to see if it materialised. When nothing came, he went back to work, brow furrowed in concentration as his oily hands worked and pulled at the car’s innards.

  “What ya doing there boy?” He asked me without looking up.

  I looked around the barn. Its old wooden framework was pocked with holes that seemed to be stuffed with liquid gold from the blazing light of the day.

  “Nothing,” I said as I scuffed my trainers in the dirt. “Just heading out to explore the woods I think.”

  He looked at me, his face streaked with oil.

  “Okay, but just don’t go past the river, its private property on the other side and the last thing I want is to get off on the wrong foot with the new neighbors.”

  “I won’t,” I said, already disinterested. “I probably won’t go too far anyway, not much to do on my own,” I added, hoping that he would feel guilty for taking me away from my friends.

  He stretched, wiped his hands on his overalls, and then strode across the barn to an old brown leather bag that was leaning against the wall.

  “Here, you can maybe give this a try,” he said, passing the bag to me.

  Fumbling with the buckle I opened it and looked inside, hoping to find a rifle, and that my father would perhaps teach me how to shoot. Instead, my young eyes fell upon an old fishing rod.

  “I found that in here when I was clearing the place out. There’s a creel just outside the door there that was with it. Why don’t you take it and see if you can catch us some supper?” He said with a grin and a wink.

  For all of my annoyance, I couldn’t help but smile. I loved fishing and my dad knew it. He also knew that I had been pestering him for the last year for a rod of my own.

  “Thanks, dad!” I said with genuine gratitude, my self-pity forgotten.

  He smiled again, and then leaned in close, filling my nostrils with the smell of sweat and engine oil.

  “Tell you what boy. You catch us a big one for supper, I’ll see about getting you a brand new one all of your own.”

  He leaned away, then looked from side to side and spoke in a whisper.

  “Just don’t tell your mother!” He said, flashing another wink at me. “Go one, get out of here before I have you help me fix this old piece of sh— junk.” He corrected himself.

  I nodded, excited to get going. Perhaps the day wouldn’t be a complete loss after all.

  “I’ll do my best. What time shall I be back?” I asked.

  “Be home before dark. And remember, don’t cross the river. That’s the boundary of our land.” He added, pointing his spanner at me for emphasis. “Now go on, those fish won’t catch themselves.”

  I whirled around and grabbed the old wicker creel that was beside the barn door just as my dad said it would be, and began to walk away from the house towards the tree line. For the first time since the move, I didn’t hate the place. In fact, I was looking forward to doing some solo exploration, and maybe, just maybe catching a decent fish or two. I wondered if the river held trout, or maybe even tuna, although that was doubtful. I was already covered in a sticky sweat as I approached the looming tree line. I looked over my shoulder at the house, marveling at how small it looked silhouetted against the crisp blue sky. Wiping my brow, and looking forward to a good days fishing, I stepped into the cool shadow of the forest.

  ***

  The shade was a blissful relief from the dry heat of the day. A light breeze passed through the trees, making mottles of sun dance across the ground. I explored lazily, heading towards the sound of the river. All around, I could hear birds chattering and singing, and content in my wondering I began to whistle to myself. I was so excited to get to try out the rod that I almost fell down the sheer embankment that edged the river. I somehow managed to cling onto a thick branch with my right hand, whilst I pin-wheeled my left in a desperate attempt to avoid a nasty fall. The sunlight was no longer impeded by the thick canopy, and shimmered brilliantly on the surface of the water, making the green hues of the forest stand out with breathtaking vibrancy.

  I shielded my eyes from the glare and looked for a suitable place to set up my rod and give me a shady place to wait for a bite. There was a nice looking area downstream where the river curved away as it made its way deeper into the forest that looked just about
perfect.

  When I arrived, I set up the rod, and after casting the line using a few plump earthworms that I dug up for bait, I settled back to wait for the fish that I was sure would come.

  I must have fallen asleep, lulled by the heat and the sound of the river, because I woke up to find that my line had been moved. I reeled it in, hopeful for a catch, but it seemed that the opportunistic fish had taken the bait without hooking itself. As I bent to pick up my rod, something metallic reflected in the sunlight across the river.

  I could see no source for the out of place shimmer, which further increased my curiosity. The warning words of my father echoed in my ears, but only for a second. I had already decided to go over and look, just to satisfy my own curiosity. I convinced myself that my father need not know, and I would be back over with time to dry off before I had to head back home.

  I sometimes wonder how my life would have turned out had I not seen that intriguing shimmer in the trees. Would the nightmare I went on to live still have happened but in some other way? Was my own curiosity alone to blame? I have asked those questions myself more times than I care to remember. I think, perhaps that is why they haunt me the most.

  Time has made the rest of the experience easier to live with, or at least to bury it away in the deep, dark place in my mind, but it’s always there, festering and lingering close enough to mean I will never have peace, or normality. Even to write it down brings back horrifying memories, things that I had somehow managed to repress over the years. To have them so fresh in my mind makes me understand just how tired I am, and perhaps the end of my time in this earth can’t come soon enough. No matter, I set out to tell all, and that is what I will do.

  ***

  The water wasn’t as deep as it looked, and at no point reached higher than my knees. I began to make my way across, the heat of the day burning the back of my neck as I waded through the cool water. It’s funny how the things, which would cause the old man that I am now, to grumble, were no more than a slight irritation for a twelve year old boy, especially one who’s curiosity had been piqued, and wet pants or not, I was determined to find out what was over on the other side of the water. The opposite bank offered more shade, and more exhausted than I thought I would be, I took a moment to rest and try to catch a better look for the shimmering thing in the woods.

  At first, I couldn’t see it, but then the wind moved the trees and it was there. A quick flash of chrome against green. The ground was softer on the opposite side, and my feet left water filled pools as I toiled through the boggy ground.

  I can still recall that time with frightening clarity, of dragging myself through the mud, swatting the mosquitoes away from my face and driven on to discover what I had seen in the woods.

  As I approached the object, I recognised the form, the familiar shape making my heart sink.

  It was just a van.

  A large silver transit with a sliding side door, its front grille, the source of the shimmer that had brought me across the water. My disappointment was short-lived, however, when I noticed the trail that curled off deeper into the woods. The shadows here were inky and cast into long, probing fingers by the intertwined tree canopy. Everything seemed slightly different, the birds were less vocal in song, and the air was still and sticky with the dry summer heat and the pungent smell of stagnant water. Only the mosquitos were consistent, going about their business with aplomb as they buzzed, dived, and looked for something to feed on. I didn’t think about not following the trail. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

  Perhaps that was the first twinge of some different feeling within. Not excitement, but not quite fear either. It was more of a lingering uneasiness that I couldn’t altogether shake. Part of me had expected — and even hoped for — a long and winding road into the woods, but I was surprised to find that as I rounded the curve, the trees terminated and there, set back against a natural recess in the trees was a dilapidated shack.

  I must choose my next words carefully as even to think of it now makes my tired old heart quiver and my hands begin to shake. I would do no service to you by falling down dead here at the desk in my room with the story unfinished. The staff here are nice, and I don’t want them to think of me as some crazy old fool making up stories in the dead of night when I should be sleeping.

  Apologies, I’m distracting myself again.

  Perhaps part of me is reluctant to commit the rest to paper, but I will, I must if I am to have any hope of resting with a clear conscience. And so I will push on, despite the terror that even thinking about that place fills me with. Even from a distance, I didn’t like it. It looked to be some kind of a hunter’s lodge, one that had been long forgotten, and the woods were making steady progress of reclaiming the land where it stood.

  Fear.

  I still remember the moment of distinction between it and excitement. I was aware of how exposed I was — standing in plain sight and staring at that ugly wooden building in the middle of nowhere. I looked at the filthy board-covered windows and imagined someone watching me through the gaps in the wood.

  I scrambled off the road, plunging into the undergrowth and the relative safety of the trees. Stinging nettles scraped my arms, but I barely noticed as I positioned myself out of sight.

  How long I crouched there on my haunches I can only guess, but when I did move, I was drenched with sweat and my calves burned. Something inside told me to run, to put as much distance between myself and this ramshackle building as possible, but that part of me was silenced by the Buck Rogers adventure seeking child, and rather than head back across the river, I skirted around the trees and moved closer to the shack.

  Two of the planks on the windows at the side of the building were broken and pulled apart, and I guessed that with enough effort I could squeeze inside. Even as I write the words it seems insane, but back then the world wasn’t such a harsh place as it is today, and I wanted to see what was inside. I made my way to the shack and looked through the gap in the wood. A rotten, earthy stench hit me, and I had to pull my T-shirt up over my nose. It was a smell unlike anything I could express in words. Undeterred, I cupped my hands and peered through the gloom into the shack.

  It looked to be a small kitchen of some kind, although I couldn’t see much from the angle I was at. With fear once again replaced by excitement, I began to wiggle my way through the window. I squirmed and wriggled, and for a horrifying moment, I could go neither forwards or backwards, then like a cork from a bottle, I was in.

  The first thing that hit me as I squeezed my way into the room was the heat. If you have ever opened the door to a hot oven and had your breath taken away by the change in temperature, then you will have a good idea how it felt. It must have been well over a hundred degrees in there, and as I knelt on the floor, I looked around to allow my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  The small kitchenette was dilapidated at best. The walls were filthy, the tile floor broken and grimy. Bars of sunlight fell across it from the multiple cracks and breaks in the wooden walls, and dust motes drifted and swam in the golden shafts.

  A filthy sheet covered the doorway that led to the rest of the shack, and I was about to sweep it aside when the feeling of being watched came over me. I held my breath and listened, but could hear nothing apart from the sound of my own breathing. I decided that I would just peek and then get out of there, just to satisfy my curiosity.

  There was a girl.

  She was gagged and tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Her head was low, resting on her chest, and I feared the worse, but I could see that she was breathing. Her hair was dirty and hung listlessly to her face in sweaty clumps. She looked to be in her early twenties and was wearing only her underwear. I could see her jeans and t-shirt tossed in the corner. Her wrists were caked in crusty, dried blood where she had struggled to break free from her restraints. The rest of the room was bare apart from a tripod and camera set up in one corner, and a long table across the far wall draped with a red cloth and
filled with, what I can best describe as torture implements. There was a different smell in the room, buried below the dry, woody, rot stench. It was a coppery smell, and there were stains on the walls and floor, dark reddish brown, which I knew was blood. There was something almost poetic as she sat there in the gloom. How long had she been captive was anybody’s guess, but she looked painfully thin and her skin was dirty and bruised. All I wanted to do was help this poor girl to break free from the pitiful conditions that she had been subjected to.

  Pushing the curtain aside, I entered the room. She must have heard me, as she raised her head. The awkwardness that I had expected at meeting her gaze was, in the end, a non-issue, as she was wearing a blindfold.

  “Who’s there?” She said, unable to hide the fear in her trembling voice.

  My own voice was stubbornly refusing to show itself, and I was suddenly aware of how thirsty I was and how much I wanted a cold drink, just a simple thing that I took for granted now felt like an unattainable luxury. I couldn’t help but stare at her, and felt ashamed and disgusted that I had begun to feel aroused as I cast my eyes on her semi-naked body.

  It pains me to write this now, and I urge you to remember that I was just a boy, a young boy who didn’t know any better or have control of his raging pre teen hormones. I make no excuses for it, and even though eighty-one years have passed since that day, I still feel ashamed when I remember how I had looked at her. I might have stood there forever, had I not been forced into action.

  I sensed it before I heard it, which I think is what saved me. I’m not sure how, maybe it was some kind of intuition, but I knew I was in danger. With seconds to spare as I heard the sound of a key working the lock, I scurried under the table, protected from view by the overhanging cloth. .

  The door creaked open and I heard heavy boots on bare wood. The footsteps approached me and I was sure I had been seen. After all, such a poor hiding place was only ever viable in a movie, but not here. This was real, as real and terrifying as it gets. I closed my eyes and waited to be discovered, hoping that I wouldn’t suffer the same fate as the girl, left here waiting for death or worse. The footsteps were close and then went past me as their owner went to the filthy kitchenette.