Quarter to Midnight: Fifteen Horror Short Stories

by Darcy Coates

  “Please hurry!”

  I gritted my teeth and pressed forward, ignoring the bruises forming on my shins and my stinging toes from where I’d stubbed them. I focussed on keeping up with the pale girl weaving through the trunks ahead of me.

  I suddenly broke through a patch of bush and skidded to a halt, just inches from a steep ravine. I teetered, caught my balance, and took a step back. The cliff dropped down more than twenty feet before ending in a stream that shimmered dully in the rain. I looked across the ravine and saw a road chiselled into the side of the opposite mountain.

  “Down there,” the girl whispered, pointing into the ravine. I crouched and squinted, looking for the car among the boulders and bushes around the creek. I couldn’t make out the crash through the rain no matter how many times I passed my eyes over the gully.

  “Where is it?” I asked, glancing up, “I can’t see—”

  She was gone. I stumbled to my feet and turned in a complete circle, searching for the girl among the trees.

  “Hello?” I called. All I could hear was the wail of the wind and the persistent drum of rain on the woods about me.

  I stood there for far too long, waiting for the girl to come back or call for me. I kept looking down into the gully, searching for the car, but I still couldn’t see anything. When I finally looked up at the road on the opposite side of the ravine, I realised the railing was intact for as far as I could see it.

  I felt stupid and confused. With no other options, I turned and began walking back towards the town.

  It was a long, cold hike through the woods. I found it was easy to become disoriented in the pathless, dark maze, but I tried to walk straight as much as possible and eventually broke through the trees into a field. Another twenty minutes of walking brought me back to the city centre.

  Drenched, shivering, and bruised from the trip through the woods, I sloshed through the puddles, passing the rows of deserted buildings and empty houses, until I reached the café and found my car waiting for me. I hesitated with one hand on the door as I tried to think of what the most reasonable action was. Should I tell someone about the girl? Should I just get into my car, drive out of the town as quickly as possible, and pretend none of the last two hours had happened?

  “Hey,” someone called.

  I turned to find a police officer standing in the entrance to the café, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded over his protruding stomach. He nodded towards my car. “Is that yours?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You’d better come in for a minute, son.”

  I hesitated, wondering if I was in trouble. The officer had already turned and disappeared into the café, though, and I felt too cold and miserable to refuse him.

  Inside, the diners from earlier were gone, leaving the room empty except for me and the officer, who had sat at a table near the window. I sloshed over to him, leaving a wet trail on the wooden floor, and sat down.

  “Let me tell you, I’m glad you came back.” The officer scratched at the stubble on his chin as he regarded me with amused grey eyes. “Annette told me you’d followed Lucy, so I was going to organise a search party if you didn’t turn up soon. Not pretty weather for it, though.”

  I blinked at him, trying to understand what he was getting at. Something bumped my arm, and I jumped as the sallow-faced waitress placed a mug of coffee on the table in front of me. “On the house,” she said flatly then pressed a bundle of dishtowels into my hands.

  “Annette, you’re a doll,” the officer said as the waitress left. He turned back to me and grinned. “Did you make it all the way to the drop-off?”

  “Uhh…” I dragged the towels through my damp hair as my brain scrambled to catch up. “There was a girl. She, uh—”

  “Yeah, that’s Lucy McKenzie.” The officer took a sip of his coffee. “I wish I could say she’s the strangest thing about this town, but then, this is West Harob.”

  My frustration built as I rubbed my neck dry. “What do you mean? She said her car had crashed—”

  “It sure did, son. Decades ago. It was a night not too different from this one–horrible rain. You could barely see the road in front of you. Yeah, their car went off the ravine on the Woodsons Trail. The mother died at the scene, but Lucy managed to climb out of the creek and made it through the woods. Got all the way into town before she died from a… whatcha call it? A brain haemorrhage. Passed away in the middle of the road before anyone could help her. It was a real tragedy.”

  I’d frozen, wet towels still clasped in my hands, as I processed what he was implying.

  The officer nodded at my stunned expression. “She comes back any time there’s a big storm and runs through the town, asking for help. We usually just shut our doors and block our ears ‘til the rain passes, but I guess you didn’t know about her, being from outside town and all. I’m glad you found your own way back, though. Not everyone does, and let me tell you, it’s not fun looking for Lucy’s helpers on nights like tonight.”

  He put his empty coffee cup on the table and stood. “I’d better be going, son. The radio says the storm will clear up in a couple of hours, so you might like to wait it out. If you do leave, though, make sure to be careful on the roads.”

  The officer inclined his head towards the waitress and left the café with a bright jingle of its doorbell. My brain was reeling. I wanted to believe it was a big practical joke–but I’d seen the girl myself, watched the blood run down her face, heard her beg for help… only to have her disappear and leave me with an intact stretch of railing and a gully that no longer held her car.

  I only stayed in the café for a few minutes. I nodded a mute thanks to Annette before leaving, and the smile I got in return was marginally more genuine than the one I’d received on arrival. Back in the car, I stripped off as many layers of soaked clothing as I dared, put them in a spare bag to stop them from leaking, turned the heater up, and drove straight out of West Harob. The officer had said Lucy wasn’t the strangest thing about the town… and I had no intention of staying long enough to see what else there was.

  SUB BASEMENT

  “It’s your turn,” Andrew said as he dropped a sheet of paper onto my desk.

  I glanced over the list of names and cursed under my breath. There had to be at least twenty of them. “I could have sworn it was Carlie’s turn next.”

  Andrew gave me a lopsided grin. “Nope, she did the archive run last week. It’s tax time, man. Everyone wants their records dug up. You know that.”

  I glanced around and saw the half-dozen employees within hearing distance had stopped their work to listen in on the conversation. Most of them had the decency to swivel back to their computers when I made eye contact, but Tyson, the office joker, took the opportunity to pull out his tie and hold it taut above his head like a noose. I hated Tyson.

  “You know how it works,” Andrew said. “Take a flashlight and a jacket and work fast. There’re only twenty-two names here. It shouldn’t take you more than half an hour. You’ll be done before you know it.”

  I grudgingly took the list and headed for the lift.

  Everyone hated getting the archive run. It was a trip into the very bottom level of the high-rise to retrieve–or return–files of customers who no longer did business with us. Normally, the visits were infrequent–once every three or four weeks–but over the last month, we’d been inundated with customers wanting details of their cancelled accounts so they could lodge tax returns.

  I’d only done one archive run before, eight months previously, for two folders, and I had no interest in repeating the experience.

  The archive’s level wasn’t listed on the building’s floor plans, but most people called it the Sub Basement. It was permanently dark, icy cold and smelt like rotting paper and plants. Many rumours circulated about the neglected level. Most were probably hyperbolic, but enough had a ring of truth to them to make the Sub Basement a favourite gossip point in the office.

  I got into an
empty lift and selected the blank button at the bottom of the panel. The carriage held still for a second before beginning its descent. I wiped my sweating palms on my pants and loosened my tie.

  “It’s no big deal,” I told myself. Dozens of people had made the run without seeing anything out of the ordinary. And even when… well, Joan had suffered from a heart condition, anyway.

  The display above the elevator’s door listed the levels we were passing. I worked near the top of the building, on the eighteenth floor. The numbers descended until they read 0–the first basement–then 00–the second basement. The display froze on 00 while the cart continued to descend into the Sub Basement.

  The elevator stopped with a jolt, and the doors slid open. Outside was a long corridor. I could only see as far as the elevator’s light penetrated. Beyond that was ink black.

  I stepped out and reached to the right. A row of flashlights and waterproof jackets hung from hooks on the concrete wall. I took one of each and turned my light on as the elevator’s doors closed.

  The Sub Basement’s lights had failed four years ago, leaving it in permanent darkness. Management had hired electricians, but the lights couldn’t be repaired without drilling into the concrete supports and compromising the stability of the building. Management had promised to put up temporary lights, but somehow, they never made it into the budget.

  I flicked my torchlight across the walls of the corridor. The concrete was discoloured from a steady seepage of water. Carts, the kind used in libraries, stood against the walls. Most were broken. Rust had stained many of them red. Twenty-two folders would be a large armful, but not enough to make me search for a working cart. I hurried past them.

  The double door at the end of the hallway used a push handle to open. I pressed on it, but it stuck. I grimaced and rose onto my toes, putting my full weight on the handle, until it scraped down and opened the doors.

  The stories about the Sub Basement were copious and of dubious veracity. Paul from IT told anyone who would listen that it was never supposed to be built, but the construction crew made a mistake when reading the plans. I thought Paul was full of it.

  Preeta had said she saw rats the size of small dogs when she was on an archive run. I’m a little more inclined to believe her—she tends to be honest.

  The worst were the stories about the five employees who’d quit, each after going on an archive run. Supposedly, they’d asked for their unpaid salary to be mailed to them then walked straight out of the building, not even stopping long enough to clean out their desks or say goodbye.

  I’d thought the stories were fiction—until I witnessed it myself. The most recent quitter was Riley, who had worked opposite me. He was a quiet guy, but we’d gotten along well. I’d always thought he was reliable. Steady. Then one afternoon, he went on an archive run and didn’t come back. HR told us he had quit. They cleaned out his desk overnight. The rumour mill had a field day.

  I moved my torch about the Sub Basement, squinting to pick out shapes in the dancing light. To the left were filing boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling. Immediately in front of me and to the right were shelves–nearly a hundred of them–with thousands upon thousands of files.

  The air was incredibly cold. I held the torch with my teeth and tucked the paper between my knees before slipping into the waterproof jacket. It wouldn’t provide much warmth, but at least it would protect me from the drips.

  The room was about the size of a football field. Most of the files had been accumulated before the company went digital five years previously, and HR didn’t have any motivation–or room–to move them to a higher, warmer level. I suspect HR would have found plenty of motivation if they were the ones responsible for archive runs.

  The files were divided into three sections–one for each decade the company had been operating–and each decade was arranged alphabetically according to the customer’s surname.

  My list had the decades handwritten next to the names, and was arranged from most recent to oldest. First up were eight names from the last decade, which would be found in the boxes to the left of the door.

  The universal advice was to get in and out of Sub Basement quickly. The more time people spent there, the wilder their tales became.

  Jerome said he believes there’s a gas leak with hallucinogenic properties. He has warned every new employee not to light up in the Sub Basement in case it triggered an explosion.

  I couldn’t smell anything, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t right.

  The first file–ANDERSON, Patricia–was easy to find, and I pulled it out of its box. Something rattled from farther in the room. I froze, listening hard.

  Silence.

  I exhaled through my teeth and started scanning the names again.

  Gregory thought bats had infested in the Sub Basement. He’d supposedly found a nest of them in the corner of the room, but they were blind and deformed, and they’d screamed at him when he got too close.

  I found the second and third names together and tugged them both out. I set my small pile on the ground and went to work looking for the fourth name.

  Something brushed my ankle, and I jumped back, bumping into the shelves behind me and nearly knocking them over. The flashlight’s beam was jittery as I angled it at the ground, but I felt a buzz of relief when I saw the strip of plastic wrap poking out from under the boxes. I must have grazed it.

  I moved forward again to continue my search and felt something prickly stick into my neck. I swiped at it. The sensation clung to my hand as I pulled it away and angled my flashlight at it.

  A glossy black insect hung on my fingers. It was large and flat, and its body was segmented like a wasp’s. Its six legs had hooks that dug into my skin, and large mandibles protruded from its oblong face.

  I let out a choked cry of disgust and tried to flick the insect off, but it dug its spiked legs in harder, piercing my skin. Desperate, I slapped the back of my hand against the bookcase, hoping to crush the creature. Its body convulsed on impact, and it dropped to the ground then scuttled under the shelf.

  I drew in shallow, ragged breaths as I moved away and brought the flashlight up to examine my hand. The cuts were small, but they stung.

  Something on my arm moved at the same time as I became aware of many small objects hanging onto my back. I froze, then carefully turned the light towards my arm. One of the insects, larger than the first, clung to my elbow. Further up, another one had latched on to my shoulder.

  The flashlight made a dull metallic noise as I dropped it on the concrete ground. I hardly dared breathe as I moved my hands to unhook the waterproof jacket’s buttons.

  Two of the insects shifted on my back. I squinted my eyes closed as my skin crawled and goose bumps rose on my arms. I unhooked the final button and, in a smooth motion, shrugged out of the jacket, skidded away from it, and scooped up the flashlight and paper at the same time.

  I turned the light on the plastic jacket. Two of the insects burrowed into the cloth to hide. I let my breath out and shuddered, then ran my hands over my hair, my neck, and my legs to check that I was clear.

  They must have fallen on me when I bumped into the shelf. I’d never seen insects that big. What were they? Wasps? Some sort of cockroach?

  “Work fast,” I reminded myself. “Get the folders and leave.”

  I left the jacket on the ground and went back to my search, being careful not to touch shelves I didn’t need to.

  The fourth name was hard to find, but the fifth came easily. I took my stack of folders back to the doorway and left them on a dry bit of concrete. No point carrying them about with me.

  The next folder I needed was on the other side of the temporary cardboard filing cases. As I rounded the corner, I saw a kitchen and break room indented into the wall. Next to them was a door leading to the bathroom. Each floor, including the Sub Basement, had its own amenities.

  Hanna loved to tell the story of how she’d needed to use the bathroom while on an archive run. The deta
ils seemed to get embellished with each retelling, but she did have the cuts on her legs to show for it.

  I made quick work of the next three folders and put them on the stack next to the door. The fourth one was misfiled, and I had to crouch to search for it. Something cold and wet landed on the back of my neck, and I jerked back, frightened the insects had returned.

  It was some sort of slime. I scraped it off the back of my neck to examine it. It was clear and thicker than water, but not quite jelly, like dense saliva, only icy cold.

  I thought I heard rattling above me and pointed my torch towards the ceiling. Like the ground and walls, it was discoloured, but I didn’t see anything that could account for the drips. The slimy sensation on my hands made me feel nauseous. I didn’t want to wipe it on my pants, and there was nowhere else I could clean myself—except the bathroom.

  “Damn,” I whispered. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  I nudged the door open and took a moment to shine my light over the insides. It was very similar to the bathrooms in the higher floors. Directly in front of me were three sinks, each with their own soap pump. At the back of the room was a hand towel dispenser. To the right were four stalls with tall, dark grey doors, all closed. The walls and floor were tile, while the ceiling was the same concrete as the rest of the floor.

  Unlike the higher levels, the Sub Basement’s bathroom was falling apart. Many of the tiles were cracked, and fungus and mould grew in the crevices. Dark stains ran down the sink bowls, towards the drains. The bin was overflowing with decaying paper towels, and the glass mirror above the sinks was clouded with age, showing a blurred imitation of the stalls behind it.

  I placed my torch on the corner of one of the sinks. It reflected off the tiles, providing modest illumination for the room.

  I went to the paper towels first, intending to blot off the ooze. The front of the dispenser was cracked open, as though something large had been rammed into it, and towels spilled out of the top. I pulled at one of them, but it fell apart between my fingers