The Collector Book One: Mana Leak

by Daniel I. Russell

  “You’re not going, are you? You can’t!”

  “They don’t deserve to be let out. Let ‘em stew in there for a while. They need time to think. Besides, they want to be prepared for a lifetime of being locked up.”

  “Please! I can’t apologise enough for what they did to your grandmother, but you can’t just leave them in there…” said Jenny.

  He stared back at the wardrobe that rocked back and forth. The twins were once again trying to escape on their own.

  “Please?” said Jenny.

  He grudgingly took the spade from her.

  “If they go anywhere near my grandmother after this…”

  “They won’t,” Jenny replied. “Will you, boys?”

  “Just get us the fuck out of here!”

  She lowered her eyes to the floor, perhaps ashamed of her sons’ language.

  Joe rested the edge of the spade against the side of the door. Using one hand on the handle, he pushed it in as far as possible, gaining a good purchase between the main body of the wardrobe and the wood of the door. Swinging the spade back and forth, the wood splintered.

  “There we go,” he muttered, more to himself than to Jenny.

  As the wood peeled back, he drove the spade in further.

  “Stand back.”

  Gripping the handle with both hands, he bent backwards, heaving the spade.

  The wood parted in a loud crack, and the lock popped free of the frame. The door swung open, and the twins toppled out onto the floor.

  “Boys!”

  Jenny fell to her knees, trying to embrace the brothers. They shrugged her away.

  “Get off,” Adam moaned.

  Both boys dripped with sweat and had raw patches on the knuckles of each hand.

  “What happened?” she said.

  Both boys sat panting on the floor.

  “I said, what happened? I come in from work and find my room upside down and you two locked in the wardrobe! I think I deserve an explanation.”

  “There was a man,” said Jake, climbing to his feet. “A man pushed us in there.”

  “A man?” Jenny began to gasp again. “In here?”

  “Yeah. Must have been a burglar or something.”

  “I thought there’d been a struggle, I mean, look at the room…”

  Adam shot his brother a glance from the floor.

  “A struggle? Yeah…there was a struggle and he forced us into the wardrobe.”

  “What did he look like? Should I call the police?”

  “We…er…didn’t actually see him,” said Jake.

  Adam nodded and shrugged his shoulders.

  “But he won’t be back, we made sure of that.”

  Joe rested the spade against the wardrobe. “Yes, I’m sure you put the frighteners on him when you got locked in the wardrobe.” He smirked. “I’m off, my grandmother - ,” he glared at the boys, “- will be getting worried.”

  Jenny jumped up and tried to hug him, but he darted back.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much! If there is anything we can do, anything—”

  “Just keep them away from my grandmother.”

  He turned and strode out of the room.

  “Arsehole,” Jake muttered.

  “Show some respect,” Jenny snapped. “If it wasn’t for him, you’d still be in there.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to like the smug bastard.”

  3.

  Night had descended on Penny Crescent.

  The movie screen in Anne’s head played the entire ordeal over and over again in a tortuous loop. From Frank coming home from work on Friday in a foul mood, through to him storming out again that day. She heard every word, felt every blow. Every show brought the same conclusion.

  What happens now?

  Her gaze drifted across the lines in her book, but the words once again failed to sink in. The events of the last few days, and especially that afternoon, demanded her full attention. The star-crossed lovers in chapter five would have to wait.

  Anne closed the book and gently placed it on her bedside table so as not to wake Bronwyn, who lay sleeping beside her. With the book out of the way, Anne lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling.

  Her thoughts turned rationally to divorce. The house and assets would be split. Solicitors and other people who dealt with divorce would sort that out for her. She hadn’t given the subject serious thought before now.

  She knew she could carry on her life without him. No more beatings, no more intimidation. She could take the kids and move into a smaller place, living off whatever came her way through the settlement until they found their feet. It may be hard going, but it would be worth it in the long run.

  Anne’s main concern, as always, was the children. Frank may have crossed the line by raising his hand to them, but could they live without their father? A part of her wished he’d become an even worse, uncaring father. They’d wash their hands of him and start a new life. Anne knew behind his rage and anger, Frank loved his children with all his heart. He’d always be a big part of their lives, even following a divorce. But the thought of leaving them alone with him now sent a shiver of dread down her spine.

  Anne sighed and rolled over to check on Bronwyn.

  The girl lay fast asleep, breathing softly in a slow rhythm. She’d been behaving oddly all night, speaking as little as possible and staring into space. To be expected really, considering the circumstances. Anne craved to see any kind of emotion, for her daughter to cry or even get angry. At least then she could calm her daughter down and actually do something. It tore her up, seeing Bronwyn this way and being so damn impotent. The feeling of uselessness proved hard to shake off. It seemed only time would dictate when Bronwyn would emerge from this new-formed shell.

  Anne lifted the blanket and pulled it back. The light from the reading lamp cast a golden glow across her daughter’s body, showing the angry red skin of her backside. Anne studied the outline of a hand almost branded onto her daughter’s right buttock, still burning dark crimson.

  Bastard.

  Anne covered Bronwyn up to the neck with the blanket, hiding the abuse Frank had dished out to ease her shame. Guilt fluttered in her stomach like a moth in a light box. She knew this had been inevitable and that something should have been done sooner. It might have been Frank’s hand, but hadn’t she allowed this to happen? Allowed it to go so far?

  She reached over and stroked her daughter on the forehead. Bronwyn responded to the touch, her eyelids flickered and she groaned.

  “It’s okay, dear,” said Anne. “I’m here.”

  “…him…desert…” Bronwyn mumbled.

  “You’re just dreaming, hon. You’re safe in bed with me.”

  Bronwyn fell silent, and her eyes stayed closed. She returned to her rhythmic breathing as she slipped deeper and deeper into sleep.

  Anne lay watching her for a while. She suspected all these bad dreams were a direct result of the sour atmosphere in the house. She hoped this man in the desert was Bronwyn’s mind somehow coping with the last few days in her unconscious.

  Aiming to keep Bronwyn in her peaceful slumber, Anne slowly sat up, careful not to disturb her. It had taken long enough to get her to sleep.

  Out of bed, she walked down the landing to Charlie’s room. The open door revealed him lying on his front on top of his bed sheets, perched up on his elbows. A comic was spread open in front of him.

  “Hey,” she said as she approached.

  “Hey, Mum. How’s Bron?”

  “Still sleeping. Thanks for being so quiet.”

  “No problem.”

  He returned his attention to the comic.

  “Charlie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you okay? How’s your head feeling?”

  “It’s fine, Mum. Really.”

  “Okay then.” She looked at her watch. “It’s getting late. You want to call it a night soon?”

  “Will do.”

  Downstairs, Anne turned on all the ligh
ts as she walked through to the kitchen. Betsy peered up from her basket, squinting from the sudden light. The dog had stayed out of harm’s way throughout the entire incident with Frank, staying in the kitchen, unnoticed.

  “You’ve been a good girl today,” cooed Anne, crouching and scratching the dog behind the ear.

  Betsy let her tongue hang out the side of her mouth, enjoying the attention.

  “You haven’t been outside all day, have you? You want to go out in the garden?”

  Instantly recognising the words outside and garden the dog jumped up, nearly toppling Anne.

  Pushing herself up off the floor and trying to avoid Betsy, who leapt around releasing sharp yelps of anticipation, she unlocked the back door and swung it wide open.

  Outside, darkness concealed the large garden, and Anne could barely see the bushes, tree and shed.

  No matter. Dogs have night vision. Betsy has run around in the dark many a time.

  “Come on girl, out you go.”

  Betsy joined Anne on the threshold of the kitchen. She sniffed the air and looked from side to side.

  “Go on. You’re probably bursting.”

  The dog sniffed again and whined.

  “What’s wrong with you? Stupid dog…”

  Betsy whined again and turned from the door. She skulked back to her basket. Anne frowned, spotting the dog’s tail between its legs.

  “Betsy?”

  The dog climbed into her basket and lay down, facing away from the door.

  “Fine then, suit yourself,” said Anne, closing the door.

  She stopped the door mid-swing at the sound of laughter from outside: a short giggle, like that of a mischievous child.

  Anne slowly poked her head around the door, eyes trying to penetrate the night. She barely recognized the front of the shed and the upper foliage of the apple tree at the bottom of the garden. She opened the door wider and stepped out onto the patio.

  She knew if someone was in the garden, they’d easily see her with the light from the kitchen.

  But that laugh…

  Probably kids mucking around. Nothing to worry about.

  An anxious thought leapt up in her head; her night time visitors might be the Dean twins. She quickly dismissed it. The laugh had come from a young girl.

  As her eyes adjusted, she spied a shape moving around the tree, something white floating near the base of the trunk. At first, she assumed she’d seen some rubbish, perhaps a white plastic bag blown around by the wind. Her skin told her otherwise, feeling no breeze at all. The night was completely still.

  Confident that she’d found her young trespasser, she started down the garden.

  As she neared the apple tree, the billowing white object took shape. A child, wearing a nightgown of some kind. It appeared to be dancing around the tree to silent music.

  “Hey,” Anne shouted. “You! Get out of here. Go on. Out!”

  The small figure stopped.

  Although still some distance away, Anne saw its thin arms and legs beneath the baggy nightgown. A gasp caught in her thought as her eyes moved up to the child’s head.

  Completely bald.

  “Katie?”

  She spun around from the sudden growl behind her.

  Betsy stood in the doorway to the kitchen on her haunches, teeth bared. She barked.

  Ignoring the dog, Anne turned back to find the figure had vanished from beneath the tree.

  “Katie?” she whispered. “Katie, are you here?”

  Another playful melody of laughter jingled in the air, this time from the side, near the shed.

  Leaving Betsy to voice her worry, Anne headed deeper into the garden.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as the wave of memories crashed ashore. The feelings of loss she had believed to be buried now resurfaced. Could this be some kind of breakdown, her mind finally snapping after the constant abuse? She cursed herself. Imagining her daughter had returned from the grave was the cruellest way to punish herself. She had suffered enough. But still she pressed on, her feet carrying her closer and closer to the shed. She had to know. She needed to be certain.

  She ran her hand along the side of the shed, feeling the rough texture of the wood lightly scrape her fingers. The laughter had sounded from the back of the small building, not from within. Anne knew of a narrow gap, maybe only a foot across, between the rear of the shed and the fence; easily enough space for a child to hide in.

  She stopped, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Holding onto the shed for support, she peered around the corner.

  The narrow space appeared darker still, no light gaining access between shed and fence. The space seemed empty.

  I’d see Katie in her white gown if she was hiding in here…

  The insanity of the situation hit her like a sledgehammer. A woman just past thirty, running around chasing ghosts in her back garden while her children needed her.

  Tasting salt on her lips, she wiped her face, smearing her tears across her skin. Katie was gone; she couldn’t come back. Whatever she had seen and heard, she needed to forget about it. Put it to the back of her mind, for the kids’ sake. Her business with Frank was paramount, and any hallucinations would have to wait.

  “…Mum…”

  She froze at the word, feeling goose bumps rise on her arms and back.

  “…Mum…I need you…” said the meek voice, quiet as a distant wind.

  Was that footsteps she could hear, naked feet moving across the lawn towards her? Betsy had stopped barking, and silence had descended on the night. Anne held her breath, eyes squeezed shut.

  She yelped as a small hand grabbed the leg of her jeans and tugged.

  “Mum!”

  She opened her eyes and looked down, gasping with fright.

  Bronwyn looked up at her.

  “Mummy, I had a bad dream.”

  The Collector

  Anne Harper lay in bed, reading the cracks in the ceiling. Sleep lingered a lifetime away, her mind a bubbling mass of tension. On reflection, she put her hallucination down to stress. What with Bronwyn’s imaginary friend, and the turmoil of the day, she wasn’t surprised her mind played tricks. But how could Bronwyn describe her dead sister, a sister she had never met? If it was a hallucination in the garden, why did Betsy seem so spooked? And so the cycle of questions and worry would start again, round and round like a carousel.

  In the McGuire house, Joe had retired to bed early, still thinking about those damn Dean twins. Eleanor sat amid piles of books in the study, reading by lamplight. Her subject: ways to contact the dead, explaining in detail how to use Ouija boards and the dynamics of holding a séance.

  Jenny Dean slumped at her kitchen table, sorting through her collection of bills again. She had checked the doors and windows were locked, paranoid the intruder would return. The twins hid in the garage, stereo on full volume. Jenny planned to check the locks again after they crawled in at some forsaken hour. What with the constant worry of the bills and the new security worries, she had barely thought about why her ring had again returned to her finger.

  No one noticed the crack widen in the middle of the road, nor the long white finger poking from it. The finger twitched, as if testing the night air. Its companions emerged, now four digits protruding from the road. The crack opened further, allowing another four fingers to rise out of the darkness.

  The fingers bent and explored the area around the crack; neat, trimmed nails dragging across the cold tarmac. They pushed.

  The road folded back with ease, as if formed of soft, black treacle. The hands grabbed the edges of the crack and pushed further, opening a hole a metre across.

  With a quiet grunt, The Collector pulled himself over the lip and stood. He looked down in disgust at the patches of dirt and dust on his jet-black suit.

  “Such a primitive means of transportation,” he muttered and brushed his jacket clean with his hands. He sampled a deep breath of chilly night air and scanned the surrounding street.

  The mo
on glowed through a cloudless sky, illuminating Penny Crescent better than the feeble streetlights ever could.

  “Ah, England,” The Collector sighed. “I find myself on your pleasant green shores once again.”

  He gazed down the fissure that gaped in the middle of the road like a manhole.

  “Montgomery,” he hissed into the darkness.

  A low growl replied.

  “Come along, Montgomery! Stop playing such infantile games.”

  The Collector crouched and reached into the hole, pulling out a thick, silver chain. He gave it a firm tug.

  The creature obediently climbed out and stayed close to his master’s side. The tarmac rolled back over, restoring the gaping hole to an unnoticeable crack.

  “Jolly good,” said The Collector, watching the road return to its normal and solid state. He struck it with his heel and satisfied, returned his attention to the creature by his leg.

  “If I’m to take this off,” he said, jangling the chain, “one must promise to behave.”

  The creature nodded.

  “Very well.”

  The Collector reached down and removed the chain from around Montgomery’s neck.

  “Now that we have arrived,” he continued, “we must find shelter for the night.” He swept his head from side to side, studying the houses. “Our work begins with the morning sun. Come along, Montgomery…”

  With a flick to the brim of his bowler hat, he started down the street.

  House Calls

  1.

  Early the following day, Eleanor attempted to clean the house. Joe had gone for a run, so she tackled the task alone. She had no problem with this, used to it after years of living on her own. But the cleaning took longer than expected, due to bouts of headaches that faded in and out all morning. She guessed the late night reading had taken its toll.

  She placed the last of the newly dusted ornaments back in its place.

  It’ll do.

  The room still appeared untidy and cluttered. The addition of yet more books from upstairs increased the busy feel of the room. Eleanor planned to resume her reading on the comfort of the sofa, so had asked Joe to carry the stack of volumes down. The books sat waiting on the coffee table.

  Her desire to continue her studies had been rekindled by the second morning of the phantom smell. She had opened her bedroom door to the unmistakable odour of frying eggs and bacon. Although this morning, it seemed weaker and a little distant. The windows had stayed closed too.