Dare to Read: 13 Tales of Terror

by Jamie C. Pritchard

  Equally fascinated and ticked off, Rishu safely put the slide in the bin. Of course he had been smart enough to take some pictures of it, but that did not stop his efforts to find another. Every day, even before his parents had risen he was back at the same spot under the metal bridge. To increase his chances multiple containers were taken. The first day, the second and the third ended with no luck. It was just a matter of time, or so he thought. A week and over a hundred samples later Rishu was still searching. The effort needed to meticulously go through each sample was tough and put him in a sour mood. Though he had never had the problem before, his right hand began to ache. It’s a pain that stayed with him for the evening. Hiding it from mum was not easy. The main reason he did not want to share it was because of that inevitable ‘I told you so’ raise of the eyebrows. Repetitive strain injury was the guess, and in that moment Rishu uncharacteristically conceded that he should probably go out more.

  The next day he told mum he was going to contact his friends which surprised her. Rishu knew he was overworked and that any efforts today would be wasted. It was time for a change of scenery. Seen as the day would be a write-off Rishu was in a different kind of mood. When he met up with his cronies they too were surprised to see their sometime friend drink his pint in five minutes, order another and start talking about how great university was going to be. Not use to the buzz of alcohol, Rishu did not know how to pace himself. His friends liked this new version of him and an afternoon session turned into a night out.

  Fifth Avenue was their destination, a popular alternate music club which rammed you in like sardines. It was lucky Rishu was allowed in, rocking from side to side in the queue, but he made it and then proceeded to jump up and down to music he didn’t really like. With his well-groomed moustache and dance moves he got plenty of female attention. His mates watched on in amusement, ready to rib him about this once sober. Not until 5 a.m. did he get back to worried parents. Drunken slurs told them to chill out and get off his case. The following morning Rishu learnt he would have to write today off as well.

  As he woke up, rather than carry on the dream about being a microbiologist, Rishu noticed how dry his mouth was. Then he noticed how sensitive his skin was. It took a few seconds to get his balance after standing up. In a sentence he felt awful. There was no way anything productive was going to happen in the next twenty four hours. For once he was glad his mum was rattling about and told her how bad he felt. She told him how mouthy he was after getting back which he couldn’t remember. Though it may have done him some good he managed to avoid puking and settled into a day of cuppa soups and lounging in front of the television. As this blip of a day went on he ended up having a good laugh with his mum, watching family films that hadn’t aged well at all. He got an early night still feeling drained.

  The next morning there was no spinning head but a collection of ulcers on his tongue. Standing up showed him to still be achy. It felt like his bones were sore. When he gave mum an update she said what he thought – that he was coming down with the flu. Clearly it was a shock to his routinely sober body to drink like that. Trying to remember how many he had was difficult and made him laugh but then that aggravated his condition. Later on he noticed it hurt when he wasn’t even moving, sat down on a chair. Rishu took a few Ibuprofens and had another early night.

  Regarding how he felt the next day he replied that he wasn’t up for leaving his bed. His Dad, normally dismissive about the extent of people’s illness, began show concern. Mum was far more worried and arranged for a doctor to come around. When he observed how sore and sensitive Rishu was he diagnosed him with a heavy flu but also asked whether there was any history of arthritis in the family. No, it probably wasn’t that he assured them, but also that it wasn’t exclusive to old people. The temporary solution was more painkillers. His mum kept him company until it was time to sleep. It all happened so quickly, but Rishu Bajwa would not see the light of a new day.

  At around 2 a.m. a great thud woke his parents. Stomping followed and another loud bang. It sounded like there was a struggle going on in Rishu’s room. His dad warded his mum behind him and opened the door to see their son knocking over his equipment. At first they thought he was having a moment of despair, but when they turned the lights on they could see he was in pain. His face was turning purple and it sounded like he couldn’t breathe. His delirious mum tried to help but was stopped in her tracks to see one of his arms bent out of proportion. He tumbled into the desk, knocking his microscope over, and that is when his left leg folded from underneath him and not at the joint. As he convulsed on the floor his parents came to his side, trying to understand why he was choking. His other injuries stopped the urge to physically intervene. A minute later it was all over and the highly sociable Bajwa’s went into mourning.

  Once the cause of death had been determined Rishu Bajwa did indeed make a contribution to his chosen field, though not in the manner he had intended. It was as a reference case to what is now known as Mocarium Disferia. A detailed description of its life cycle is present in the textbook he was supposed to get when he started university.

  “Mocarium Disferia is a new genus of Protozoa found in the cold waters of Northwest, England. There are as many as five stages to a life cycle which must be the most advanced of any microorganism.

  From a cyst Mocarium develops into a Trophozoite in which it is active and feeds. The spoke-like anatomy is completely unlike its relatives. A tough, secondary membrane dwells within the endoplasm and works as a venting system in which it can suck in food or blow things out. The tips of the passages can change in order to pierce the outer membranes of other microorganisms. Waterborne hosts result in a three-stage lifecycle. The trophozoite will become a flagellate and then produce cysts. It is when Mocarium reacts with blood that a most spectacular metamorphosis occurs.

  Research is ongoing but the response to blood appears to be an intelligent one, that there is a wounded animal close enough to infect. Shortly after contact a chemical is released in which the blood increases in volume and begins to bubble. This apparently sacrifices the trophozoite. From the bubbles shoot airborne cysts, easily inhaled. Irrespective of whether the host inhales via the mouth or nasal they gather near the choana (back of the nose) to develop into a modified trophozoite characterised by a hardened, sharp membrane at the front. Before moving they undergo binary fission to reproduce in the hundreds of thousands.

  These singular trophozoites then disperse into the arms and legs via the blood stream. It is not blood however they are after but bone marrow, and that is where their sharpened fronts come into play. They essentially drill into the bone. Because these trophozoites are unusually large the holes are not superficial. Furthermore, because of their great number thousands are made which can, in worst case scenarios, leave them in a condition resembling brittle bone disease. Aching pains belie the seriousness of the infection. It is the fat cells in the bone marrow which they feed on. When they have gorged on enough they relocate to the choana where a final transformation takes place.

  In less than a day the hard-headed trophozoites evolve into these highly mobile microorganisms (currently unnamed) that boast a large, circular mouthpart. They are perhaps the most curious of all Mocarium’s life stages. The hosts’ lungs are the final location. After a twelve hour incubation period they begin to attach their mouthparts onto bronchioles. Exactly why they do this, whether it proves some kind of sustenance, microbiologists have not clarified, but the effect on the host is suffocation. A sensation of having something lodged in the throat causes the victim to think its choking, and so struggling is the natural reaction. Not only is this a lost cause but, due to the bone deterioration, there is a high chance the victim will incur fractures. The cycle is continued by a percentage of airborne cysts that head towards and pass through the small intestine shortly after infection.

  Ingestion of Mocarium is harmless. Likelihood of infection remains low but its distribution is not clear. Many filtration systems outside of
the Northwest are being checked. In the meantime, as a precaution, residents have been told not to clean any wounds under running water. Mortality rates of the infected stands at 100%.”

  The Teddy Bears of Bromdale

  1

  That time had come again. Before Nigel set off to get his daughter he was discussing with wife Mellissa whether or not the little one deserved another teddy bear from Miss McCleary’s. It wasn’t her birthday but she had been doing great at school. “I believe in rewards but not when it comes at fifty quid a pop!” said Nigel in his spacious and fully equipped kitchen. “She only wants the pricey ones now – the ‘special edition’ ones.”

  “You know very well that’s why she put so much effort in her recent school project, because she expects you to follow through with your end of the bargain.” A little smiled followed.

  “Bargain? So we’re haggling now?”

  “Just get the teddy bear Nige.”

  “Yeah I know…but fifty quid!” He kissed the wife goodbye and exited his house. Today was Friday which meant only a half day at work, allowing him to scoop up his daughter. It was a short walk outside Golden Meadows, a neighbourhood that looked as nice as it sounded, a place where you’d either inherited wealth or done good. Nigel was a proud member of the latter. Moving here had allowed Mellissa to secure her “dream job” becoming the manager at an independent cake shop. Nigel’s line of work as a sales director was more trying but that was part of the fun. Maybe in a year or so they’d have another kid; for now they were a model three-piece.

  The mouth of this cul-de-sac joined onto a narrow road (no more than half a mile) which led to a crossroads. Straight across was Bromdale Primary School but before that came Miss McCleary’s Bear Factory, located next to a post office. Boys would pop into the last one for sweets and soda. The majority of girls would be hurried along while trying to look through the windows at the furry goodness. Some would be let in but leave empty-handed. That wouldn’t be the case with Nigel’s little girl today and she appeared to anticipate this. Nigel could see her from a way off, patiently waiting with her Alvin & The Chipmunks lunch box. After spotting him she imitated a pogo-stick until allowed out of the entrance gates. Then she jumped into a hug.

  “Daddy!”

  “Hey Rachel!”

  “Daddy, you’re not working today?”

  “No, I’m not working today.”

  “So you’ve come to see me?”

  “Yep! So I’ve come to see you!”

  “Yeeeaaaahhhh!”

  She jumped more as they began walking hand-in-hand. Once they got to the edge of the road it was serious time. “Okay, so what do we do whenever we want to cross a road?” asked Nigel, prompting a few commands that they said together, “We stop, look and listen.” With that done Rachel declared, “Red means stop, orange means steady and green means go! Did you know that Daddy?”

  “Funnily enough I did know that pet.”

  A bit further and Rachel’s walk changed from the wired one that wanted to go home to a slower one that recognized what was coming up. “Daddy?” She asked in a pauper like tone. “Is it okay if I go into Miss McCleary’s bear shop?” Nigel found it amusing how quickly her behaviour changed. “Well I don’t know about that I’m afraid,” he said with raised eyebrows in an act Rachel had not figured out yet.

  “Daddyyyyy?”

  I think somebody had been very naughty.” She could now see the expression on his face, too silly to be making a point and braced herself for a tickle. After he had made her sufficiently clam-up he said, “Oh, okay then.” That triggered another jumping session and Rachel led the way into the bear shop. “C’mon Daddy!” He took the lunchbox off her so she had free reign. The door hit a bell which alerted the owner. Nigel smiled as he watched his little girl skip towards a row of brilliantly made teddy bears. An old, croaky voice reached out to him.

  “I think it suits you.”

  Nigel turned his head to Miss McCleary, sat in her signature rocking chair and acknowledged the lunchbox he was holding. “Yeah, I was thinking of buying Rachel one as well.” Miss McCleary was doing what she did whenever you saw her – sewing. She had a large frame for a woman; even now as an old bird she must have scraped six foot…well, had she been able to stand straight. If anything she was underweight. Evidently her condition was poor. Some kind of bone problem, maybe calcium deposits, had disfigured her elbows making those long arms jut out even more. To a lesser degree a similar thing had occurred with her chin. A sunken face perfectly outlined the cheekbones. No, she probably wasn’t a looker, ever, but it’s the general rule with nature and people that where there’s an absence of beauty there is decency. Miss McCleary’s ear-to-ear smile was a token of hers.

  In a village known for its kindness and community she stood out. Everyone marvelled at her activity. It was like she was working overtime to do all the good deeds selfish people were supposed to. Be it for birthday parties, weddings or terminally ill children, bears were sent. Whatever money was left after paying the bills was split between various charities and an overflowing jar of tips went towards buying new bear-making material. The only (short-lived) indulgence she appeared to take was after handing over a new fluffy companion. She could remember the name of countless customers, not one of which had a bad thing to say about her. To put it more accurately they couldn’t stop singing her praises. Part of this was down to her openness.

  Most knew her story. A widow for nearly fifty years, Miss McCleary didn’t ever want to marry again because she felt it would taint the legacy of her “Dearest Conor” who she still claimed to love. Not long after they had tied the knot he died in a mining accident in which, once he knew his fate was sealed, managed to yell out a message about how he “would always be with her, in life and death.” Whenever she recited those words they caused her to well up and customers were nearly set off too. Many decades later when her closest friends were gone she decided to move from Ireland to England and had been here for the past seven years. In that time she had risen to the position of Bromdale’s most beloved citizen, proof of which could be seen whenever she insisted to get change and the customer would fuss about her during the short trip to the cash desk like a priceless sculpture that mustn’t fall. The one part in which there was lots of strength was in her hands which sewed vigorously.

  While Rachel buzzed about Nigel heard his stomach rumble and asked if she had made up her mind. “That one, Daddy!” she yelled and pointed at the top shelf. “This one?” he asked while reaching up. “Yes, that one!” As soon as he grabbed it he noted how soft if was, how cleanly sewn the seams were, but, most of all, how brilliantly blue the eyes were that seemed to look back at him. For a moment handing over fifty big ones didn’t seem unreasonable. Each bear sported a ribbon around its neck and a label where you wrote down the name you decided to give it. Nigel went over to Miss McCleary with the notes outspread to show exactly fifty pounds were being put into the tin box. She raised a hand like that wasn’t necessary, such was the level of trust. The focus was then on Rachel who was hugging her present. “Have you thought of a name for it yet?” she was asked by its creator. “Umm…” Rachel smiled while looking at her dad and twisting from side to side. “Maybe Dorothy!” Nigel laughed out of his nose and looked at Miss McCleary.

  “Oh, like the Wizard of Oz! You know dear, I’m nearly old enough to remember when that came out.”

  “Was it a long time ago?” asked Rachel with that exaggerated emphasis.

  “Around the 1930’s wasn’t it?” asked Nigel with an amused smile. “Oh god, it’s not that long ago is it?” replied Miss McCleary and they both laughed.

  “Is it the one with Tinman?” asked Rachel. “That’s the one! And the Lion and Scarecrow.” It’s true that Rachel and Miss McCleary had spoken on a few occasions but new visitors spoke to her just the same. She had this knack for getting kids to open up, a smile that had a bit of mischief to it – one that said ‘let’s not tell your parents!’ Nigel informed his e
cstatic daughter they must be on their way now. The talented dame behind this shop gave a bittersweet smile, as she always did these days, of a lady who didn’t know how much time was left.

  “Probably won’t be long before we’re back,” laughed Nigel. “Oops! Almost forgot.” Before opening the door he quickly ran back to put a couple of quid in the tips jar.

  2

  After a whole weekend of playing with her bear, Rachel was faced with the tough decision of leaving Dorothy at home or taking her to school. Mum had warned that it could get damaged or worst yet lost, but then if it stayed home she couldn’t boast. Struck with the possibility of having to pay for a replacement, Nigel recommended it stay put. This almost led to a tantrum but he quashed it by promising she could have friends around next weekend.

  “And do they have a bear?!” he asked in a way designed to override the disappointment.

  “No…” replied Rachel.

  “Well then think how cool they’ll think yours is, and then they can tell everyone at school!”

  Her face suggested the tantrum had merely been delayed but then Mellissa came in for the save, “Rachel do you want Wheetos or Frosted Flakes?”

  “Wheetos!” she replied and bounced her way to the breakfast bar.

  It was Nigel who took Rachel to school as it was on the way to work. Once breakfast was done it was upstairs to brush your teeth then standing by the front door for an appearance check. Nigel knelt down to take a hair strand out of her mouth and asked if she was ready. They both said bye to Mellissa and got in the F-type Jag where the conversation flowed. There were other things to look forward to other than the weekend. Rachel’s class were in the middle of writing a fictional story which had to feature a lumberjack, a princess and a rabbit, “but mine’s going to be the best!” she assured. Once all the reasons why were listed it was question time.