Dare to Read: 13 Tales of Terror

by Jamie C. Pritchard

  “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  The phone call ended and he re-joined his two favourite girls with the air of the man who had no troubles – good acting on his behalf. The days continued to pass, Rachel built a house for Dorothy out of cardboard, Mellissa’s cake shop had never done better and Nigel, despite his overactive mind, was able to function during office hours. Since Robert went missing Bromdale was all hands on deck, offering help wherever they possibly could. It was nice to see but nobody was getting any closer to the truth while the police search droned on. The more areas searched and people questioned gave credence to what Keith had hinted at. Miss McCleary did seem unusually nice, now that he thought about it. Many bad people were charming to lower your defences. Nigel was not going to repeat any of this to his wife who would bite his head off for doing so. He didn’t stop thinking about it though, in bed, at work. Thought would soon give way to action.

  When it first entered his mind Nigel laughed but on second circulation he wondered how he would get inside. Yes, he was thinking about breaking into Miss McCleary’s Bear Factory. The police had questioned her so everything was alright officially, but that had not stopped Nigel and Keith reaffirming each other’s suspicions. Due to the risky nature of this he wasn’t even going to tell Keith, in case he talked him out of something he was now convinced was for the greater good. He needed to step up and at least try to cross off a suspect. The best alibi on the chosen night was to tell Mellissa he might pop around to one of his friends for a drink.

  Midnight on a Wednesday and Nigel was on standby. Rachel was asleep long ago and Mellissa would soon follow as she had drunk a bottle of red. She had a specific routine of fluffing her pillow, going into the bathroom then giving the pillow another fluff so Nigel could hear it when she was done. Five minutes later he grabbed a set of keys and head out. He walked past the Jag, the Range Rover and kept an eye out for any lights that were still on. Golden Meadows was almost dead and he escaped pretty confident that no one had seen him. As he walked up the road which ended with Miss McCleary’s he pulled out this coat hanger wire contraption which was supposed to pick locks. He realised he may have to resort to more forceful measures, aware that the place had no alarm.

  The crossroads were real quiet at this time on a Saturday so you can imagine what they were like now. It was the back door Nigel was going to try but first he had to climb over a wooden fence without making too much noise. Whenever there was a loud creak he reminded himself of the suspect’s poor hearing. The backdoor was in plain view once he was over. He thought he may as well see if it was open and rejoiced to find out it was. Exceedingly low crime rates and an owner who was close to losing her marbles stopped this striking Nigel as unusual.

  Once in the door was shut. All the familiar displays were laid out before him. The other thing he had brought, a flashlight, was taken out and pointed at various sections of the room, at close proximity of course so its beam did not get unwanted attention. He did it just in case of any ‘equipment’ lying around. His real target was the cash desk which had a number of drawers. First he looked inside the tin box which held the money. Nigel wasn’t sure how often she emptied it but it was stuffed with notes. There was a number of hair bands used to put her grey hair up into that bun, two chocolate bars, three reels of cotton and safety pins. The drawer was shut and he opened the ones directly underneath. There was nothing but those blue cardigans synonymous with her person. Nigel squatted down to open the bottom one and saw a number of decorative tins. Most of them had biscuits in. A couple of them didn’t.

  He removed the tops slowly with a firm grip so there was no noise. After each movement he listened and checked the door to ready himself for a quick exit, if need be. In this tin were a number of black & white photos, probably old friends and relatives which suddenly made Nigel feel like he was in the wrong for doing this. He put that back down and reluctantly checked the other one in which was a bunch of newspaper clippings. Some of them looked really old which shot down Nigel’s initial thought of them being recent segments about Miss McCleary’s good deeds in Bromdale. He could see one of them had 1763 on the corner. Just one word of the headline was visible but it went straight to his heart. It read “Missing.” The segment almost came apart as he unravelled it. SECOND CHILD GOES MISSING IN SLIGO. The more he studied the more it repeated this theme as it did a nickname – “The Child Snatcher”. One of the segments, this one dated 1866, came with an artist’s rendition of the suspect. Nigel’s heart was racing. There was no mistake. That was her. How? But that wasn’t all he found. Right at the back of this drawer were a number of cards - forged birth certificates. All were signed Josephine McCleary.

  To take all this evidence (if that’s what you could call it) seemed like the best idea. Before Nigel filled his pockets a croaky voice came from the rocking chair in the other side of room.

  “My memory isn’t the best, but isn’t the shop supposed to be closed?”

  He didn’t know what to say, didn’t understand how she had got there without him noticing.

  “Err…I’ve…”

  You’ve…?” she said with that pruned smile, “You’ve found my collection!”

  Nigel was unhinged to see Miss McCleary so relaxed about everything. His grip loosened on the few things he had not stuffed into his pockets. The head remained still as he looked left and right. Miss McCleary clutched onto the sides of the rocky chair with her veiny hands and pushed up. It was then that Nigel could see there was not only strength in her hands but in her whole body. He wasn´t about to see what followed and shot towards the door but as soon as he touched the handle he heard it lock.

  “You don’t even want to hear me out dear boy? Do sit!” He preferred to pin himself again one of the walls. She walked near the cash desk in a smooth manner Nigel had never seen, that nobody in Bromdale had seen. “Every now and then someone comes along and tries to spoil everything. I must admit, it’s part of the fun.” She scratched her protruding chin while still smiling. “The reason I had to keep moving town was because I kept getting found out. And why was that? Because I could never get rid of the bodies! It’s taken a long time to come up with a solution that dissolves but doesn’t corrode what you put them in.”

  “You sick bitch.”

  “Don’t interrupt Nigel. Now…One gets tired of moving around, plus if you keep doing that you’ll be left with no place to hide. After a few hundred years Ireland became England.” Nigel hadn´t taken a step but he had dropped what he was holding. “So how is Dorothy doing?” The question brought in an element of curiosity. “If you knew the hard work that went into the special ones you would think £50 is a steal. Those resplendent eyes tell their own story.”

  “Before the little ones are put into the bath upstairs…” she held up a hand, “Don´t worry, they are throttled in advance. Before they are put in the bath I use this lovely device,” she exhibited a scalpel-like blade, “and I take a good slice out of the tops of them. Then their iris and pupils are glued inside the plastic cases that go into the bears, creating a brilliant effect…hmm…,” Miss McCleary clicked her neck as she thought, “I think Dorothy eyes´ are from a wee lass who was called Mary, one of the last in Ireland. This quiet period in England has owed itself to getting the solution just right – so proud of it am I! It evaporates an hour after leaving the container, it can´t corrode anything synthetic and leaves zero traces!” Miss McCleary could see Nigel reaching for his phone which widened that smirk. A quick march towards him made him drop that too. Now that wicked, deeply wrinkled face was inches from his. The voice deepened.

  “You know how many times I’ve seen people gather in prayer through the ages? It never solves anything.” Her nobbled head titled one way then smiled again. “I saw you looking at me shortly after I had snatched Robert - I could see what you were thinking. That’s why the last outfit worn by Delilah Jennings is in your car.” Nigel had all kinds of horror working over his face. “Keith is already taken care of.”

>   The Child Snatcher rolled up the sleeves of her cardigan.

  “That just leaves you.”

  5

  At 2 a.m., Bromdale police station received a phone call from Miss McCleary’s reporting a break and entry. She had hysterically explained that the intruder had threated her life and that she had “no choice but to clout him over the head with my old cane.” The official scene of the crime pictured Nigel face first on the floor with blood leaking from his skull and Miss McCleary weeping on her rocking stool, pleading “I didn´t know what else to do!” The short statement she gave read that Nigel had spilled the beans on his and Keith´s kidnapping spree. “They´ll never find the bodies - that is the only thing he said – I think he came here just to kill me.”

  The reverend was found hanging in the church. Nobody but himself could gain entry. The clothes of Robert Thompson were found neatly folded behind the organ. Later that morning, Mellissa and Rachel were awoken to the most awful news. Mellissa was equally destroyed and confused while Rachel simply repeated “Where´s Daddy?” through a flood of tears. A little bit of investigating made things clearer. Behind the back seat of the F-type jag were Delilah Jennings’s clothes. When Mellissa had calmed down a little she reiterated that “Nigel had never said anything off to me that day - his behaviour was normal.” For years after she shuddered at the thought of his having planned all this while living under the same roof. Initially she revolted against the idea but the evidence was damming. While Bromdale was broadcast over every news channel, Mellissa and Rachel planned to leave. The neighbour´s didn´t know what to say to her and she didn´t know what to say to them. The only priority was that Rachel must be given the best chance of a normal life from hereon.

  Inside of Miss McCleary´s Bear Factory were a number of certificates for her service to Bromdale. Not one of them was mounted on a wall, modest soul that she was, but the police force insisted that her brave efforts be recognized with a certificate presented to her in front of her fellow citizens. One officer helped her cross the road to accept the award in front of the school. A touching speech ended with a minute of applause. When it finished many went over to kiss her gaunt cheeks. She was helped back over the road and into her rocking chair where she carried on with what see did best, well, maybe second best. Less than ten years and she would have to change location again if suspicions weren´t to be raised about an old woman who was thought to be around ninety.

  Two months later and Mellissa was driving the Range Rover 100 miles to their new home. In the back Rachel was still playing with Dorothy whose fur had seen better days. There wasn´t much space here as it was filled with last minute must-haves of the old house. Between a haphazardly placed ironing board and mini fridge, Rachel spotted a curious white box with her name written on it. Taking it without mum noticing she opened it to see a brand new teddy bear and a note. She was mature enough to take heed of the last detail, it read, “I´m sorry about your Daddy.” The teddy bear was then quickly pulled out and cuddled. It felt so much better. She gave it an establishing look to be met with a pair of brilliant green eyes. They sparkled with promise, just like Delilah’s used to.

  For Marlene Shillington

  In the middle of a Georgian town lays Blossom Peak Cemetery. It is as you’d expect, peaceful, well maintained, but it’s not your average resting place. Next to the official entrance sign is a list of famous names. This collection of playwrights, musicians and philosophers causes an all-year-round trickle of tourists. It is not just to pay their respects that they make the trip. There are tombstones and mausoleums of all kinds and most are real works of art. From the animal sculptures to the delicately rendered poems you could spend an afternoon admiring one of them. Enclosing the cemetery are tombstones shaped like fire-places where the deceased’s details are inscribed into the back part which recalls a chimney. Wherever you stand there’s something to reflect on, and all this sits on an elevated part of land where the wind howls.

  During the summer months seagulls circle overhead while winter starling’s hop along the icy floor. All types of wildlife frequent the cemetery including owls which sometimes have human company due to the fact it is open 24/7. Night prowlers come here, occasionally to visit loved ones. You see it is not only celebrated names that are part of the club, and while the membership fee is a bit higher clearly many believe it is worth it. The resting place of Marlene Shillington is tonight’s destination for one man.

  He lives down one of the many rows of these dark stone buildings that come into their own when the sun disappears. As he locks the front door there is a check in either direction that the street is empty. It should be at midnight. He is sufficiently wrapped up but there is also something in his possession, a small black case. It takes half an hour to get from here to the cemetery which offers plenty of time to think and each thought echoes. They all pivot on an upbeat philosophy regarding death.

  We’re essentially ideas. That the body perishes is inevitable and that’s why I say we don’t truly die until we exit the minds of the living.

  This overarching thought puts a smile on his face and tightens his grip. Once he exits his street he is sent on another equally long one that dips down, and as it does the hill on which Blossom Peak Cemetery sits begins to rise. From this distance it doesn’t appear to belong to the same town. There is a navy blue film over it like a mountain on the horizon. Minutes later silhouettes of the largest monuments fade into view. As he looks up his face is hit by fine rain, too fine to be a problem. From this angle the entrance gate is concealed until he makes a quarter-circle left around the hill. And then there is it, the right gate stuck halfway open – the same it has been since he started living here forty years ago (when he was born). Anyone can enter the grounds but to reach the top climbing is required.

  A series of pathways link staircases. They wrap around the hill giving visitors a panoramic view of their surroundings and indeed many visit purely to gaze at the landscape below. If it was light he would be able to see nicely kept flower beds, not that he would want to. His mind is elsewhere. With the free hand he taps out a melody and hums along. Then he taps his inside coat pocket, to make sure he had not forgotten an essential. The climb ends before he breaks a sweat. Leafless trees with angular branches come his way. They signal that the first wave of tombstones is just ahead.

  A certain part of the melody is repeatedly hummed until he gets it right. Now come’s those tombstones and a tree where an owl nests from time to time. It’s here tonight and receives a nod from this nightly figure who likes to believe the gesture communicates he’s not a threat. The bird watches him make the turn where most of the famous souls rest. He’s a little more nervous now. Another right turn and he is almost at his destination. In between two large crosses sits the tombstone of Marlene Shillington. With a polished finish this black granite headstone had him living on beans and toast for a couple of months. The lettering is just as she had asked and printed in gold. The top of it is carved like an S, near the bottom is a religious figurine and at the bottom it simply reads “A loving mother”.

  The first thing he does is take that essential out of his coat. A rose is put into the flower holder with the steadiness you may see one carrying a hot drink. Another deep breath and he backs away. He needs a place to sit. Behind him is a chest-shaped grave. On the top of it letters are worn to the point you can no longer read them. It looks like nobody is around to maintain it. You could now say that person is truly dead, so sitting on it would not be disrespectful…at least that is his logic. A little jump up and he puts the case to one side. It’s opened and out comes a violin. A leg is crossed to support the arm which has the instrument wedged under his chin. The bow is in his right hand and begins to play her favourite piece - Last Rose of The Summer by H.W. Ernst.

  The most untrained of ears could detect this was not one for beginners. A few seconds in he performs quick changes in pace and melody, from the romantic to despair, but how he feels each note! How they take him back in tim
e so vividly. There sits his mother on the piano seat, facing outwards to watch him perform. Her face is secretly proud but looks serious. A quick clap means begin, and from here he remembers those first melodies, back when she smiled more often, back when most of her hair was brown.

  Complex finger work is needed for the next phrase. His left hand shifts rapidly up and down the neck. A smile of his own almost surfaces but he is riding too many emotions for one to settle. How skilful that was! How much he is indebted to the woman who lies before him. When learning Bach before secondary school there had come that pivotal time he wanted to go to an afterschool party. Many pupils if not all went but she reminded him during dinner, “You have a rare opportunity to progress much further than I ever did. No fooling can be afforded.” He didn’t really understand it then, nodding vacantly, but how right she was! A bit more dessert was heaped on his plate if a sulk lasted longer than usual. Eventually there was no more use for school. Who can boast such a thing? Socialising dried up to just him and his mum. The few people he recognized from primary school he saw walk past his bedroom window for the years to come, until they no longer did.

  The next part storms in. It’s a more jovial phrase and with it comes the more jovial moments of his life. There is mum, sat on the piano seat facing outwards, drinking in the last notes of Bach’s Partita no. 2 in D minor. How long it had taken to master that one! But so ecstatic was her face. A hug followed (short-lived, yes, but a hug no less). He thought he would perhaps be able to stay up a bit later though she was right to remind him, “If you’re going to attempt no. 3 tomorrow you’re going to need proper sleep.” Of course he did not realise he was going to be playing more Bach tomorrow but she always knew best.