Dare to Read: 13 Tales of Terror

by Jamie C. Pritchard

  John remembered the blue face suggesting asphyxiation; how was another question entirely. His own take about a powerful Taser was fading, besides, would the autopsy have not pin-pointed that? Of course it would. It was dispiriting that nobody seemed the wiser but he diligently kept his eyes open and cut out each little segment from the Adviser which he arranged on his wonky table. The next piece of info was revealing. Though nothing wrong could be found with the bodies they were able to determine when they got the tattoo and compared it to when they died. In all cases nobody had lasted more than a month.

  A further meeting with Tip unveiled that a couple of tattooed people had gone for laser surgery. Though John first laughed he knew Tip’s sources were always reliable. So they had gone to get the tattoos removed and left with them still on their arms. To the surgeons amazement they would not go, not even the slightest detail. When the power was turned up it just started to burn the rest of the arm. The Adviser’s latest nugget was that there was no kind of poison found in the bodies. Some poor fucker had actually tried to carve the skin off and he was successful, only to find the tattoo went as deep as bone. Not since the longest time John actually felt vulnerable. He fretted about waking up and seeing it on his arm. His anxiety was only to increase though. The next issue of the Adviser was unprecedented. Before he picked up a copy he saw many people standing about reading it in the streets, gang members speaking to tramps from out of their car windows. A mutual crisis had called a truce.

  No flicking to the advert section was necessary. A picture of the tattoo was on the front page with the headline – WHERE DO YOU GET THIS TATTOO? John knew straight away that for Jarlo to have allowed something like that to get printed meant cartel members had died. It had explained (basically pleaded) for anyone who knew the whereabouts of this tattoo artist to let them know and they would be handsomely rewarded. Tip later confirmed that when they had tried to get this information from their own men they had already entered a non-receptive phase shortly before dying. Surreal, but the intrigue only doubled his efforts.

  5

  Somewhere John visited about twice a month was the gym and after another week of investigating it was overdue. He had hit a wall, kept mumbling lines from the Adviser as he walked the streets. Whoever wore the tattoo and was still alive must be hibernating. Thinking about how the police possibly knew more than him put him in a sour mood. He figured this anger would at least help fuel the workout.

  The gym he went to was the city’s most obscure and Grevden had a surplus of gyms, probably third in number after the adult shops and pawnbrokers. You entered it via an underground staircase. John didn’t bother with a membership, paying as he went. Walking through a door held by a 20kg plate you were greeted by a room littered with free weights, machines and grunting giants – nearly all of whom were on the gear. He nodded in the direction of those he knew and did a warm up of sorts, cracking bones, throwing punches. He didn’t come here to improve his health or strength (he was naturally strong) but to check his body worked well enough for his ball-kneeing lifestyle.

  It wasn’t as intense but he still had to keep an eye out for anyone who might recognize him. There was a look before using the lateral pulldown machine. The customary row of gym rats by the mirrors were doing curls while admiring themselves. John went from left to right with the reflections. He recognized one person and it was a relief. Dennis “Tram” Taylor gave him a nod. “Tram” as he liked to be known because of his build was one of the few people John had actually had a good-to-honest talk with years ago when Dennis was on the cusp of joining the B’s. He was talked out of it on that occasion but never was the smartest knife in the drawer. It was anyone’s guess what shit he got up to on a daily basis. When it started to ache, John stopped and walked towards the mirrors.

  Tram was lifting these 40kg dumbbells at the same speed you pick up your arms when running. He only took short breaks so John didn’t want to harass him. “Hey Tram,” the big man smiled with his hands on his hips, “ever thought of trying to curl the machines?” A joke of course but he didn’t mind the ego boost. “John mate, how’s it goin’?” He gave the ex-officer a fist-bump then started stretching his huge arms to get rid of lactic acid.

  “Life is good. Hasn’t got dull yet.”

  “Do you still crack some heads?” asked Tram with a smirk.

  “I do the occasional bust.”

  “Yeah, but like, you’re not a cop anymore in it?”

  “Haven’t been for a while.”

  “D’you miss it?”

  “I miss not having a shotgun. I don’t miss the ear ache.” Just then John got reflective. “It’s weird having that power but not being your own boss.” Tram nodded with a vacant look. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “one sec.” He gripped onto the dumbbells again, took in a breath and started lifting them. John gave him space and wondered what to do. Who was the next person to ask? There was little chance he would get much out of Tram apart from fist-bumps and well wishes. It was kind to say he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Even when he saw something suspicious it was like pulling teeth trying to get him to explain. The weights crashed down onto the rack. John was about to ask him about the last time he’d brushed shoulders with the B’s, not sure if he’d broken ties with them. John opened his mouth and almost choked. He was staring at the symbol on Tram’s right forearm. He hadn’t noticed because he had full sleeves, but no, there it was on top of a badly drawn tiger.

  John felt an intense conflict going on. Part of him wanted to help. The bigger part wanted to know where he got it. He shook his head, considered that Tram probably didn’t even know it was front-page news. The big man stretched again. John had to ask and did his best not to sound manic.

  “Where did you get that done?” It still came off as a little abrupt.

  “Err, this one?” said Tram and pointed to the Tiger.

  “No, the symbol.”

  “Oh right, yeah, I’m with ya. It’s a new one.” John almost rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I can tell. Where did you get it done?” Tram had to think about that. “Err, like, it was in a place that wasn’t advertised.”

  “You mean it didn’t have a sign?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Well what was the place like? Was it big, small?”

  “Pretty big.” Before Tram gripped the dumbbells again he gave John a look. “What, are you thinking of getting one?”

  “Hell no!” He couldn’t help blurting that out which made Tram pull a face. “What I mean is I think they’re linked with a gang that is in real shit at the moment. You know quite a few people have died recently?”

  “For real?”

  “Yes, and it seems to be linked with these tattoos. Who told you about them?” Tram had a guilty look on his face. “Tez,” he admitted then quickly picked up the dumbbells. John sighed to himself while another set was done. Tram soon continued. “He said that there was a big shift happening that could result in you getting a lot richer. I think, like, he wanted to carry on with half the old gang and do new scams so everyone made more money. He said getting this tattoo would help you tell who was on the same page. It felt good to be picked. I thought I could just get by with doing very little and still get my money.” Clearly the amoral methods of getting the money didn’t cross Tram’s mind.

  John was taken aback at how stupid this all was. Tez probably wouldn’t hand over the money anyway. But that wasn’t important. If Jarlo’s men had got it then clearly Tez wasn’t calling the shots on these tattoos. It wasn’t a question of where but who did them.

  “What did the guy look like who did it?” Tram started walking to another machine. “The light wasn’t the best so I didn’t get a good look at him, but, he had a big jaw, light, short hair, and he had this big scar that went down the side of his face – looked like a nasty knife scar.” John figured that meant he was probably a gang member then. Tram had a swig of water before manning the leg extension. “I can remember it better now. So I went into this bare
room and the guy was sat down with his tattoo stuff. The tattoo gun caught my eye because it was really cool looking. A few minutes in he told me the extra pain and noise was essential to get that really clean finish.” John thought that sounded like bollocks and wondered why Tram hadn’t seen if there were any hygiene certificates…then he remembered who he was talking to.

  “So how much was it?”

  “Fifty.”

  “And when did you get it?”

  “Err, like, it must be over two weeks ago now.” Tram went into his first set. John stood by with a feeling of helplessness on his behalf. The Adviser had said no one had lasted longer than a month. When the next break came John had nothing else to ask. He needed to find the guy with that scar. “Catch you later, Tram,” he said and gave him a fist-bump. “Just keep your head low until these killings stop.”

  “Cheers John. I basically live here so it’s all good.”

  As he headed for the staircase John felt like he was leaving an animal tied to a tree. He didn’t really think the big man was going to get picked off, well, not by a gang member anyway. In two days’ time news got around that Tram had croaked while lifting. Many thought it was a heart attack. John thought differently. This only made him more determined but he did feel for the big idiot and raised a glass on another gloomy night.

  6

  Bad as it was this episode had at least given John the structure he craved. At home he actually had something do to which he liked to think of as his office. Making a note of all the people who had died he had accordingly taken down their mugshots from his wall. Every inch of his wonky table was covered with newspaper clippings and the classic routine was to replay what he had heard on the streets while scanning the headlines, hoping to it would guide him to this guy with a scarred face.

  John had been to see Tip, just to make sure he was still around. The educated socialite was uncharacteristically short on answers. John was now confident he knew more about this than anyone else. Had the police knew who it was then the deaths would have stopped which now included significant personalities from The Walker Cartel. No longer was it necessary to take the safe routes as gangs had understandably diminished. Surely it was maths? The more people who died both reduced the suspects and brightened the trail left by the culprit, but come the evening John always found himself gazing at old print, waiting for that eureka moment. As he looked at the latest piece by the Adviser he knew the answers couldn’t be far away. Jarlo had started to infiltrate all buildings, even the headquarters of the B’s and Apostles who were compliant in trying to squash this common cancer. Now wait, there was a member of the B’s called Casey who had a scar on his face – an old remark by Tip had suddenly gone off in his brain. He hadn’t heard about him for a while. That made him more suspicious. Now where was it he used to live…Pimdon Street or Bowler’s Alley?

  It was another night which had gone on until the early hours. John had drunk coffee to the point he was restless, and worse yet, that fuckin’ drilling started again. You know when your mind is just about to hit on something but doesn’t quite, and then trying to get warm again has the opposite effect? John fought this losing battle for half an hour when another spot of drilling made him swat the empty cup off the table. “Fuck sake!” That rash side had got the better of him, so much so that he exited his room and took two steps at a time to reach the floor above. A long corridor was walked along until he gauged that he was directly above his front door. He could hear footsteps and prepared to knock when a sketchy geezer opened up. “Hey,” he said nervously then split. John watched him go then had a peep inside.

  All he could see at first was light. When his eyes adjusted he could make out a lamp that shone on a desk in the middle of an empty room. A chair with a figure on it was nearby.

  “No more tonight. You’ll receive a message if chosen.”

  “What the hell do you mean, chosen?” As ever John was more curious than cautious. He took a couple of steps in and saw a tattoo gun placed on the table. He could see it was not at all like a traditional one, bigger and made of what looked like bone. John couldn’t believe it - the bastard lived above him! At this point the tattoo artist pulled himself a bit closer to the table so John could see his face…and there it was, as clear as day, a huge scar that ran from a temple down to the neck.

  “You’re not on the list,” sounded the calmest voice.

  “List? What list?” It was John who was edgy. He also noticed when this guy spoke his face didn’t move much, like a stroke victim. John still had more than enough composure to make threats. “Listen fucker, you better tell me why everyone dead wears that symbol.” John looked ready for action with his hands curling up. The stranger seemed to be smiling from the comfort of his chair.

  “Okay.”

  John couldn’t tell whether that was a cooperative or confrontational response. The chair spun to face him directly.

  “The symbol is a token of where I come from.” The tattoo artist patted himself on the chest as he spoke. There were distinct pauses between each sentence. “Its true meaning is a little hard to explain so it’s best to just say it means you’re badass.” Again a pause. “But it’s a decoy.”

  “A decoy?”

  The tattoo gun was causally lifted. The right sleeve was pulled up. John could see but couldn’t understand. What he saw was a tube going from the gun and into the forearm. He took another couple of steps forward without noticing.

  “The tattoo is just for decoration.” The arm was covered up in this dimly lit room. John got a glimpse of the worn clothes this guy was wearing. “A tattoo alone isn’t going to kill you.” The emphasis put on alone silenced John. The follow up wasn’t forthcoming which the stranger took pleasure in. “No, not a tattoo but a blood transfusion.” John looked more lost than ever.

  “It’s best for us to come to places of sin. Maybe there’ll be a vessel that can take it, who can become like us,” the tattoo artist shrugged and let out a laugh, “unfortunately they keep dropping like flies!” John’s pulse was quickening. He was on the verge of doing something he didn’t know himself.

  “Perhaps you will prove a good candidate.”

  “What?!” John quickly scanned for something he could get his hands on and snapped off a floor board in this near featureless room. The tattoo artist leant forward with an unimpressed look. John started to look more committed. “Well, if you insist.” The lamp was turned so it illuminated the tattoo artist’s face. That was not Casey. Both thumbs were pushed underneath the jaw. After a struggle there was a loud click which changed his voice. The face that didn’t look quite right started to slip off, most of it coming from the bottom half. This detachable face transplant was put on the desk. John stared at the most fucked up thing he’d ever seen.

  There was symmetry but it wasn’t human. Most noticeable were cheek bones that made up most of its face; the rest sloped down to a point where it was hard to see a chin, or a mouth for that matter. Dried out, leathery skin encased the head. What must have been the eyes gleamed inside tiny, black sockets. Their sparkle, ever so faint, had a wicked charm about them, a sickening one. This thing stood up and let out a crackling noise which had the rhythm of speech. It was so loud floorboards rumbled. Now more snapping noises but these were bodily ones. Its shoulders jutted upwards, right out of their sockets. The knee joints became like that of a dogs. A different noise was made (perhaps indicating pain) when a blade flicked out of each arm, not metal but cartilage. This caused a couple of things to hit the deck. John flashed a look to see a pair of skin-gloves. His floorboard was held firm. Yes, there was a good chance he wouldn’t see tomorrow, but that wasn’t enough to make him act out of character. As John charged in he began to smile. He could hear the chief calling him a fucking nut-job.

  7

  White light, that’s all he could see, the kind you’re supposed to when it’s game over. John figured he’d had a good run, not been too much of a bastard, kept his honour, etc. He didn’t know why there was a b
ad taste in his mouth, or why whatever he was lying on was so damn uncomfortable. His eyes slowly opened. A clear sky made sense, a ceiling didn’t, ugh, and that smell. Nope, nowhere in hell could replicate that godawful stench percolating through the walls. John sat up in the room he had charged in with that wooden plank. It can’t have been much of a fight. The charging part is all he could remember. Only the table was left in the room. The tattoo gun was not there. That’s when John began to panic.

  He really didn’t want to. It was best to do it quickly and that was lift up his sleeve. Thwarting his deepest fear there was nothing there. He gripped and rubbed the surface in disbelief. No, everything felt good. He got to his feet and made sure nothing was lurking in any corner. He went back to his room and lay down. Whatever he used to brood about had become trivial overnight. The lasting image of that thing was unnerving to say the least. John couldn’t decide on what it looked like. But that wasn’t the truly scary part. Why was he still alive? Where had it gone? Until someone killed it those questions would never leave. The episode shell-shocked him for a few days in which he did little more than sleep and eat that awful frozen food. Hell, it was even comforting.

  The day he decided to get some fresh air he aimed for Café Black. Out through the fire exit and John made his way towards the road that usually doubled as a race track. Before crossing it he was shocked at how few cars there were, just a couple parked up. More old people were out and about. He picked up the latest copy of the Adviser, the front page of which spoke about all kinds of business losses. The death toll had come to a halt but it also seemed like The Walker Cartel had gone the same way. Police had begun shutting down operations. John felt victorious, sort of.

  Patrick could be seen with a drink in Café Black. It was nice that some things stayed the same. He entered and sat opposite. Before talking they shared a look that said they were happy to see each other.