Box of Terror (4 book horror box set)

by Michael Bray

  Two.

  Two hands. Four fingers and one thumb on each. Ten appendages in total. They move with a life of their own. I have no control over them as they put back what I have broken. They find an undiagnosed brain tumour. The hands dance over the base of the skull.

  The tumour is gone.

  One.

  One breath, a sharp intake of air, and Marcus is alive. He blinks from his place on the floor, chair on its side. I smile at him, knowing that surely now he must understand my gift. How I’m misunderstood. But all he sees is the blood all around him, blood which was in him but has not been replaced. He doesn’t understand. They never do. He sees the broken knife, discarded in the dusty fireplace, wet bobbles of claret dust clinging to it. Then he sees me. The scars. The blood. I see as he puts it all together. That look appears in his eyes again. The horror, the revulsion, and, in turn, it triggers the rage. I’m just trying to help. I’m just trying to use my gift for good. Why don’t they ever understand? Why are they so quick to judge? The fire in my belly reignites, and before I can stop myself I’m on him again. Undoing the work I had just done. Killing that which I had given life back to for the second time.

  Four.

  Four times the process repeats itself. Life, death, life, death.

  On the fifth I decide I’m going to keep him. Nobody knows he’s here. Nobody would think to look. I know he’s aware. Aware of everything that happens to him. Unlike me, he can feel, and for that I’m envious. He gives me that look, that wide glare, that fearful haunted expression of absolute hopelessness.

  Seven.

  Seven words he says. Seven words to which I don’t have an answer.

  When will you just let me die?

  It’s a good question. And one that sets me to thinking about the response.

  Fifteen, I tell him just before the rage takes over and I kill him again.

  Fifteen years since I last left this place. Fifteen is a good number. Fifteen is a very, very important number.

  Fifteen plus fifteen is thirty. Thirty is how old my sister would have been this year.

  Fifteen.

  Fifteen years since I last left this place. A hundred and thirty-one hours, four hundred and eighty-seven minutes since I last saw the outside world. That’s a long time. A long time to think. A long time to wonder. A long time for the human brain to create and invent scenarios. This flat is my sanctuary and my prison. My curse and my gift. But at least now I’m not alone. At last, now I have someone to share those years with.

  Maybe the next fifteen won’t be so lonely after all.

  MILK

  September 1986, and England has been treated to the rarest of things: a good summer. Days had been hot, nights long and warm, the air filled with the smell of barbequed meats and freshly cut grass. Mike Tyson became the youngest world heavyweight boxing champion, capturing the imagination of the sporting world. The space shuttle Challenger exploded on take-off, killing all on board, the harrowing footage played on television screens worldwide as the investigation into what happened begins.

  Nintendo finally released their NES entertainment system in Europe, its lead game, Super Mario Brothers, featuring a mushroom eating plumber looking to rescue a princess proving to be all the rage with schoolchildren the world over. Movies which will go on to be iconic are screening in theatres. Top Gun featuring a young Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer is getting rave reviews. The sequel to the Karate Kid is also showing, once again featuring a fresh faced Ralph Macchio in the lead role as he plays the humble, but talented, Daniel La Russo.

  Television too is seeing a surge of new and colourful programming imported from the United States, from George Peppard leading his band of mercenaries called the A-Team in their weekly exploits against evil, to light hearted family comedies like the Cosby Show and Cheers.

  As the August days began to shorten and the oppressive heat had started to fade, bringing with it the first slight bite of winter, thoughts for many of the children who had enjoyed one of the best summers on record turned towards the dreaded return to school.

  For most, the first day back was something to dread. It meant that winter was on its way, and as the summer had been a spectacularly good one, the majority of the pupils at Evanshaw Middle School were not happy to be back. Nine-year-old Dillon Thomas, however, was looking forward to it. He walked towards the red bricked building, hands thrust in jacket pockets, last year’s Transformers lunchbox nestled in his school bag, his Teenage Mutant Hero Turtle toy figure hidden amongst his school things, despite his mother’s insistence he leave them at home. Dillon didn’t like to go against her wishes, but he had been playing with them all summer and it seemed a shame to leave them at home.

  Things in the house had been difficult since his father had left them. Although his mother didn’t know it, sometimes Dillon could hear her crying on a night when she thought he was asleep. If she came into his room to see if her cries had woken him he would lay perfectly still, eyes closed and pretending to be asleep. He thought it was better that way. Easier for them both. He didn’t remember much of his father anyway, and whenever he tried to ask about him, all she would tell him was that he wasn’t a good man and that they were better off without him. Dillon had seen pictures of him though, and his mother reluctantly admitted that the two of them looked alike, both slim with blonde hair and sharp, inquisitive blue eyes.

  His mother did her best to run the household on her own, working part time at a restaurant in town, but times were hard and money in short supply, so Dillon was forced to go without the latest things. His shoes were battered, beaten, and had been repaired more times than he could recall, his jumpers and trousers were years old, and were already starting to get too short in the arms and legs respectively. By no means popular anyway, Dillon was constantly teased by his classmates about the circumstances at home and the way he was forced to live. They were absolutely merciless, picking out his tatty shoes, frayed sweaters and repaired trousers as valid reasons to tease him. As a result, he had few friends, most of the other pupils shunning him for fear of being seen as a sympathiser and, by default, picked on too. This is the dog eat dog world of mid-eighties middle school in the U.K.

  The one exception to the rule was Billy Lawrence, who was a year older than him and, like Dillon, was the butt of most of the jokes in his class too. Either by necessity or a shared need for companionship, the two had become friends, helping each other through what had proved to be a turbulent two terms at school. Because of his lack of other friends, Dillon always went out of his way to seek approval from his classmates and change their opinion of him. He tried to be nice, tried to offer help to them, but nobody wanted to be seen with him. He had, it seemed, already been singled out as the unpopular member of the class, and had also now attracted the attention of Ron Spengler, who although the same age as Dillon was much taller and already had a reputation as a bully. At the end of the previous term he had shoved Dillon down the steps leading to the playground, the fall causing him to tear his school trousers on the knees (the same ones he was wearing now, complete with patches to repair the damage). As angry as he was, he, like most of the other kids, was afraid of Ron, and the best way he had learned to deal with it was to ignore it and hope it went away. For a while, that had worked, but Ron, it seemed, had marked Dillon out as a long term target for his humiliation and bullying.

  Dillon approached the school, its reddish walls contrasting against both the concrete playground in front and the fields and trees behind where they would play sports during P.E.

  Dillon’s excitement about the new school day halted as he walked through the gates. Ron was standing with his friends by the entrance, yellow Sony Walkman earphones hanging around his neck. For a split second, Dillon wanted to turn and run, maybe enter the school by the side entrance, which would take longer but prevent a confrontation. It was too late, however, as he had already been seen, and Ron and his friends were watching like a pack of hungry lions as Dillon walked towards them.


  “Still not got any new trousers have you, tramp?” Ron asked, enjoying the chuckles of his companions. He was big, his chin seeming to morph straight into his shoulders where his neck should have been. He had a buzz cut, and his face was peppered with spots.

  Dillon said nothing. He knew that to answer would only provoke them more. Instead, he did the same thing as always in situations like this. He lowered his head and tried to shoulder past them and into the relative safety of the school.

  “Wait. I’m talking to you,” Ron said as his friends closed in around him.

  Dillon sped up, scared now about what they might do and desperate to get inside the building. Someone stuck out a foot in front of him and before he could stop himself he stumbled over, crashing to the ground on his hands and knees.

  Laughter.

  Pointing.

  Not just by Ron and his friends, but others in the yard too. As he knelt there on the floor, the embarrassment far more painful than the sting in his palms, Dillon’s excitement for the new day was gone. Now, he wished he was anywhere else in the world. Maybe at home playing with his Masters of the Universe figures, or at Billy’s house, although he was also probably on his way to school now too, so that was a non-starter.

  He started to get up, feeling sick, afraid, and unsure how to react.

  Ron, it seemed, could smell the fear and with a growing audience watching to see what would happen, shoved him back down. “Nobody said you could get up.” He grunted, looking around for approval.

  Dillon didn’t fight it, and waited on all fours as the laughter continued.

  Always the laughter.

  Never any offer of help.

  They just watched and let it happen.

  “You stay there like a good dog.” Ron said, clearly enjoying the attention. He was everything that Dillon wasn’t.

  Popular.

  Confident.

  Strong.

  A bully.

  Dillon could taste it in his throat, something he was all too familiar with.

  Fear.

  Bitter and strong, intense and all consuming, it hovered there, making him incredibly aware of everything around him. He could feel the blood surging around his body as his heart thumped its high tempo rhythm. He hated that taste. He had started to forget its flavour over the summer but now it had come back stronger than ever.

  It was more than just teasing now, more than just verbal jibes. The new school term had brought with it a new, more physical side to Ron. It seemed that, for whatever reason, verbal taunts didn’t cut it anymore and he was looking for new, more physical ways to get his kicks

  “Kiss my shoes, Dog,” Ron said, grinning at his friend, a short, greasy-haired boy called Damien. “Kiss them and you can get up.”

  Dillon shook his head, wishing the others weren’t watching, wishing they couldn’t see him crying. Most of all, wishing they would stop laughing and help him.

  “Kiss them or I’ll make you sorry.”

  He knew he would have to do it, and then they would have something else to tease him about. He could only begin to imagine how it would be if the rest of the year went on like this. He squinted up at Ron, the sun for a second masked behind his head so that his form was a shadowy, featureless mass against the pale morning sky. He leaned close to Ron’s outstretched shoes, the bottoms caked with mud, the tops wet and covered in tiny blades of grass.

  Of course.

  Ron walked across the fields to get to school from the council estate where he lived. Dillon could smell that wet grass and fresh dirt smell, which as strong as it was didn’t overpower the fear which seemed to be hanging at the back of his throat. There was no way out of it now. He would have to go through with it and deal with the aftermath later.

  “What on earth is happening here?”

  The laughter stopped, and just like that, the spell was broken as those watching dispersed, leaving just Ron, his friends and Dillon behind. Mr Ashley, the head of science, stood at the entrance, hands on hips, tweed jacket open and exposing his gut, which strained against his slightly yellowed shirt and threatened to pop off the buttons holding it back. The little hair he had was combed over, a salt and pepper series of strips pasted from left to right across a shiny dome of a head, in what looked to be a failed effort to cling on to a long lost youth.

  He looked from Dillon to Ron, then back to Dillon. “Well?”

  “Nothing sir,” Ron said, hiding away the bully everyone knew was there and trying to play nice. “We were just playing a game.”

  “Is that true, Thomas? Were you and Spengler playing some kind of game?”

  Dillon got up, checking his knees and brushing the grit from his pants.

  “Well?” Mr Ashley said, his coffee and tobacco breath pungent.

  Dillon shrugged, which was all Ashley needed. He turned towards Ron. “I’ve told you about this before, Spengler. See me in my office after school.”

  But sir,” Ron started, glaring at Dillon. “It was just a game it was just -”

  “I don’t want to hear another word. My office, after school. Understood?”

  “Yes.” Ron mumbled.

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. Now get to class, all of you.”

  With that, Mr Ashley was gone, perhaps to grab another coffee or quick smoke before the school day started. Ron’s friends too dispersed, glad to have been let off the hook. Ron looked ready to explode. His cheeks were spotted red, eyes cold and emotionless. He walked past Dillon, pride bruised but lesson learned.

  As he walked past he leaned close, eyes sly and full of venom. “I’ll get you for this, Tramp,” he whispered.

  Dillon didn’t reply, he watched as his bully disappeared into the building. He wasn’t quite sure how to react to the threat. He was sure that Ron would soon find something else to focus his attention on other than him; even so, it still didn’t stop him from feeling absolutely terrified about whatever Ron might do to get his revenge. The first bell rang, and the other children started to filter into the school. Dillon tried to shake off how afraid he was, then picked up his bag and went into school. He had started the school year hoping to have a better year than the one before. Already, he was just hoping to get by without getting a beating.

  Two

  It was three weeks later, during Friday morning registration, that Dillon received both good and bad news almost at the same time. The bad news was that Ron was due to return to school the following Monday after being suspended for fighting with another pupil. He had already been given a weeks’ worth of detention after the incident outside the school with Dillon, and the word amongst the pupils, if you chose to believe it, was that he was waiting for the opportune time to get his revenge and beat Dillon to a pulp.

  For a few days, Dillon was sick with fear, but if the rumour was true then Ron didn’t show any signs of living up to it. If anything, he mostly left Dillon alone, which in itself might have been just a ploy to make him lower his guard. Despite the reprieve, Dillon still expected that one day soon, Ron would take his revenge. Of course, just because Ron was currently enjoying a quiet phase, didn’t mean that life was perfect for Dillon. No matter what he did, people still laughed. They still pointed at him and insulted him. They still called him the same hurtful names and laughed at the way he was dressed.

  "You’re an easy target,", his mother had said when he’d told her what was happening. "You need to stand up for yourself and show these people you won’t be bossed around."

  He couldn’t explain to her that it wasn’t like that. He couldn’t make her see how cruel a place the school yard was and how, no matter how hard he tried, they wouldn’t accept him for who he was.

  He was sitting in class, thinking about his mother’s words when his teacher, Mrs Simons, called out his name. He looked up at her, eyebrows raised, ignoring the whispers and chuckles aimed at him. The seven words she said next were ones he'd been waiting to hear for what felt like an eternity.

&n
bsp; ‘Dillon, you’re the milk monitor on Monday.’

  It took all of his effort not to scream in delight. This was what he had been waiting for. This was the opportunity to prove to his classmates that he was more than they thought he was. He smiled, and even the whispered insults combined with the way John Groves kept snickering and kicking the back of his seat seemed distant.

  Milk monitor.

  To Dillon it was a massive responsibility and one he was looking forward to completing as best he could. The rest of the day went by like a hazy half-dream. At lunch, he sat on the table with the other children who were shunned and ridiculed for various reasons, eating his sandwich from the tatty red Transformers lunchbox with the broken handle. The job of milk monitor was one of responsibility. Whoever had that job would command the respect of the other students. He would be in charge of distributing the morning milk to the rest of the class and anyone who misbehaved wouldn’t get a bottle. It was a school rule. His mind tried to turn its attention towards Ron’s imminent return, and what that could mean to the period of relative peace. For Monday morning at least, Ron would have to do as he said. Accept the milk that he chose to hand over and be nice about it, or go without.

  Power.

  Finally a sense of worth.

  The idea alone excited him.

  Monday couldn’t come quickly enough.

  THREE

  The weekend was spent mostly thinking about his special task on Monday morning.

  He had spent Saturday riding his BMX with Billy, both of them making sure to avoid the places where they might bump into other kids from the school (Ron especially). They had talked as always about their favourite shows, the cartoons they liked, the action figures they had and wanted, but Dillon was never quite engaged in the conversation, his mind fixed firmly on Monday.