New Fears II - Brand New Horror Stories by Masters of the Macabre

by Mark Morris

  * * *

  Magnus left the gawping crowd that was gathering on the beach. Simon talked to them from the vantage point of a rock. Cormac had joined him. He was Simon’s manager, which made him the second most important person on the island. He was also Magnus’s cousin. Their shared genes were apparent in their size.

  Magnus went back to where coarse grass overtook the sand and up the hill. He crossed the sodden earth and made his way to the church. It was the same path his granddad favoured. Stern John Spence transformed into historian and storyteller, just for him.

  St Connaught’s stood out against the scoured sky. Faith had arrived in a row boat bringing a crucifix and conviction to Little Isle. All that remained of the church was stone. Windowless, roofless, doorless, grass had sprung up within. Spiders’ webs sagged with raindrops.

  Magnus and Hildy had brought Simon to the ruined church when they were children.

  “Posh, aren’t you?” Cormac towered over Simon, who was still wearing his school uniform, even though it was the summer holidays. All the children had gathered on the makeshift football pitch at the end of the village. “Are you a frog, like your mum?”

  “She’s French.” Simon’s accent was cut glass.

  Cormac snorted, as he’d seen the adults do when they were talking about her.

  “She’s a snob, that’s what.” Simon’s mother had only visited the island once. The islanders had mistaken her shyness for snootiness and her eating disorder for Parisian chic. “And so are you, turning up for the summer and then buggering off. You don’t belong here.”

  “Let him alone.” Magnus stepped in.

  “Or what?”

  “You’ll get another share of what I gave you last time.”

  The two boys squared up to one another. Simon was incidental to old enmities. The other children looked on, too scared to take sides. Except for Hildy. Strong, desirable Hildy was the only one who wielded enough power to end it. She got between them, thumping them both.

  “Stop it, you idiots.” Cormac laughed but Magnus still cut a fighter’s pose. She pulled at his sleeve. “Let’s go.”

  They went up to the cliffs to show Simon the puffins and the gulls’ nests on the precipices. Seals basking on the rocks below. There was a whole fleet of trawlers out on the glistening water. The three of them spent the long holidays roaming. Little Isle was rough, green fields and granite hills sculpted by glaciers.

  “What’s that noise?”

  Hildy was about to answer Simon but Magnus put a finger to his smiling lips to hush her. The roaring got louder as they approached.

  Magnus stood close to Simon, enjoying his surprise. There was a whirlpool out on the calm sea. Its pull was mesmeric, the downward spiral of all that water into the depths.

  “It’s Maw.” Magnus felt a swell of pride.

  The maelstrom was a conspiracy of complex tidal flows in a narrow strait. Water forced itself up from a stone pinnacle on the seabed, opposed to the surface stream, so creating a downward vortex. The swirl was visible below the glassy surface.

  “Wow.”

  “It’s clearer when there’s a high wind or standing waves. You think it’s loud now. Just wait ’til the tides are right. You can hear Maw roaring from miles off.”

  At St Connaught’s they found a nest of mice in the shadow of the stone altar. It had become nature’s temple.

  “I found a crow skeleton here once. And a snake’s skin.” Magnus had never seen Hildy so shy. She pulled a sketchbook from her rucksack and passed it to Simon. “Look.”

  He leafed through the pages. “These are brilliant.”

  She gave Simon a broad smile.

  “I like drawing too, but I’m not as good as you.”

  “Will you show me yours?”

  “Look, here.” Magnus pointed to the wall above the altar.

  Simon squinted at the weathered markings. “What are they?”

  “Fish jumping into a boat.” They leapt high, pouring themselves onto the deck in an arc.

  “How can you tell?”

  “My grandfather said. He died last year. He knew everything. Our family have always lived here.”

  Simon flushed. His father had purchased the island only two years before.

  “He didn’t mean anything by that.” Hildy nudged Simon.

  Magnus hadn’t finished yet. “Guess what this is.”

  Above the fishing boat was a figure falling into a spiral.

  “A man going to hell?”

  “It’s Maw.”

  Magnus recited his granddad’s teachings. “He’s been given to Maw as a gift and Maw will give us the sea’s bounty in return.”

  * * *

  Magnus checked in on Mairi on his way home, just like his dad used to. Andrew Spence called her the old woman, even though she wasn’t that much older than he was.

  He would sit with her, sometimes for up to an hour at a time. Magnus would peep into the single-roomed cottage through the door that was always propped ajar to let the weather in. Sometimes Mairi would scream and shout at his dad, other times they’d sit in silence.

  “Hello.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you.” Mairi sat on a stone bench outside. “Come and sit, John.”

  “It’s Magnus, Mairi, not John.”

  She turned her lined face to him. She was pushing seventy now, he reckoned. She’d been more muddled of late. He wondered whether he should talk to the doctor when the radio was back up.

  “Of course you are.” Her voice was strong and certain now, which unnerved him. “Have you seen it?”

  “What?”

  “The bloody great container down on the shore.”

  Her eyes were as temperamental as the sea, sometimes clear aquamarine, sometimes grey and chilly.

  “Yes.”

  “Maw sent it.”

  The comment alarmed him less than her mistaking him for his granddad. Mairi was known for it. She’d lived alone from a young age. A bit touched. She’d been visited by a psychiatrist once, after which she learnt to keep her stranger pronouncements to herself.

  “That bay over there”—she jabbed with her finger— “used to be full of trawlers. Everyone had work. All because of John Spence.”

  There’d been crops of barley, oats and potatoes that thrived on seaweed-fed beds. Lambs, sweet on salt-laden grass. There were farmers, shepherds and weavers, but the island only flourished because the fishermen were kings.

  John’s re-energisation of the industry brought a row of shops, two pubs, a new church and a primary school. The only thing that remained of this golden time was the new church. The school had shut years ago, despite the protests.

  “We’ve turned our backs on Maw. We won’t be forgiven easily. To think, we have the blood of marauders and conquerors in us. We sailed to Byzantium. And now we’re diminished with each generation by the milksop messiah, taxes and fishing quotas.”

  History marked the land. Cairns and gold torcs buried in the earth.

  “I still send Maw boats.”

  An old tradition. The islanders once gathered on the shore at harvest festival and sent out wicker and wooden boats, laden with gifts for Maw’s maelstrom. Priests came and went over the centuries, either smiling indulgently or shaking their heads.

  The sea is hungry.

  The sea has blue hands.

  The little boats contained the choicest fish, the finest prawns, a cake, or a piece of fat-marbled lamb. A baby or man carved from soap.

  “We put boats on the water last year,” Magnus repeated, wondering if Mairi had heard.

  “Yes,” she spat, “and we were the only ones. A can of sardines and a loaf might be good for the five thousand but not Maw.”

  She seized Magnus’s hand.

  “You and I need this place. We can’t survive anywhere else. Not for long. It’s why you came running back with your tail between your legs. Same for your dad. You shouldn’t have let them take him away.”

  Magnus turned his face fr
om her. He’d looked after his dad for as long as he could after his mother died. Poor Andrew, so young to have dementia.You’ve done a grand job, the nurse had said, but he’s getting worse. He needs care from trained nurses now.

  Magnus took a job on the docks over on the mainland so that he could visit his dad’s nursing home each day. The trained nurses were hard pressed and didn’t have time to dab the crusted cornflakes from his dad’s shirt.

  His dad hated cornflakes.

  Dementia stripped his father of sense, self and dignity. It took the meat from his bones and hollowed him out, as crafty and insidious as cancer.

  The sea, the sea needs little boats, the sea, there are men in the water, blue hands, blue hands, blue hands. They’re so hungry.

  He’d gripped Magnus’s wrist so hard he’d left bruises.

  Hungry hands. Why did you do it, Dad?

  It’s Magnus, Dad, not John.

  I saw you. I heard her crying. Why would Mairi give up little Brid?

  Then he pushed Magnus from him, weeping into his sleeve. Magnus was relieved when his dad died and he could go home.

  “How did Granddad do it, Mairi? How did he turn this place around? Were those freak years of fishing just luck?”

  Her eyes were the silver of needles.

  “Fool. Ingrate. All you do is complain. You’re weak. Only John had what it took, the bastard. What are you willing to sacrifice for what you want?”

  * * *

  There was nothing to be done but leave the container. The rumble of thunder closed in. Night brought in the tide. The islanders took shelter.

  Magnus watched the waves from the window until it was too dark to see out. The cottage was built from granite blocks, hunkered down against the hill to withstand the onslaught of wind and rain.

  Peter and Donald lay on their bellies in front of the fire, playing cards. Hildy occupied the table, her sketchbooks spread out.

  Magnus lay on his side on the sofa. He was aware of Hildy’s voice but it didn’t reach him. His mind drifted.

  “Hild”—he rolled on to his side—“do you know if Mairi ever had a baby?”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “Sorry. What did I miss?”

  “Nothing important.” There was the angry clatter of pencils on the table. “I’ve no idea about Mairi. I’ve always kept clear of the spiteful old crow. When did you see her?”

  “On my way back from the beach.”

  “I wondered why you were so long.”

  “I couldn’t bear to listen to his lordship holding court about how we have to tell the authorities about the container.”

  “He’s right. We can’t keep it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—”

  The lights died. The chair creaked as Hildy got up.

  Husband and wife went around the room lighting candles.

  “Why can’t we live somewhere where the electricity always works?” Peter threw down his cards.

  “Because it’s much more fun here.”

  Quiet candlelight and their voices made the cottage timeless. When Magnus was Peter’s age the power often went out. Three generations sat close, mending nets and listening to John Spence. Magnus wished such fond memories for his sons too.

  “It’s not fun here. It’s boring.”

  “That’s enough.” Magnus’s temper was a lit flare.

  “Boys, I’ll get the lanterns out. Early bedtime. You can read for twenty minutes.”

  “Mum!”

  “Shift when your mum tells you.” Magnus saw Donald flinch. He tried to lighten things with a joke. “Or the blue men will get you.”

  Magnus listened to their tread on the stairs and then the creak of floorboards above. He picked up the photo frame on the table beside him. It was of his grandfather and his crew in front of Maw’s Teeth, the trawler named against all counsel. It was the first catch after John Spence had gone to London and insisted the Ministry of Fisheries retest the waters that had been depleted for years. He made a nuisance of himself until they did. A month later the fleet sailed after two years in dock. The sea was teeming.

  It was a time of plenty. The deck was piled with fish, white in the monochrome snapshot rather than silver.

  Now the fish were gone, the sea was empty and the Fisheries’ team came each year to check, and left shaking their heads sadly.

  When Hildy returned, Magnus was sat ramrod straight and half cast in shadow.

  “Mags, don’t be mad at the boys, not when it’s Simon you’re angry at.”

  “I won’t be disrespected by my own sons.”

  “That sounds like something your grandfather would say.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That he was a fearsome bully.”

  “Don’t talk about him like that.”

  “No, nobody can say a bad word about John Spence. How exactly was Peter being disrespectful?”

  “These are my choices about our way of life.”

  “Our choices, not just yours.”

  That was why he’d wanted Hildy. She wouldn’t be cowed. Free-spirited Hildy had been a prize.

  “Peter’s just a boy. He just wants to be like his friends on Big Isle.”

  “That bloody generator.” Magnus didn’t want to be reasoned with. The generator was old and unpredictable. Sam the Spark would be up there with his bag of tools.

  “There never seems to be a good time for us to talk about anything any more. Promise me you won’t get angry.”

  “Why would I get angry?”

  “Because everything makes you angry.”

  Magnus sat back.

  “Donald’s been telling me about his nightmares. They’re about the blue men and the Cailleach.”

  The blue men lived in the strait and reached for sailors with outstretched arms. The Cailleach had a list of pseudonyms and occupations but on Little Isle she was a witch who washed her linens in Maw’s maelstrom.

  “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Because he’s scared of disappointing you. He knows how much you love the old tales.”

  “They’re just stories. My granddad taught me them when I was younger than Donald is. And Peter wasn’t bothered by them.”

  “Yes, he was. And just because we all learnt about them as kids it doesn’t mean they have to.” She shuddered. “I used to wake up screaming.”

  Magnus had chronicled the dreams. Only those bred from old stock had them. Magnus used to wake in a sweat after the Cailleach bundled him up with her washing and chucked him into the whirlpool. The blue men pulled him down. They were always waiting in the undertow. Their teeth were pointed. The pain of drowning was like a knife.

  “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings.”

  “Why’s everything so hard?” Magnus blurted out.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This place is dying. Our boys will be gone soon.”

  Peter would go to high school on the mainland as a boarder. Magnus wouldn’t see him from one weekend to the next. Donald would follow before he knew it. How time fleeced you.

  “They’re going to school, not Australia.”

  “They’ll stay on there when they’ve finished to find work.”

  “So? They should be free to do as they please. Hell, we could even move too.”

  “I hate it over there. Too many bad memories.” He meant the loneliness of the docks and his father’s slow death.

  “The world’s bigger than that. We could go anywhere.”

  No. The boys would go and he couldn’t follow. Mairi was right. He was only alive when he was on Little Isle.

  The lights went back on.

  * * *

  When Magnus opened his eyes it was light, to his relief. He’d been waking earlier and earlier of late, the fluorescent hands of his bedside clock marking the slow progress of the night.

  When Magnus slipped from the bed, Hildy rolled over, searching for him from her dreams. She snorted and settled into the warm patc
h on the mattress that he’d just vacated.

  That one’s so sharp she’ll cut herself, his grandfather had said before he died. She’ll cut you, more likely. Are you sure you want a girl that’s so headstrong?

  Yes, Granddaddy.

  Well, just don’t marry her. He cuffed Magnus’s head.

  Magnus pulled on the clothes he’d left on the bannister the night before. Peter’s door was closed but Donald’s was open. His pyjamas were rucked up to reveal spindly legs. He whimpered and shifted. Magnus knelt beside him. Donald’s curls were soft and loose, the same as Magnus’s were before his grandfather took the shears to them.

  Girlishness. What’s your dad thinking?

  “Mummy?”

  “Hey, little man.”

  Magnus waited until Donald settled and then went downstairs.

  He tried the radio but all he got was static. Outside the light was still thin and grey. The storm had blown over but Magnus could see another front out on the water, waiting.

  There came a tap, tap, tap.

  Iain was at the kitchen window. Jimmy stood beside him, grinning.

  “Mags, come quick. They’re trying to get the container open.”

  * * *

  The night had brought another massacre. The beach was littered with sea birds, flight curtailed. The tide line was thick with their carcasses.

  The storm and tide had been merciless. It had thrown the birds about. Feathers were matted with blood. Heads made strange angles with their bodies. Guts were revealed, auguries that Magnus couldn’t read.

  He recognised the fallen, even in pieces. The black guillemot’s monochrome plumage and their shocking red feet. The large angular wings of the gannet, tipped in black. The puffin, comical with its painted eyes. A variety of gulls. And his favourite, the storm petrel. His grandfather would tell him how whole flocks of these tiny birds would feed in the wake of the trawlers. Their feet would patter on the water’s surface and they held their wings in a high V shape, as if trying to keep them dry.

  Flies rose from the dead as gulls and corvids landed to feast on them.

  Magnus stumbled on the rocks in his rush to reach the container. He could see the shower of sparks from the welding rod as he pushed through the crowd.

  “Oi! What are you doing?”

  Niall flipped back his visor and mopped his forehead with his sleeve. “What’s it look like?”