Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  One of these days he would treat them to a “Hang ‘em and bash ‘em” speech, just to see how many mouths fell open in amazement.

  “Morning Brian, and how are we today, then?”

  Every morning his reading was interrupted in the same way.

  Tom Duncan was the nearest thing Brian had to a friend in the school. A small fat scruffy man, Tom was the butt of most of the cruel jokes circulated amongst the pupils. Looking at him, it wasn’t difficult to see why.

  Tom’s wife had died in a road crash four years previously and since then he had turned increasingly to drink. His personal habits had also gone downhill and most days he wore the same clothes...a scruffy red cardigan, a pair of badly worn corduroy trousers, and a very old shirt, gray at cuffs and collar. Alongside the slow decay of his clothes, he hadn’t trimmed his mustache properly for a long time, giving him the look of a down at heel walrus.

  Today Brian noticed that Tom hadn’t shaved over the weekend, making him look even more of a down and out. He would have to give him one of his lectures again, otherwise Tom’s job wouldn’t last much longer, but there was genuine warmth in his voice as he greeted his friend.

  “Oh I’m fine, Tom, but you don’t look too hot. Had a rough weekend?”

  The older man started to laugh but stopped quickly when it turned into a wheezing cough.

  “Rough? You would never believe it. But I don’t want to talk about it in here with all these sweetie wives listening.”

  Brian looked around and noticed that the knot of teachers around the kettle were trying too hard to look as if they weren’t listening in to the men’s conversation. He turned back in time to hear Tom’s next question.

  “Can I see ye in the pub at dinnertime?”

  “Dinner time?” Brian replied. “Would you not be better off having something to eat?”

  Tom almost laughed again, then seemed to think better of it.

  “I’ll get a roll in the pub. Listen, I really need to talk to you. It’s important. I’ve got to go. I’ve got 3D for Religious Studies and if I don’t get there on time the wee bastards will have broken the desks up to make clubs. I’ll see you in the pub?”

  Brian watched the older man thread his way through the knot of teachers and allowed himself a grim smile as he saw them stand back as if Tom carried some strange infectious disease.

  Going to the pub at lunchtime was something Brian had been trying to cut down on since leaving University. On more than a few occasions a quick pint had turned into two or three, then six or seven and before you knew it, it was eleven o’clock and they were throwing you out.

  Today however, although he’d tried to dissuade Tom, he thought that a pint or two might be a good idea.

  But first he had to negotiate 4C. Trying to teach biology to fifteen-year-olds must be one of the toughest subjects. Almost every topic in the syllabus had an item that had something to do with fertilization or impregnation or conception, bringing with them giggles, jokes and general mayhem, not to mention the questions designed to embarrass the teacher. Brian always felt drained after these classes.

  The more he thought of it, the better the idea of a pint at lunchtime became.

  The morning passed quietly for Brian. The kids seemed to be subdued, their thoughts on something else. He got the feeling that every time he turned his back notes were being passed.

  He even managed to get through the subject of asexual reproduction in amoebae without a single giggle. On his way to the pub he hoped that the afternoon would be equally as quiet.

  Once his eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the bar, Brian could make out Tom in his usual position at the far end. It looked like being another of Tom’s ‘sessions’. He could only have been there for ten minutes at most but he already had an empty pint glass in front of him.

  “Hello, Brian. How about a pint then?” the older man said, and Brian was dismayed at the weariness in his friend’s voice. He wanted to reach out and hug Tom, but showing affection to other men was a dangerous thing to do in a pub in this town.

  “Aye, all right, but only one mind, I’ve got a lot on this afternoon.”

  Both men were quiet as the barman poured two pints from the tap just in front of them.

  “Come on and sit over in the snug,” Tom said. “I need some heat in my bones. I’ve been feeling the cold a lot recently.”

  The pub had not changed since Brian had first visited it many years ago. He had been sixteen at the time and didn’t know what to order. Dave, the present barmen had been there even then.

  He had taken pity, albeit illegally, on the boy and let him buy a round with his mates.

  The linoleum Brian and Tom were walking on was exactly the same, just in a much more faded condition. The pool table had a new baize cloth, the jukebox and video games were new models but to Brian’s eyes nothing else had changed. The smoke still hung in the air, there was a slight but unmistakable smell of urine and the beer still got him drunk.

  Much of Brian’s late youth had been spent in this bar, honing his pool playing skills, trying unsuccessfully to chat up the scarce female customers and trying to avoid confrontations with the locals who had a chip on their shoulders about students. There were more than a few of them Brian remembered. On several occasions it had come to blows and he had heard that there was still some bad feeling, but as a school teacher Brian was what was known as a respected member of the community and he had even had some of his previous antagonists buy him drinks. It was a strange old world.

  Apart from the two of them there were only three other people in the bar and they were all in the alcove at the far end, clustered around the pool table. It was quiet and cool and the beer tasted so good that Brian thought he could happily spend the rest of the afternoon letting oblivion take him away.

  Tom just sat and stared into his pint for a while, fiddling with a box of matches before finally deciding to light a cigarette. Brian realized that whatever was bothering him was hard to talk about and helped him on with a little prompting.

  “So what was so bad about your weekend then? You didn’t go to the Bowry again did you? I’ve told you before to stay clear of that place on a weekend.”

  Tom didn’t even look up from his beer as he replied.

  “No. No, it’s got nothing to do with the drink. I don’t know where to start. You know that my wife died four years ago? Aye, I suppose I’ve bent your ear often enough about it.”

  Tom paused to take a long sip from his drink. He wiped the excess foam from his bushy mustache. Suddenly Brian realized that he really didn’t want to hear this story; he had the feeling of standing over a precipice as a cold wind got up at his back. He was about to try to break the mood when Tom started to speak.

  Brian sipped his pint as the monologue started.

  “It was on Saturday night. Late on...must’ve been nearly midnight. I was well on...you ken how it is. Anyway, I found myself up on the moor road. It was a fine night...a clear sky, and not too cold. Just as well really...I would have frozen my bollocks off otherwise.

  “I was coming to my senses slowly...too much whiskey and not enough to eat. There was some trouble with my eyes...everything looked misty. I shook my head to clear it, but the mist stayed right where it was. And then it got worse. It was fine, drizzly kind of stuff, and it started at my feet, creeping up my legs. And that’s when I heard the voice.”

  He stopped talking to take another sip from his beer and it was long seconds before he started again. The bar seemed to have fallen silent and, although there were others less than ten yards away, Brian was only aware of Tom as he continued.

  “Tommy. That’s what I heard. A woman’s voice...no, not just any woman. It was Jessie’s voice. Over and over again...just that one word.”

  He stopped as his voice broke and tears ran freely down his cheeks. Brian leaned forward and clapped his friend’s shoulder.

  “Come on Tom. Don’t punish yourself like this.”

  Tom shrugged Bria
n’s hand off.

  “No Brian. It wasn’t the drink talking. I’m sure it was Jessie. I wandered about in that fog for a long time but I couldn’t find her...I just kept hearing her voice. I think I cried for a while, and when I finally got my act together the mist had gone. I waited nearly all night...I was knackered in the morning...but she never came back.”

  Tom stared into his drink for a long time and Brian felt that he should be saying something, something practical and level headed. But all he could do was sit and watch his friend crying over his beer.

  Later, as they made their way back to the school Brian noticed how pale his friend looked. He would have to give Tom a lecture again, and soon. But for now he merely kept up a constant flow of chatter, a smoke screen to keep Tom’s mind away from what it really wanted to be thinking of.

  Later that evening Brian was in the process of getting comprehensively beaten at chess by Bill Reid, the local Presbyterian Minister.

  Brian and Bill had first met at a Parent-Teacher meeting about six months previously and had discovered a mutual liking for the game...in Bill’s case it was more of an obsession. Since that night they had met every Monday evening to drink some fine malt whiskey, play some chess and discuss the current woes of the world. So far the games had all been one sided, with Bill coming out on top every time. Recently however Brian had been doing some reading and was honing up on the Sicilian Defense...Bill’s favorite opening.

  Pretty soon Bill would have to use a different opening or risk defeat. Brian was looking forward to that day.

  Tonight he thought he’d cracked it but his memory failed him at a crucial move and he missed a game winning chance. The match ended with a long bout of endplay and Bill finishing ahead yet again.

  Bill’s main room in the Manse was the kind of room that Brian had always wanted for himself but could never afford on his teacher’s salary. Three of the walls were wall to wall bookcases filled with history and theology books but with one of the bottom shelves devoted to Bill’s secret vice...detective novels.

  The fourth wall was what made the room special for Brian. It consisted of a large five-paneled bay window of leaded glass with a view out over the town to the hills beyond. Many of the nights which Brian had spent here were taken up by sitting watching the sun going down behind the hills, a glass of good whiskey in his hand and his body resting in a fine old leather armchair.

  “I know I’ve told you this before Bill,” he said, “But you’re a lucky man to have a room like this. I’d give my back teeth for one like it.”

  “Aye, you’ve told me before,” the Minister replied. “But I don’t think the Church of Scotland is too keen on providing bachelor pads for schoolteachers with dangerous left wing politics. You know what a bunch of fascists we are.”

  Bill never missed a chance to provoke Brian about his views on the established religions and never forgot Brian’s outburst when told of Bill’s visit to South Africa some years before the fall of apartheid.

  It was from that conversation that Brian’s use of the term ‘the fascist church’ had caused Bill to laugh so much that Brian had almost hit him.

  Brian recognized Bill’s attempt to start yet another discussion on politics but Tom’s confession at lunchtime had upset him and he needed to talk to someone about it. Bill seemed to be the obvious choice, being the same denomination as Tom and, as Brian knew from previous conversations, having an open mind on most matters related to the occult.

  “No, not tonight Bill. No politics. I’ve got something I need to talk to you about. But before I start, could I have some more of that expensive whiskey of yours?”

  Bill went to the decanter and poured a generous measure for Brian and a slightly smaller measure for himself.

  Brian let him settle in his chair before starting.

  “Before I say anything, this has got to be confidential. It could be nasty for the person involved if this gets out.”

  “Aye, anything you say Brian. I’ll kid on that I’m a Catholic priest in confessional. Any sins to declare?”

  Brian laughed loudly.

  “Plenty, but none I’m willing to tell you about. The next thing I’d know everybody at the Parents Teachers would know about it. No, this is serious. Put on your serious face.”

  Bill did as he was told with such solemnity that Brian came very close to spraying a mouthful of whiskey on the window while laughing.

  When he had calmed down sufficiently, he told Bill about Tom Duncan.

  Bill had sat quietly through Brian’s explanation, hands clasped in front of him and when he finally spoke it was in a low, serious tone.

  “I think old Tom is seriously disturbed. I believe a doctor is more what he needs.”

  It wasn’t the reply that Brian had expected.

  “Okay, Bill, I take your point. But you yourself, just two weeks ago, expressed a belief in life after death. Don’t….”

  He got interrupted before he could get any further.

  “Aye. I believe in life after death. But I also believe in God, Heaven and all that other “fascist church stuff” that spiritualists have turned their backs on.”

  Bill was getting agitated, his face reddening.

  “And haven’t you said yourself that immortal souls must have something better to do than come back to dark rooms and push an empty glass about? No Brian, I firmly believe that a belief in ghosts and all its associated paraphernalia like Ouija boards, ectoplasm and messages from Auld Auntie Mary is the work of the devil.”

  Brian interrupted this time.

  “Aye. John Knox would be proud if he could see you now.”

  Bill looked at him angrily then suddenly burst into loud guffaws of laughter.

  “Thanks, Brian; I was getting a wee bit over the top. No, you hit a nerve. I always go off like that at the mention of the occult. But it’s funny that you should bring up the subject tonight. I’ve been hearing some strange things on my rounds this past few weeks, people having nightmares, things going bump in the night and two or three maintaining that they’d seen ghosts of people who’ve died recently in the town. I think the town’s getting a wee bit hysterical. Personally I blame old Sandy.”

  “Old Sandy? You mean the little, wizened fellow with the long beard? The one that looks like a beat up garden gnome? Surely he couldn’t have anything to do with it?”

  Brian had seen the old man in the pub...he had looked completely harmless, and more than a little sad.

  “Oh, not directly,” Bill said. “But he stirs up things with his story telling. He knows a lot about the history of this area and he claims to be psychic...sees ghosts around every corner so I’m told. If you want an evening’s entertainment just get him alone sometime in the pub, buy him a few drinks and he’ll talk your ears off for hours. But all this is by the bye. What about Tom? Do you want me to have a word? Convince him that he’s not going to burn in hell, that sort of thing?”

  Brian tried not to look too grateful while replying.

  “That might be a good idea. He’s got a high opinion of Ministers, although if they’re all like you I can’t see where he got it from.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere Brian. In this case it will get you beat at chess yet again. You set up the board, I’ll get the whiskey.”

  Tom Duncan never made it through the day. By six o’clock he was in Glasgow, losing himself in the crowds. Time came and went in an alcoholic haze before he finally surfaced out of it leaning across a rail on the suspension bridge across the Clyde, vomiting his evening’s drinking into the black moonlit water below.

  It had been thinking of Jessie that did it…he always got drunkest when he thought of her.

  He’d met her at a dance when he’d been on the wagon. She’d been impressed...he’d been the only sober man who’d asked her to dance all night. Their courtship had been short; they both realized that they were good for each other. There had only been one fall from the wagon in all the years they were married; that had been just after Je
ssie’s miscarriage.

  He had gone to the hospital and been told that the baby was dead and that they would never be able to have any more. He’d gone in, held Jessie’s hand, told her he loved her and then gone out and found the nearest pub.

  That time he’d come to two days later with no memory at all of where he’d been, lying face up in the middle of a field surrounded by his own waste and several empty whiskey bottles. He’d made his way home to find that Jessie had already got there before him. She didn’t shout, didn’t swear, just cleaned him up and put him to bed.

  He didn’t have another drink until she died.

  The vomiting had stopped, but before he moved on Tom stood there for another ten minutes, his tears twinkling down into the darkness.

  Jock Dickie was getting drunk…not slowly or quietly but at the rate of a pint of heavy and a whiskey every quarter of an hour. Most of the regulars in the pub knew of Jock’s habits. About once a month he took the urge to cut himself off from the world and his pattern was always the same. At around nine he’d pick a fight, probably with one of the younger lads who were playing pool.

  At ten he’d become maudlin and relate, to anyone within range, how he’d nearly made it big and would have done it if hadn’t been for ‘That fucking cow of a wife’ that he’d had to marry when he was twenty. At eleven he’d leave the pub, usually knocking some tables over on the way, heading for the chip shop and then to wend his slow way home.

  Some of the regulars also knew that in the morning his wife would be wearing long-sleeved, high-necked clothes and probably dark glasses as well.

  A few had thought of doing something about it, but all were intimidated by the sheer physical presence of the man, whose feats of strength while working in the brickworks were almost legendary.

  On this Tuesday night he seemed to be heading faster than ever into his black mood and by seven-thirty was already abusing some of the younger clients.