Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  “Just who the fuck dae you think you are. Fucking students, living off the fucking taxpayers’ money then coming in here and spending it all on fucking drink and pool. I don’t pay ma taxes for you to come in here and piss it all away.”

  “Come on, Jockie,” said a small thickset man at the bar, “Leave the boys be. They’re not doing any harm. Besides, you and I both know that you haven’t paid any taxes since you started working on the coal delivery.”

  “That’s not the point. And just you stay out of this you wee fart. These wankers are always in here and they annoy me, with their posh voices and their fucking diet lager. A bunch of poofters that’s all they are. A bunch of fucking poofters.”

  His voice trailed off into mumbled ramblings, leaving the man at the bar happy but knowing that flash point wouldn’t be far away.

  Brian had taken Bill Reid’s advice from the night before and had cornered Sandy as he had entered the bar.

  At first the old man didn’t want to talk, but Brian had explained that the Minister had mentioned Sandy’s ‘experiences’, and asked if he’d ever encountered anything locally. He began to regret that he’d ever asked.

  Sandy was a natural storyteller, always spinning the story out just the right amount, always saying slightly more than you wanted to hear, but never enough to make you stop listening.

  His deep blue eyes got a faraway look, as if focusing on some long past scene and his hands moved in front of his chest, seemingly trying to mold the story from thin air.

  “Well there I was, all alone in the grounds of the big house, the sun just going down and a thin fog around my ankles. I’ve stood in many places in my time. Just waiting for that wee squeal when the trap gets the rabbit, but this was different, I could tell something was going to happen. I can always feel these things in my bones.

  “Not that my bones were as bad back then. No…this was nearly forty years ago...I was a fine man in my day.”

  Sandy took a long gulp of whiskey and Brian winced. If the old man was going to drink at that rate then this could prove to be a very costly tale. He had to force himself to concentrate as the old man continued.

  “The Hansen House had been empty for a couple of years...since the men in the white coats left. Do you ken that story?”

  Brian didn’t even understand the question, and he must have looked blank.

  “No,” Sandy went on. “There’s no’ many that ken that one. Old man Dickie could have helped you, but he’s passed away. I’ll save that one for another time. So where was I?”

  He took another gulp at the whiskey and his eyes suddenly seemed to focus somewhere else.

  “As I said...it was just getting dark. I’d set my wee traps, and it was just a matter of waiting. I wasn’t afraid of getting caught...the land was government property and they didnae employ a gamekeeper. Nobody would bother me. Or so I thought.

  “I was watching the stars come out. Back then the nights were a lot clearer...there were few of these damned streetlights to pollute the sky. Anyway, I wasnae paying attention...that’s how he must have managed tae get past me. The first time I saw him he was on his way up tae the big house.

  “He was a big fellow...broad shoulders and a stiff back. I thought at first one of the Army men had come back.

  “But he wasnae dressed like an army man; he wore a checked working man’s shirt and a pair o’ heavy corduroy trews. It had tae be somebody fae the town, but I didnae recognize him. He went into the house and I went back to waiting for my rabbit.”

  “Now you might think that I lacked a wee bit of curiosity, but back then I was keeping myself tae myself. If somebody wanted tae wander about the Hansen House that was his business.

  “Everything went quiet again, then the rabbit walked right into my wee trap. I had just lifted it up, its wee body trembling in my hands, when I heard the scream.

  “I nearly dropped the poor creature. I was surely as terrified as it was. The scream was like something frae hell...a long high howl o’ despair. It fair curdled ma blood.”

  Sandy paused to take another sip of his double whiskey, getting perilously close to the bottom of the glass, and took a quick furtive look around the bar. When he resumed talking he lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “The scream went on for a long time, then it was cut off, sharpish. The quiet that followed it was even worse if anything. The wee rabbit and I just looked at each other, and I’ve never felt more like running in my life.

  “But I was hungry, and the rabbit was all I had. I had just grabbed its head and was about tae twist its neck when I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked into the face of the big man I had seen earlier. His eyes were blazing red, as if lit by the very fires of hell.”

  Sandy stopped, waiting for the reaction he always got at this point. Brian duly obliged.

  “And? Come on, Sandy, you can’t just stop there. What happened next?”

  Sandy smiled.

  “Nothing. I must have passed out. The next thing I knew it was morning and I woke up from sleeping in the shade of the tree stump as if nothing happened. I was as weak as a baby for days and I never went near that house again.

  “I know what you’re going to say, that I must have dreamt it. But if you hold on till I get us a drink, I’ll tell you what I found out later about the house.”

  Sandy left to go to the bar, leaving Brian wondering what else was wandering in the old man’s brain.

  While Sandy was at the bar Brian was also wondering why he’d spent so much time recently listening to strange tales from older men in bars.

  It used to be that he thought older people were always worth listening to so that you could benefit from their experience but was it worth it if you found that they were just as confused about life as you were?

  He realized that he was trying to rationalize Tom’s story from the previous day but wasn’t all this stuff about the supernatural just a bit morbid?

  He felt disappointed that Sandy’s story, although firmly believed by Sandy himself, seemed to be a dream and resolved to hear the old man out, buy him a drink and then get to bed and forget this whole occult bit as soon as possible.

  Sandy returned from the bar with a pint for Brian and what looked like another double whiskey for himself. Brian waited till he had sat down then tried to prize out the rest of Sandy’s story.

  “Okay then, what did you find out about the house?”

  “Well, at that time I was keeping friendly with the widow woman who was running the library. You know what it’s like. Anyway, she knew an awful lot about the history of the town and stuff like that so I asked her what she knew about the house.

  “Aye, she was smart for a woman was Mrs. Brown. I remember the time…”

  Brian sensed another long story coming on.

  “Come on, finish your story. You can tell me about your sex life some other time.”

  “All right, all right, I was just remembering. Can an old man no’ get to remember sometimes?

  “As I’ve already said, she knew an awful lot of stuff did Mrs. Brown. She told me a lot about the Hansen House.”

  The old man paused, a wide grin splitting his features.

  “If you thought the last story was strange, just wait till you hear this one.

  “It starts back in the early 1800’s, when the house was getting built. At that time the population of the town was all miners, and the owner of the mines, Gerald Hansen, wanted a big house up on the hill. So he got the workers tae help build the house.

  “Now, when they were putting in the foundations, they came upon a cave. Remember, these were men who spent their lives down the pit...they were used tae the dark and they were hard, afraid of nothing. But they found something down under there that scared the shit out of them, and they would never talk tae anybody about what it was they had found.

  “They went on strike and refused tae have anything more to do with it, even though they lost all their wages, and the owner had tae ship people in fae
as far as Edinburgh tae get his house built.

  “No that he got any pleasure oot o’ it. He went mad less than a year later and was put away.

  "And ever since then everybody that has ever stayed there has gone mad...even those Army men who used it as a shelter during the war. Old man Dickie once told me that you would nae get him back in that house for all the tea in China.”

  He stopped and smiled at Brian.

  “Now is that the kinda thing you wanted tae hear Mr. Teacher man?”

  “Come on, Sandy. Is that it? Some two-bit ghost story to keep the weans away from a derelict house?”

  Sandy looked disgusted at Brian’s lack of faith, so much so that Brian felt guilty.

  “Okay, I suppose you deserve another drink for your imagination. What’ll it be? Another double Grouse?”

  “Aye, that’ll be fine,” the old man said. “But it’s no’ imagination teacher man. And there is definitely something going on in this town. So don’t you go and pass it off as imagination because if you do the shock could be all the worse when you discover the truth.”

  “Aye maybe, but school teachers are supposed to keep superstition at bay.” Brian said with more than a trace of wistfulness. “I’d better be going. I might see you again on Friday or Saturday. Here.”

  Brian left a ten-pound note on the table and picked up his jacket.

  “Buy yourself a couple of drinks. They might dull your imagination.”

  Sandy chuckled, making him look like a garden gnome again as he called after the teacher.

  “Okay, come in and you can tell me one of your classy teacher’s stories. Take care of yourself.”

  He got answered by the wave of a hand and then Brian was gone.

  They were never to see each other again.

  Tony Dickie was late. Late for his big scene. He’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t provide the promised trick, the one he’d learned the day before. He ran wildly down the long empty corridor, hands slapping on the walls for balance, and slammed heavily into Tom Duncan, his Maths teacher and the scourge of Tony’s young life. Tony winced, expecting the usual verbal lashing and cuff around the ear. Instead the teacher merely grunted and moved aside to let him pass.

  Saying a silent prayer for his good luck he burst, a bundle of flailing arms and legs, into the boiler room. They were all waiting, silent.

  Almost falling down the stairs he got carried by momentum into the center of the small circle of seven.

  “Sorry…I…missed the bus…”

  He was always apologizing recently...apologizing for getting good results in exams, apologizing for having two left feet when it came to playing football, but most of all apologizing for being late.

  But football was the worst. There they would be, all lined up against the wall, peeling off as their names were called, until only one or two were left. Tony was always one of the ones who were left.

  “Oh, all right, we’ll have, Dickie,” a voice would say. “He can always go in goal.”

  And there he would stand, cold seeping into his hands until finally, dismayingly, a horde of screaming bodies would descend on him, heading the ball in front.

  He tried, he always did, but the ball always slipped out of his hands at the crucial moment and he was always left crying.

  But magic, ah yes, magic was a different story.

  He noticed that they were all waiting for him.

  “Okay, just get on with it. Do we have to do anything?”

  This came from Isobel, his first ever object of desire, she of the jet-black hair and baby blue eyes. He blushed every time he had to speak to her and this little demonstration of his ‘magic’ was primarily for her benefit.

  “I hope somebody brought the chairs.”

  “Yea, they’re here. Come on, hurry up...the bell will be ringing soon.”

  Nick Bayliss stepped aside, revealing two small chairs leaning against the boiler. Tony had now caught his breath properly and was just about ready to start but first he needed to set up the proper atmosphere.

  Years ago Granddad had told him that atmosphere was all, and that without it the trick would fall flat as a pancake and he would be left looking like a duck’s arse. Tony had never seen a duck’s arse, but he imagined it to be pretty horrible.

  Just wait till they see this trick, he thought, …then we’ll see who looks like a duck’s arse!

  “C…could I have those two chairs,” he stammered, pointing with a shaking finger, “Over here in the middle of the floor facing each other.”

  By the time the chairs had been positioned to his liking he had regained his composure completely and he stood silently in front of them, saying nothing, letting the tension build.

  He looked around, meeting each one of them in the eye before finally settling on his accomplice.

  “All right Ian, lie down over here across the chairs.”

  Ian Brown, a tall but fat boy, looked around with an aggrieved expression.

  “Why does it have to be me? I always get to do the stupid things.”

  Ian was the class scapegoat. He was always the very last one chosen when it came to picking football teams, always the last one back from cross country runs and always, but always the brunt of the cruelest classroom jokes. Fortunately he was good-natured and had developed a resignation to his lot. He only really protested when, as now, he got called upon to be a guinea pig. He was also Tony’s friend, since Billy’s disappearance his companion in adversity against the whims of the other children.

  Tony looked at him and smiled. He hoped his look would say all that he felt. That he chose Ian because he was his friend, and that he trusted him not to make a fuss, that he could share in the reflected glory once the trick was performed and the full scale of Tony’s talents was known.

  But he couldn’t say it. For now he was the Magician and Magicians treated everyone else with disdain. That was something else Granddad had told him.

  “Because you’re the biggest one here and this works better with big people. So just lie down and shut up or else we’ll never get this done before the bell.”

  After finally getting Ian to lie down, Tony explained to the rest what they had to do, slowly, so that he could be sure they understood him.

  “I want you to stand three on each side with one finger of each hand under Ian’s body. Space yourselves out, two at the legs, two at the waist and two at the shoulders. Then you’re all got to stay quiet and try not to think of anything except my voice. I’m going to say some sentences and I want you all to repeat them after me, but changing the word ‘looks’ to the word ‘is’. When I get to the word ‘illusion’ I want you to try lifting him, using only the tips of your fingers.

  “Don’t try to force it; you’ll only break the spell. It only works if you listen to what I’m saying...you’ve all got to concentrate hard, okay?”

  He looked around for confirmation and most of them were nodding. All that is, except one.

  Tony’s heart sank when the dissenter turned to him, the big grin fixed in its usual place.

  “I’ve seen this before. It never works unless everybody cheats. Is this your big new trick? I’m not staying here for this.”

  Nick Bayliss was Tony’s rival for Isobel’s attention. Tony knew that if Nick left the rest of them would soon follow, he was that sort of a leader…the first to suggest anything which was liable to lead to trouble, the last to get caught. His mother said he was ‘tuppence short of a bob’ and Tony, although he didn’t understand, knew that it meant that Nick wasn’t one of life’s good guys.

  He trusted his mum’s judgment but he couldn’t see what made Isobel so attracted to the boy.

  He supposed it was something he might understand when he got older.

  “All right then, if it doesn’t work, I’ll give you all ten pence each.”

  “Ten pence? That’s not going to break your bank is it? If you want me to stay you’d better make it fifty at least.”

  Nick was still grinning
at him, that big crazy grin that meant he was onto a winner. Fifty pence was all that Tony had, and if his trick didn’t work he’d have to pay out over three pounds.

  He was about to pull out when he caught Isobel looking at him, big black lashes fluttering. He felt a warm tingly feeling in his stomach and had to lower his eyes. There was no way that he’d back down with her watching him.

  “Okay then, let’s do it.”

  After they had placed themselves around the prone figure he started the chant.

  “He looks pale.”

  “He looks fat!” A low voice replied and they all burst out laughing. All that is apart from Tony. He was furious.

  “Okay. If you’re not going to take this seriously, I’m off. I’ve got better things to do anyway.”

  He looked around and felt a warm smile of pleasure inside which he daren’t let reach his face.

  He had their attention again...he was the Magician once more.

  There were several protests, not the least of which came from Isobel. He permitted himself one small smile as he looked across at her.

  “All right then, I’ll try it again. But don’t blame me if this doesn’t work. I told you that you had to be serious for it to happen.”

  He placed his hands on the side of Ian’s head, feeling the heat at his ears underneath the hair.

  “He looks pale,” he began.

  “He is pale.”

  This time they all replied, not quite in unison but the atmosphere of the occasion was beginning to get through to them. Even Nick Bayliss looked like he’s started to take it seriously.

  Tony permitted himself a quick glance at Isobel but her eyes were closed and she frowned in concentration.

  “He looks ill.”

  “He is ill.” Six voices replied. Nowhere existed except for that room, that moment.

  It’s going to work, he thought, excitement rising in him.

  By now they were all caught in the special atmosphere, so much so that no one noticed the whitening around the lips of the boy between their hands.

  “He looks dead.”

  “He is dead.”

  “Dead?” whispered the head held tightly between Tony’s hands.