Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  “Jessie,” he said.

  Faster than a snake, he struck.

  The policeman, the one who called himself Collins, knelt down beside Tony. That was when he knew it was bad...they only brought themselves down to look you in the face when they had something bad to tell you...either that or they were telling you off for something in that earnest way they had.

  The policeman’s eyes were moist and sad as he explained to Tony about an empty house and missing parents. He didn’t mention about the bloodstains, but he didn’t have to...Tony saw it in his eyes.

  Besides, he knew what happened when the vampire got you...you came back again…nastier than ever before. And in his dad’s case that wasn’t something he ever wanted to see...he had a feeling that his dad would make a particularly good, if somewhat greedy, vampire.

  He didn’t cry...not in front of Collins…but when the policeman went out and left him alone with Bill Reid he couldn’t help it.

  He almost threw himself off the bed and buried his head in the Minister’s ample waist, throwing his arms around the man and hugging...hugging like he would never let go.

  “She’s dead. The vampire showed me what he’d do, and he’s done it.”

  They stayed together like that for long minutes as Tony cried out his grief and his rage, for his mother, for Ian and for Billy. Finally the sobs began to subside.

  “Come on son,” Bill said, gently prizing Tony away. “Let’s get you downstairs...you look

  like you could do with some hot food inside you.”

  Tony hadn’t thought about it until it was mentioned, but now he could think of nothing else.

  His stomach rumbled, so loud that they both heard it.

  “Guess I was right,” Bill said. “How does soup sound? Tomato soup? All boys love tomato soup...I know I did at your age.”

  Tony nodded. He knew that the Minister was trying to get him to think about something else...he wasn’t stupid enough not to notice that.

  But for now he was happy to go along with it...even although he wasn’t particularly fond of tomato soup. Not now anyway...it reminded him too much of blood.

  When they got to the top of the stairs the policemen were just about to leave. They suddenly looked flustered, unsure of themselves for the first time that evening.

  “We’ve got to go,” Collins said. “It must be something in the air...the whole town’s going mad tonight. We’ve got six separate disturbances of the peace reports and a whole army of missing persons. Will the boy be okay here for a while?”

  Bill nodded, as did Tony. He had no intention of going anywhere...not while it was still dark anyway and he moved closer to the Minister as if to reinforce his assent.

  “I’ve left a man outside...with the....” Collins’ mouth flapped open and shut. “With the old man. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  The door slammed behind the police as they left. Bill stood looking at it for long seconds before turning back to the boy.

  “Time for soup,” he said, taking Tony’s hand and leading him to a huge, spotlessly clean kitchen that looked like it was never used. The sight reminded him of the kitchen in his home...his mother’s fruitless efforts to keep the place clean despite his father’s innate untidy nature…the boxes of cereal and the half used loaves of bread and the slight greasiness of all the surfaces.

  He pushed that thought away. He had to stop thinking about his mother...the last time he’d done it the vampire had got her.

  It was best if he took each moment as it came and tried not to think too much...that was the only way he would cope with what was happening around him.

  He watched, almost smiling, as the Minister opened and closed most of the cupboards visible before finally finding the soup cans.

  “I don’t spend much time in here,” the man said, almost apologetically. “Mrs. Brown does it all for me.”

  Soon saliva began to well in Tony’s mouth as the smell of warming soup filled the kitchen.

  He sat at a table that was too high for him, in a chair that didn’t allow his feet to touch the ground, and when the Minister put a bowl of soup in front of him he felt like a much younger boy.

  It was only then that he released his grip on the book, the book he had held on to all this time.

  The Minister sat opposite him, and for a while there was only the quiet slurping as Tony wolfed down the soup. He scraped the bottom of the bowl and looked up guiltily to find Bill staring at him.

  “Tell me about the vampire,” was all the Minister said, but that was enough.

  Once Tony started talking he couldn’t stop. He told the Minister about Billy, about the house and the skeleton and how it had all started. By that time tears were once more streaming down his face, but he didn’t stop talking.

  He told Bill about Ian and the trick in the boiler room, then he told him again about the old man in the graveyard. And through it all Bill said nothing, and the expression on his face didn’t change.

  “And where does the book come into it all?” he asked, but Tony could only shrug...he hadn’t worked that bit out yet.

  “The vampire is looking for it...that’s all I know. And he wants it very badly.”

  “And this all actually happened?” Bill asked. “Just like you said?”

  Tony could see the disbelief in the Minister’s face. He didn’t speak, merely pushed the book across the table to Bill and sat and watched as the Minister started to read.

  Brian was getting drunk. Not quickly, but the effect of the strong beer and the company of his father was a heady combination.

  “Good to see you again son,” his father said, thrusting another pint of beer into Brian’s hand.

  “I think we should make a night of it...don’t you. After all, neither of us have our work to get to in the morning.”

  All the old crowd was there...old Mr. Graham from next door holding forth about racing pigeons, his Auntie Netta with her gin and orange and reminiscences about his childhood, and his Uncle Davy ogling at everything in a skirt.

  And his father was in good spirits. He’d already told the story about the one armed man and the camel, and he was building up to the one about ‘Hans that does dishes.’

  Brian hadn’t enjoyed himself so much for years.

  But the drink seemed to be taking its toll. The walls of the pub wavered, melting and flowing in surrealist patterns that hurt his eyes when he looked too close, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of rough stone walls beneath the mock oak veneer. Then his dad bought him another drink and everything settled down again.

  For a while.

  The beer flowed faster and he got more and more drunk and the walls melted faster. His father held out a hand and smiled. He too began to change, his features flowing like melting butter in a pan. Brian grabbed for him, spilling his drink, but his hands only met air.

  The room around him span in turmoil, swirling clouds of gas in hues of green and purple in which shapes danced and cavorted, shapes which slowly coalesced into pictures, like a video playing in Brian’s mind.

  He was on a vast plain that stretched out flat to the horizon in every direction. It was night, and the sky overhead blazed with a curtain of stars, so clear that their individual colors could be seen, so bright that the plain was bathed in shining silver. He walked...had been walking forever...through a night that had no end.

  There were no buildings, no factories, no streetlights, no smoke, and no offspring of the usurper Adam. There was only the soft grass of the plain and the sky.

  And everywhere there was food...hot pulsing life that ran and crawled and swam, life that was his for the taking whenever he chose.

  Far out on the plain something moved, a great beast that could have been a lion or tiger but was bigger and faster than either.

  The body Brian inhabited began to move faster; running with no apparent effort as he halved the distance to the creature, then halved it again.

  The creature had noticed him and began to run...great leap
ing bounds that carried it yards at a time. But he was catching it...closer and closer until he could smell its fear.

  The great maned head turned towards him, and he took joy in the despair in its eyes as he leaped to land on its broad back. It was still running when his fangs pierced the fur, the flesh and, finally, the vein.

  He laughed as he fed.

  “So it was in the beginning, so it shall be again,” a voice intoned in his left ear and the scene shifted once more.

  He was inside a building; a giant cavernous sepulchre carved in a black marble that shone with its own inner light. And all around him, quiet and still, stood rank upon rank of robed, hooded figures, all eyes fixed on an altar high in the west wall, a single slab on which a naked body lay.

  A vampire stood there beside the body. He looked like a pale white ghost, and in his hand he held a silver dagger that flashed as he brought it up and brought it down and red blood spilled.

  The crowd screamed, a howl that shook the stones and sent a flock of bats squealing overhead as the old one showed them the knife. He pointed it, still dripping, straight at Brian.

  Brian felt himself move forward, his limbs refusing to obey commands, the crowd parting to let him past, a look of naked envy on every face as he moved closer to the altar and his prize.

  The vampire’s eyes burned red as it took Brian by the hand and pulled him up towards the altar and the red dripping thing that lay there. Brian’s head was pushed down towards the body; down into the gore filled hole that had once been a chest. The dead skin felt like cold rubber as his face rubbed against the ravaged flesh.

  “Drink this in remembrance of me,” a voice said in his ear and laughed. Brian felt hot coppery liquid in his mouth, in his throat.

  He swallowed, twice, and darkness dimmed his sight, a red darkness that filled his mind and sent him down deep into an oblivion from which there was no return.

  Tom’s head came down toward Margaret’s neck, almost before her reflexes could kick in.

  She only had time to bring up her left hand. She cried in shock as Tom’s new fangs ripped into the flesh just above her wrist, twin grooves that flared with a deep heat.

  He didn’t seem to notice that he had only pierced her hand. His jaws worked frantically and the wounds opened further.

  Margaret’s eyes were only inches from his, but she saw no recognition, no spark of humanity...merely an animal lust for food...or rather, in Tom’s case, drink.

  She screamed in his face, spittle flying around them, but he didn’t flinch. She squirmed, but his grip was tightening, tighter and tighter behind her back. She brought up her right hand and managed to wedge it under Tom’s chin, pushing hard, and at the same time bringing up her knee hard into his groin.

  He grunted and his grip loosened...not by much, but enough for her to shift her balance and give herself more leverage against his chin. She put her weight into it, forcing his head backward and to the side, hearing his neck muscles creak and the grating of bone against bone as his neck vertebrae twisted.

  She kicked him in the groin again, and again, and as his head came forward she butted him, just above the bridge of the nose. A wide gash appeared...a one-inch split in his skin that gaped white. There was no blood.

  And still he held her tight, and still those rotted fangs continued to gouge new furrows in her hand.

  She could feel her strength beginning to go and she didn’t think she would be able to hold him off much longer.

  She let herself go limp, putting all her weight against Tom’s arms at her back. Then, as he leaned forward with her, she fell back further, using his weight against him and taking them both to the ground.

  As she fell she twisted to the left, bringing her right leg round in an arc and throwing Tom off sideways. She rolled in a tight tumble and was on her feet and running while Tom was still regaining his balance.

  She didn’t look back as she pounded her feet down on the hard tarmac. She was vaguely aware that she ran in the wrong direction...heading away from the town...but all she could think of was escape. Heavy drops of blood splattered from her hand leaving a jagged pattern strewn on the road behind her

  The pain wasn’t getting through to her yet, but she knew that her ravaged hand needed medical attention, and needed it fast. Off to her right trees loomed over the road and she considered veering off...trying to lose her pursuer in the dark, but somehow she knew that would be fatal.

  Her life had suddenly taken a turn into “The Twilight Zone”. Up till now she had given little thought to the occult, and had always laughed at the theatrics of vampire movies. But the reality wasn’t cozy, and it wasn’t sexy. No expensively clad Count would whisk her off for nights of ecstasy...there was only old Tom with his raincoat and rotting teeth. And he was somewhere out there in the night. He could even be watching her now. The thought added urgency and she picked up the pace.

  The road stretched off in the dark ahead of her and she couldn’t remember whether there were any turn offs, any paths that she could take. She knew that she couldn’t run very far...she felt tired, bruised and bleeding.

  Behind her she could imagine hurried footsteps, but still she wouldn’t turn around.

  The road turned to her left, away from the grounds of the house, and now she didn’t even have the relative comfort of the trees. She couldn’t go on much longer...her breath was coming in heavy gasps and her hand was beginning to throb in red pain.

  Her right foot hit a pothole in the road, sending her tumbling to the ground. Instinctively she put out her hand and screamed as rough gravel was pressed into her palms and her wounds screamed again in pain. She almost blacked out and had to slap herself on the cheek to stop the desire for sleep taking over.

  She got to her feet, stumbling forward in a half couch, but it wasn’t long before she slowed, unable to make her legs move any further. She slowed again to a walk. And now she could look around, but all she could see was the black road and the twisted heather that bounded it. She stopped, turning in a full circle, but there was no movement, not even the slightest whisper of wind.

  Tom Duncan lay on the rough gravel drive just inside the main gate and screamed at the stars overhead.

  Jessie had been there...he’d heard her, seen her, tasted her. But she had spurned him. No, not just spurned, she had thrown him away like he was no more than a child’s doll.

  And now the thirst was back, raging and strong within him. He ran a swollen tongue over his lips and picked up the taste of the longed for liquid.

  “Jessie,” he whispered as he pushed himself upright, and there was an answering crunch of a footfall on the gravel behind him.

  He turned towards the noise and could dimly make out a figure standing in the shadows beneath the trees. She had come back to him. He should have known better than to doubt her. He stretched out his arms.

  “Jessie,” he said, his voice soft and pleading.

  “Wrong lady,” a voice said, and Tom never even saw the crossbow bolt that entered his right eye socket and crashed through the remnants of his brain before lodging in the back of his skull.

  He just had time to take in the long black overcoat and the blazing fury in the eyes of his assailant before the second bolt took him in the heart and the blackness came and took away the thirst.

  Jim Kerr walked slowly up to the body on the ground, the crossbow cocked and loaded in his right hand. He spat on the body and said the words…the ones he’d been saying for far too long.

  “That’s for Sandra, you bastard!”

  That made two tonight, and he knew that the odds were that he’d missed at least one...the old one had got away from him for more than an hour, more than enough time to turn even more of the townspeople.

  He had a feeling that it was beginning to run away from him...that the situation would get a whole lot worse before it got better.

  He prodded the body with his left foot, a hard kick in the ribs that would have produced at least a flinch if there were anything
left in the old man. He kept the crossbow high, waiting, but the remaining eye didn’t blink. He knelt and grabbed hold of the quarrel which protruded from the body’s face, having to kneel on the chest and use all his strength before it came free with a soft, moist sucking.

  He wiped the bolt clean on the coat as, with his other hand, he removed a clove of garlic from his pocket and placed it between the dead creature’s lips.

  There was no pity in him for the dead man...he’d allowed himself to be seduced, allowed his blood to be taken. That made him one of the weak ones, not worthy of pity.

  The quarrel joined the others in the quiver under his arm as he stood up and gazed up the drive towards the house.

  The old one knew about him now and would be more careful, and the house was its home territory...a place where it would be at its most dangerous. He knew that he had more chance of overcoming it by daylight, but the lust for action and execution was burning in him.

  What tipped the balance was his tiredness. He had been pursuing the old one for days...ever since he’d read the signs...the cattle mutilations, the dead child...he’d known as soon as he read the newspapers that there was more work for him to do.

  Breaking out of the wing had been easy. He’d been a good boy for a long time, and they thought he had settled down enough to relax security. And that had been all the chance he needed.

  He’d had to steal the weapon, but he hadn’t had to hurt anyone. That was a promise he’d made to himself years before. He only hurt people who were already dead. And now it looked like he would have to hurt some more.

  The police would be looking for him...he knew that. He’d never managed to persuade anyone of the rightness of his actions and he realized that he was considered insane.

  Maybe he was, maybe he had to be to survive in the nightmare that his world had become, but he was just sane enough to know that if he didn’t succeed, then this town would be in serious trouble. He intended to do something about the possibility.