Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  But it no longer looked alive. It looked like what it was...an impressive work of representational art, but a work of art nonetheless.

  “Come over here,” she said.

  Tony hadn’t come all the way into the room. He stood in the hallway, transfixed by the view in front of him.

  “Come on,” she said. “It won’t bite you.” She didn’t quite believe that herself yet, and she had to force herself to step forward, putting her left foot gingerly on the thinnest of the serpent’s coils.

  Tony came across the room, and Margaret noticed that he gave the mosaic a wide berth, never coming closer than six feet to it at any point.

  “I want to try something,” she said. “Have you still got those papers you found in the Bible?”

  Tony nodded and took the book from under his belt and showed her the yellowing papers that protruded from the leather cover.

  She prized the papers out and unfolded them carefully. Tony pointed out the top page.

  “It was that one...the one with the drawings on it.”

  She looked closely at the drawings, but couldn’t see any help there. Then she read the verse, mentally trying to transcribe the strange syllables into words she could understand, words that she might be able to pronounce.

  “Bill said this was an exorcism...right?” she asked.

  Tony nodded again.

  “Well let’s try it.”

  Tony looked doubtful.

  “I know,” Margaret said. “It’s a long shot. But the book has got something to do with this place, and if someone went to enough trouble to leave an exorcism in it, then they must have had some use for it.”

  “So what are you going to do?” the boy asked. “I thought you had to be a priest or something? And wouldn’t it have to be done at night? And...”

  She stopped him before he enumerated all of her own doubts.

  “I know all of that,” she said, “But if it means we don’t have to get down to business with the stakes then I’m all for trying it.”

  “But what are you going to do?” He asked again.

  In truth she had little idea. With the papers in her hand she strode into the center of the mosaic.

  She placed her feet squarely on the head of the serpent but was careful not to stand on the red blot of Brian’s blood. The sunlight seemed to fill the room, but she saw that the source wasn’t directly overhead. In fact she saw that the wall to her left was already in shadow, the leading edges of which were creeping close to the mosaic.

  She flattened the top sheaf of paper, smoothing it out with the heel of her palm.

  “Here goes nothing,” she said, and smiled as Tony gave her a ‘thumbs up’.

  The first words wouldn’t come easy. Her throat was suddenly dry and she had to cough, twice, before she could continue.

  “Powers of the Kingdom, be ye under my left foot and in my right hand,” she began.

  At first her voice was soft and cautious, but she seemed to fall into the rhythm of it, as if the verse had found its own tempo and cadence.

  “Glory and Eternity, take me by the two shoulders and direct me in the paths of victory.

  Mercy and Justice be ye the equilibrium and splendor of my life.”

  The light seemed to be dimming and although Margaret could still see the glowing orb of the sun, it was as if there was a veil of smoke between them.

  “Intelligence and wisdom crown me.

  Spirits of Malcuth lead me betwixt the two pillars upon which rest the edifice of the temple.

  Angels of Nestah and Hod strengthen me upon the cubic stone of Jesod.

  Oh Gedulael, Oh Geburael, Oh Tiphereth, Binael, be thou my love.

  Ruach Hochmael be thou my light. Be that which thou art and thou shalt be. ”

  The room got suddenly darker. Darker and colder. Goosebumps ran the length of Margaret’s arms, and she felt an elation build inside her. Something was happening. It was working.

  “Oh Jethriel Tschim assist me in the name of Amro, be my strength in the name of Yoriah.

  Oh Beni-Elohim, be my brethren in the name of the Redeemer and by the power of Zebaoth.”

  Margaret felt a hot tingling throughout her body, the same feeling she got immediately after a heavy work out. She had to concentrate...the papers seemed to be swimming in front of her eyes.

  “Elohim do battle for me in the name of Rokar.

  Malachim protect me in the name of Jod He Vau He.

  Seraphim cleanse me in the name of Elvoih.

  Give me the strength to cast down this servant of thine enemy.”

  By the time she reached the last words she was almost shouting. The darkness spun and thickened around her and her heart leaped. Thin shadows seemed to rush through the air, whirling around her head in a frenzied dance.

  The air thickened like a descending fog, and in the fog the shadows took on more substance.

  Margaret’s last syllable was still echoing around the room and the fog was getting ever thicker.

  For several seconds she thought it would work but the sun burned through the gray, dispersing it as fast as it came and the tingling in her limbs faded.

  She felt as if she had just missed something important, as if she had been close to success only to have it dashed away.

  “It was working!” Tony shouted. “What happened?”

  Margaret shrugged.

  “I don’t know. I felt something all right.”

  Then another thought struck her.

  “Maybe it did work. How are we to know otherwise?”

  Tony shook his head.

  “It doesn’t feel right.”

  She knew what he meant. The house still had the same chill, the same sense of overbearing gloom.

  “Maybe it needs to be done at night,” Tony said.

  “Yes. And maybe we need to sacrifice a black cockerel while dancing naked around an inverted cross. There’s too many ifs and buts. It looks like we’ll need the stakes after all.”

  As they left the room she turned for one last look. The shadow had already crept over half the mosaic.

  Jim Kerr came out of unconsciousness with a start.

  At first he thought he was in pitch blackness, but then he saw that his torch was still giving out light, still fanning its beam on the wall above the cot.

  The beam was much fainter than before, and he wondered how long he had been out...how close it now was to sunset in the world outside.

  He felt drowsy, as if he hadn’t had enough sleep, and his arms and legs were heavy, as if each were weighed down at ankle and wrist.

  He used his fingertips to feel the back of his head, wincing as his fingers met and prodded at a bump the size of a goose egg.

  His fingers came away dry...it looked like he hadn’t broken the skin, but he would have a roaring headache for a while yet. He pushed himself to his feet, grateful that his legs seemed to be working, and moved towards the flashlight.

  His foot hit something heavy that gave way, like a piece of rotten fruit. He suddenly remembered the child, and the garlic powder. He kept his eyes fixed on the flashlight. He’d seen the effects of the garlic powder before...he didn’t think his stomach would cope with seeing the result it had on a child...even one that had become a bloodsucker.

  His crossbow was still sitting in place beside the torch. He checked that it was cocked and ready before lifting both it and the torch from the bed.

  The torch’s beam was flickering wildly and Jim realized that the batteries were almost gone.

  He decided that discretion was the better part of valor and made for the door.

  He only got two steps when the torch flickered; one last flare that lit up the doorway ahead of him then died, leaving him alone in the darkness.

  He didn’t panic...not then. He kept walking forward, trying to visualize the structure of the room as he’d seen it by torchlight earlier. The door couldn’t be more than four paces away.

  After three paces he held his hand out in front of him a
nd used the torch as a blind man would use a cane, searching for anything in his path.

  The torch scraped noisily against a wall. Jim moved forward, slowly. He felt all around the area. He’d missed the doorway by only six inches to the left. He turned so that his back was to the wall and edged sideways out of the room, keeping his spine pressed against the stone and the crossbow cocked and loaded pointing back into the room.

  He moved slowly, trying not to make any sound, edging his way inch by inch along the corridor, all his senses alert for any noise from the room he had left.

  His biggest problem would be finding the ladder in the darkness. It came down almost in the middle of a large room.

  If there was no light from above...if it was indeed dusk, then he could wander around the room for a long time before stumbling on it.

  And he might not have a long time...he might not have any time at all.

  Even as he had the thought a noise stopped him in his tracks, a rustling followed by the scrape of metal on stone, as if someone had just got off one of the cots and in doing so had moved it slightly as their weight shifted.

  Tony and Margaret stood above the trapdoor in the kitchen, staring down into the blackness.

  Margaret had the bicycle lamp in her hand and she shone it downwards, but all it lit was the first three steps of the ladder.

  “Down there?” Margaret asked.

  “Yes. That’s where we went.”

  Tony could feel the shackles in his mind loosening, and he knew that if he went down to the cellar again then he’d have to face it. Not just the present but the past as well.

  They were casting long shadows across the linoleum on the kitchen floor.

  “It’s getting late,” he said, and Margaret nodded.

  “I figure we’ve got about an hour before sunset,” she said. “That’s long enough. We’ve put it off and put it off, but now it’s time. Let’s go.”

  Without looking at him she stepped down into the hole. Tony waited until her head was below floor level then stepped onto the ladder.

  Donald Allan’s eyes snapped open.

  It wasn’t time yet, but it was coming. Already the drone of the sun was lessening in his head.

  He smiled to himself there in the darkness.

  Chapter 8

  Jim Kerr held his breath, but the sound was not repeated. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. He stood still for five heartbeats, hoping that his eyes might get accustomed to the darkness, but there was no improvement.

  He let out his breath slowly, breathing through his mouth, and began to grope along the wall.

  If he could get to the end of the corridor then he might be able to somehow lock the iron door...keep the bloodsuckers in until he felt better prepared to deal with them.

  He tried to hold on to that thought as he inched further away from the bunker, trying to keep his feet on the ground, shuffling rather than walking to avoid knocking against anything that might move and make a sound that would give him away.

  There was still a buzzing in his head, a lightness of feeling that he might have associated with an oncoming flu if he didn’t know better. He realized that he had been seriously weakened...just how much it remained to be seen. He’d dropped his guard, and they’d got him straight away. He shuddered when he realized how close he had been to giving in completely.

  The vision had been seductive.

  And the worst thing is, I produced it all myself.

  The desire, represented by the vision hadn’t been placed in his mind by an outside agent...it was all his own work. And if he allowed himself to dwell on it, he would be dead in seconds. He forced his mind back to the present, back to the place where he inched along in blackness.

  The wall was smooth behind him. Plaster, he remembered from the brief glimpse he’d had on the way in. He tried to remember how far it had been. Surely it was no more than ten yards. A couple of minutes. That should do it.

  He still clutched tight to the crossbow, so tight that his fingers had begun to ache. He forced himself to relax, counting the muscle groups down out of their tension before making another move. He put the torch deep into a pocket in his overcoat...it was useless now anyway...and replaced it in his hand with a packet of garlic.

  The picture came into his mind without him thinking about it, and with it came memory.

  He’d only taken one down with the garlic once before. That was in London, in a cellar under a cinema in the West End. He’d almost been killed that time. The bloodsucker had come at him unexpectedly. In those days he’d used the hammer and the stake...both hands full. It had landed on his back and knocked him to the ground, pinning both the weapons under the weight of his own body.

  Luckily he had managed to get one hand free. And while the bloodsucker tore and gouged at the high leather collar of his jacket, he twisted and squirmed, trying to retrieve a packet of garlic powder from his shirt pocket.

  He managed it just in time. The back of his jacket was already in shreds as he opened the packet with his teeth and, throwing his weight to one side managed to turn and thrust the open packet into the bloodsuckers face.

  The reaction had been instantaneous.

  The weight lifted from him and a loud choking scream filled the air, followed by silence. By the time he got to his feet the vampire was lying on the ground, its face no more than a black, smoking ruin, like a roast left forgotten in a hot oven. Its eyes had gone completely, now no more than two deep pits, wisps of gray mist rising from deep in the skull. There was a hissing, bubbling sound and Jim realized that the garlic was still in there, still eating away at the soft parts inside. He had almost gagged but he forced himself to move closer, to make sure the thing wasn’t going to get up again.

  It had been finished already, but he had pounded the stake in anyway. For all he knew it was still there, lying under several thousand cinema attendees, seekers of fantasy unaware of the real horror beneath them.

  And since then he had used the crossbow, to keep the other hand free. And he always carried garlic everywhere with him, even when he’d been in prison. He almost smiled as he remembered the nickname he’d been given. Not very original, but appropriate...‘Onion breath’.

  His mind was wandering. He brought it back to the present with a shake of his head. He wouldn’t think of the damage the garlic had done to the vampire child. It had been a bloodsucker...it deserved everything it got.

  Somewhere deep in his mind he knew that such a young child couldn’t be held responsible .

  But was my son responsible? Had he even been given a chance?

  He talked to himself, muttering all alone in the dark. It was something he’d found himself doing many times during the long prison nights and he had long since ceased to notice it.

  The memory, his only one, of the child burning in the sunlight almost brought back the tears, but he forced them down. He searched for the place where the lust for revenge still burned, as hot as ever, and let it come, chilling him and driving out all other emotion.

  He felt control come back, the state of firm determination that he’d spent years cultivating in the dark days and nights after Jura. And with the control came strength, of body and resolve.

  He’d get out of here, and he’d be back, stronger and better prepared. He’d been too confident, had underestimated his opponents. There would be no more mistakes from now on.

  His movements became more purposeful. He made his way down the corridor, using only the back of his left hand to judge the distance to the wall.

  Within ten seconds he had reached the iron door once more.

  Margaret was waiting for Tony in the first cellar. There was still enough light coming from above for him to see that her face had gone an ashen gray, and that the white of her bandage had become tainted with the deep red of new blood.

  She dropped the sports bag to the ground. It hit with a muffled thud and threw up dust to dance in the air around them.

&nbs
p; “I’ll need to rest a bit,” she said. “I’m just about done in.”

  Tony said nothing, but looked upwards. Was the light getting dimmer? Surely it was just his imagination.

  The teacher didn’t seem to notice, she had sat down, cross-legged, on the dusty floor, her head bent forward to her chest. Tony could see by the rise and fall of her shoulders that she was breathing in quick, hot bursts, as if she’d just ran a mile.

  “Margaret?” he said. “Are you okay?”

  She raised her head and Tony stepped back. For a split second her eyes had seemed to be no more than two black pits in a skull, her mouth no more than a thin slit, but then she smiled, a weak thing but enough to dispel the illusion.

  “I’m getting too old for this shit,” she said. She waved her good hand at Tony. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be back to normal soon.”

  Normal was a word that was fast disappearing from Tony’s vocabulary, but he didn’t say anything. Margaret looked like a woman near the end of her tether...the way his mother looked sometimes on a Sunday morning. He sat on the floor beside the teacher, as close to her as he dared.

  In the films, the hero would put his arm around the woman at this point, and she would cry into his shoulder.

  But this wasn’t a film, and Tony didn’t feel like a hero, and if anyone was going to cry, it was more than likely to be him.

  Now that he was actually here he felt less frightened than he had imagined, but a lot of that was due to Margaret’s presence. If she collapsed and fainted...as looked distinctly possible...he would be left alone again.

  Without saying anything to Margaret he opened the sports bag and drew out the garlic bulbs.

  It took him a few seconds to figure out how they were attached to the string and at least a minute after that before he got the arrangement disentangled. He stretched the string out on the ground in front of him. It looked like he had enough to make two necklaces.

  The next five minutes were spent reattaching the bulbs to separate pieces of string. The string was only just long enough to tie off at the back of his neck, and the large bulbs stopped him from looking down towards his feet, but the feel of them there gave him a strange comfort.