Night Terrors: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Hexed Detective Book 3)
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Night Terrors
Hexed Detective, Book Three
M.V. Stott
Copyright © 2018 by Uncanny Kingdom.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Also Available From the Uncanny Kingdom
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Night Terrors
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
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1
Tap-Tap-Tap.
Liam squeezed his eyes tight, turning everything black and pink. He pulled his covers close.
Tap-Tap-Tap.
It was just a tree branch tapping against the window pane.
That’s all it was.
That’s all it always was.
Tap-Tap-Tap.
The wind whipping against the big tree in the back garden. That one, long, gnarled branch that reached out from the trunk like a witch’s finger, flicking forward and hitting the glass. At least, that’s all it was in the day. In the day, it was just a tree in the wind with a branch that needed to be cut, but at night, when he should be asleep, it was anything but.
Tap-Tap-Tap.
Liam was eight years old, and like all eight-year-olds, knew that monsters and ghosts and boogie men of every stripe were very real and knew where he lived.
Where he slept.
Most grown-ups didn’t seem to believe in the things that hid in the inky black, which was really stupid as far as Liam was concerned. If he, a child, knew monsters were real, then an ancient grown-up should know for sure.
‘Just go back to your own bed, Liam,’ Mum would say when he appeared at his parents’ bedroom door, wide-eyed and knees trembling.
‘You’re too old to be such a scaredy cat,’ Dad would chime. ‘The dark can’t hurt you.’
Liam knew Dad was wrong about that. For as long as he could remember, Liam had been aware of the things in the dark that others couldn’t see. There was no question in his mind; he’d known for sure that there were strange things lurking in the shadows. One evening, back when he was six, he’d pointed out of the top deck of a bus at a man with horns walking down the street, but his mum had acted like she wasn’t able to see him. Told him to stop playing up or he’d get no chocolate. And Liam had shut up, because he really wanted that chocolate.
Tap-Tap-Tap.
Liam believed in all sorts of stuff, but especially ghosts. He’d seen them his whole life, not that he was aware of it at first. He’d be yammering away to someone as a toddler, only for Dad to ask him who he was talking to. Wasn’t it obvious there was a girl in weird-looking old clothes sat cross-legged with him on the carpet, telling him to do bad things? Liam would point at her but Dad would just frown and sigh and chuckle and shake his head.
Yes, Liam saw things. These days he’d learned to keep most of it to himself for fear of being called a liar, of being punished.
Tap-Tap-Tap.
It was no good, he was going to have to get out of bed and check, otherwise he’d never be able to sleep. Yes, it was just a tree branch, but also maybe not, and what then?
He slowly sat up and pushed his covers aside, toes wriggling as they met the carpet.
‘I know you’re just a stupid branch,’ he said, the words sounding hollow in the darkness.
Liam edged across the room until the heavy, blue curtains were within reach. He took a breath or two, his heart fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, then grabbed hold of the curtain and pulled it open.
He could see the tree outside, the branch reaching towards the window. The wind wound a ribbon around the branch once again and it Tap-Tap-Tap-ed at the glass.
‘See, told you,’ said Liam.
He let the curtain fall back down. He was thirsty. Liam walked over to his bedside cabinet but the glass perched there was empty of water. He didn’t remember drinking any of it, but he supposed he must have done. He picked up the glass and headed for the door. It was always strange walking through the house at night, when the whole place seemed like it was holding its breath, eyes closed. It felt wrong, like he was a burglar sneaking around, looking for the best bits and bobs to steal.
Or perhaps he was a murderer. A killer with a knife ready to cut. Liam waggled his eyebrows and bared his teeth.
Stupid tree, waking him up.
He walked past his parents’ bedroom; the door was closed but he could hear both of them inside, asleep. Dad’s low snore-drone, Mum’s higher pitched. He wondered how either of them could sleep next to the other when they were making such a racket.
Liam yawned and scratched at the mass of dark blonde curls that reached almost to his shoulders. Mum had begged him to agree to a haircut, but Liam liked having so much fat, wild hair. It was like he had a lion’s mane.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and began to tiptoe in an exaggerated manner towards the kitchen, glass in hand. He was a robber, and if he made too much noise the house would open its eyes and see him.
Liam shivered a little in his Batman pyjamas as his bare feet met the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. He could see the tree dimly through the window, its wide trunk like an elephant’s leg. Sometimes demons lived in trees, Liam had read that somewhere. Or heard it. Or watched it on TV, or something. He wasn’t exactly sure where he’d learned that fact now that he came to think about it, but it was true. Demons could live in trees. If you found the way in you’d see a winding staircase, and up and up you’d go, until you found the demon squatting all evil and damp-skinned at the top, smelling like bad breath and old socks. You could sell your soul for stuff then, if you wanted. Liam wasn’t sure why you’d ever sell your soul. Even if he wanted something really, really, super badly, he would never let no stupid demon have his soul. Not for all the chocolate in the world.
He carefully turned the cold tap so the water wouldn’t burst out all noisy, and filled his glass.
There was someone sitting at the kitchen table.
Liam turned round sharply, almost spilling his water.
He hadn’t noticed anyone there when he walked in, but then, as he’d been filling his glass with
water, he’d just sort of known that someone was sat there, watching.
‘Who are you?’ asked Liam, voice a whisper, toes clenching.
At first, the shape sat at the table was too shrouded in dark to make out.
‘Don’t you recognise your old dad, son?’ replied the shape.
Liam could feel the sink pressing against his shoulders.
‘Dad?’
‘That’s right. Do you want to sit on my knee? I’ll tell you a story. A really good story.’
It did sort of sound like Liam’s Dad, but the words were empty, like they weren’t even real. Like they were pretend. Like he could swat them away with the back of his hand and see that no one had said anything at all.
‘I heard you snoring in bed,’ replied Liam.
‘Oh. I must be sleepwalking then,’ he replied, and then the dark seemed to melt away a little and Liam could see it was his dad after all. ‘See? Here I am. Your loving dad. Your mother and I love you very much, despite everything.’
Something didn’t seem right. ‘Are you okay?’ asked Liam, wishing the door wasn’t quite so far away.
‘Of course,’ replied Dad, ‘everything is fine, fine, fine.’
The silence crushed down for a long time, and Liam wondered how long it had been since he’d taken a breath. Finally he gasped and gulped and then began to walk towards the door.
‘Don’t you want to hear my story?’ asked Dad.
‘I’m tired,’ replied Liam, stopping and turning and wishing he’d just kept on going.
‘Are you sure? It’s a good story.’
Liam noticed for the first time that his dad’s eyes seemed to be too close together. It wasn’t his dad at all. He wondered what it was and what it wanted.
‘Maybe another night, Dad,’ said Liam. ‘I’ve got school.’
‘Oh,’ replied Not Dad. ‘I was going to tell you about all the birds in my head.’ He reached out a hand, upon the palm of which was a wet clod of mud, fat worms wiggling. ‘Don’t you want to feed my birds, Liam?’
‘Sorry,’ said Liam, wondering how he was even managing to talk with his throat being so tight and his heart now not a butterfly but a pot full of exploding popcorn. ‘Good night.’
‘Okay,’ said Not Dad, ‘that’s fine. Everything is fine, fine, fine.’
Liam walked quickly from the kitchen and headed up the stairs, gripping his glass still, the water inside spilling down his pyjamas and splashing his bare feet. He heard his dad’s snore as he passed his parents’ bedroom.
He closed his own bedroom door and pushed a chair under the handle so no one could get in.
2
It was only midday, but the sky was black as tar.
DCI Alexander Jenner, his robes caked with mud and grime, was sat on the ground, eyes glassy, slowly eating a stick of bright pink candy floss.
‘How’s your week been, Guv?’ Rita Hobbes asked her old boss as she strolled towards him, her long, red hair flowing in the breeze.
They were in the Night Fair, only not the real one. The real Night Fair was a place for Uncanny folk to visit: to play games, to have their palms read, to wander through a hall of mirrors, and more besides. This Night Fair—the pretend, dream one—was a prison built to keep Rita’s old boss trapped; to isolate him from the Angel of Blackpool’s power. It was a dreamscape of Rita’s making, created using the axe that hung from her belt and patted against her thigh as she walked. As the name suggested, it was always night at the Night Fair. The sun never rose. The sky was a blanket of black covered by a light dusting of stars; a brush dipped in white paint and given a flick.
Jenner carried on chewing at his candy floss, staring through Rita.
‘I’m not going to lie,’ she said, hopping up on a stall’s counter, legs swinging, ‘you’re starting to smell a bit ripe. What happened to the new clothes I bought you?’
‘I like my robes,’ Jenner replied around a mouth of fluffy pink sugar.
Rita noticed that the box of supplies she’d delivered to Jenner a week previously was in the same place she’d set it down, unopened, clothes, food, and drink left untouched.
‘There’s actual fruit in there, you know, Guv. A man can’t live on sugar alone.’
‘What do you care?’
‘Oh, we’ve reached the self pity stage have we? That’s not going to wash with me, Guv. And by the way, if I didn’t care, you’d be dead already, so think about that you… you big, murdering freak.’
Jenner sighed and carried on munching.
DCI Jenner had been Rita’s superior back when she was on the force – her partner, Dan Waterson’s, too. Of course, at the time, neither of them had known that he was a crazed murderer, sacrificing women so an evil Angel trapped in a prison beneath the sea off the coast of Blackpool could break out and take Its revenge on God. If she’d known that, she’d have brought it up in one of their daily debriefs for sure. At the very least, she’d have raised the issue with H.R.
Rita smirked, then felt bad. People had died. Waterson had died.
‘How much longer do I have to stay in here?’ asked Jenner.
‘Dunno to be honest. Most likely forever. What part of, “You murdered a bunch of people, you nutty dickhead,” isn’t getting through to you?’
‘I only did what I did for—’
‘Yeah, yeah – you only did it for the greater good, or whatever bullshit it was you were planning to babble. Save it. People died. I’ve got two of them trapped in here.’ She patted the axe that contained the souls of the two women Jenner had sacrificed before she’d been able to stop him: Jane Bowan and Ellie Mason.
Jenner turned his attention to the axe, and Rita saw a spark of life in his eyes for the first time since she’d arrived. ‘Give it to me,’ he said, his voice hoarse.
‘Yeah, not happening that, weirdly.’ The spark in Jenner’s eyes reminded her of the way Carlisle would sometimes look when he saw the axe. She wondered if and when the time came for her to give it up, whether the need to wield it again would gnaw at her the same way.
Carlisle.
Rita frowned. It had been over a week since she’d seen him. Since he’d said he had something that might be able to kill the Angel. To stop It doing any more harm and free her of the hex that had made her invisible to anyone not touched by the Uncanny. The hex that had erased her life completely and trapped her within the boundry of Blackpool.
Over a week, and no word. Not a single sighting or message from him. Rita tended to try and look on the positive side of things, to hope for the best until she had evidence of the worst, but she was finding it tricky to believe Carlisle was anything other than a pile of ash on the marble floor of the Angel’s prison.
‘So, Guv, you ready to tell me how I get Jane and Ellie out of this axe?’
Jenner said nothing.
‘It’s just that they keep bothering me when I’m trying to get some sleep in. Asking how much longer they’re going to be stuck in limbo. It’s annoying if nothing else.’
‘They are trapped. I am trapped. You are trapped. Trapped, trapped, trapped.’
He was babbling, but at least he was talking. The way Rita saw it, Jenner had seemed a little more reachable each time she’d visited. Less desperate, less foaming-at-the-mouth loony. Perhaps, like a junkie, the longer he was away from his drug—from the Angel feeding him power, whispering in his ear, controlling him—the cleaner he would get. The healthier and more open to reason.
Rita hoped so.
Despite everything, she still hoped her old boss could be made to understand what he’d done. Would come to regret it, and perhaps be able to help the women he’d killed, and Rita herself, in some way. One day, he’d change. One day he’d come to terms with reality, as weird as that reality was.
‘One day I’m going to step out of this prison and stab you in the throat,’ said Jenner.
Okay, so rehabilitation was a little way off yet. Rita shook her head, hopped off the stall counter and headed for the exit.
As Rita stepped through the Night Fair’s ornate, wrought iron gates, the flaming torches on top of each gate post flickered. The world around her shimmered, and the next thing she knew she was walking through the gates of the real Night Fair, the one on Blackpool Pleasure Beach.
A grumpy looking ghost was waiting for her, arms crossed.
‘Hello, Waters. Looking pretty fly for a dead guy.’
‘Enjoy your little chat with my murderer, did you?’ asked Dan Waterson. His hair was short and neat, and he was dressed like a Geography teacher on the first day of term.
‘He was a riot, as always. He’s starting to smell a bit, though.’
‘Like what?’
‘You ever sniff between your toes in the summer after wearing trainers all day?’
‘Rita, even though I’m dead, you still find new ways to disgust me.’
Rita grinned, happy that she still had her best friend at her side. Even if he was dead.
‘So, why are you waiting for me?’ asked Rita.
‘I knew it. I bloody knew it.’
‘What?’ Rita wracked her brain, trying to remember what she had clearly forgotten.
‘You said you’d put a reminder in your phone!’
‘I did! For, uh, what… exactly?’
Waterson kicked at a discarded Coke can in exasperation, but his foot passed through the thing, and the follow-through almost sent him sprawling. His eyes darted to Rita as she tried, and failed, to strangle a smirk.