The Dark Corners Box Set

by Robert Scott-Norton

  Adam Cowl had infiltrated the hospital with his followers, the occultists known as the Adherents of the Fourth. And they were always on the lookout for new members. Kelly had somehow gotten caught up with one Adherent who’d taken a shine to her and was slowly bringing her into their fold. Adam claimed that Kelly had died because of their indoctrination and been left dying in the outbuilding until they could properly dispose of her. When Seth found her, she’d been on the edges of death. And yet, Seth hadn’t the strength to save her, or even alert his parents to her whereabouts. If he had, it might have been enough to save her.

  But Adam was an occultist and murderer. Could Seth really believe anything the man had said to him? What if it had all been a lie to put Seth off guard whilst attacking him? Did Seth have the right to torture his parents with this information? Surely, they’d suffered enough.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket so he pulled it out and checked the notification. It was a picture message from his previous landlord, the farmer whose caravan he’d been living in before Ravenmeols. The caption read:

  Consider yourself evicted.

  The photograph was of his caravan, his home, being towed away by the farmer’s tractor.

  That was that then. No way back. He had nowhere to go. His old life was well and truly closed to him.

  8

  After another five minutes, his parents turned to each other, embraced efficiently, then separated and began their walk to their car. Seth tracked them until they got inside the old Citroen and watched it drive away, leaving him with no more excuses.

  The grave was as he remembered. A simple headstone with a simple sentiment.

  Kindest daughter, sweetest sister, missed by all those whose lives she graced.

  His parents’ flowers had been placed against the headstone but already the gentle breeze had knocked them aside and they lay on top of each other like a drunken couple after a night on the town. Seth straightened them. Should he have brought some flowers?

  “I think I have you to thank for saving me,” he began. “You saved me at Ravenmeols and you didn’t have to, but you did and I think that means we’ve come a long way. I miss you, and you might not think I do, and some days it makes me sad that you’re not around, and some days it makes me angry and I hate myself that I didn’t do more the night I found you. But I was just a boy.”

  And that was what hurt the most. That he had only ever known his sister as a boy. Kelly had been a pretty decent sister. Whenever together, she’d tried to make him have fun and was only ever one line away from a joke. That was the beauty of being the younger brother, he realised, parents have been through all the first times so when it came to their second child, they’d learnt their mistakes and were more lenient and likely to give them some space. Seth had more space than he knew what to do with. Many days he’d sit in his room, reading a book for the thousandth time, and just wish for something to happen.

  “I’m sorry I don’t come here enough but then I think you had the same feelings about religion that I do. Whatever you thought about God and all that, I want you to know that my not coming here was never an insult to you.

  “But now that I am here, I want to ask you what happened. I mean. I was falling from the top of the hospital building and I remember thinking about you and what a jerk I’d been all my life and how I’d hung onto the idea that you were in some way responsible for the mess of a family I’d found myself drowning in. And then I realised it was all such bullshit, and that you were only a kid as well. None of what happened to you was your fault and I’m so so sorry for ever thinking that you got what you deserved. You didn’t. But, when I thought of you and fell through that door, I went somewhere. I think it must have been the Almost Realm but I can’t think about it without my mind wanting to smash its way out through my skull. I’ve lost time, days I think, maybe longer, and when I returned, it was like I’d been rejected, or placed somewhere deliberately.”

  Seth shook his head, just thinking through all of this was making his head throb. Malc had tried to get him to work through these feelings with him, but it had never felt right to share that much of himself with his friend. His insecurities were his own business, and he would not drop another burden onto Malc for him to deal with.

  Seth crouched and put his hand on the headstone. The stone was rough and dry against his skin. There would be no answer.

  Footsteps on the gravel made him look up to his right. A man in a sharp-fitting navy suit was approaching. Seth got to his feet. There was something about the man that unsettled him.

  “You all right?” Seth asked.

  “Seth Loomis?” he asked. His accent betrayed him as local. “I don’t mean to intrude. Your friend at the vicarage told me you were likely to be here.”

  “That would be Malc.”

  “No, a woman. His wife perhaps?” The man smiled. “I’m Thomas Chesterton, I’m a solicitor.”

  Seth smiled uneasily. “You can tell my landlord to do one. I’m not paying him anything. He’s towed the bloody thing away. It’s still got my stuff in it. He owes me money.”

  Chesterton scratched at a mole on his cheek. “I’m not here because of your landlord. It’s your uncle, Lamont Loomis. I’m afraid to be the one to tell you, but unfortunately, he’s died. I’ve been instructed to bring you this.” In his hand, he held a letter which he offered to Seth. Seth hesitated. Something else was going on that he couldn’t quite see. It wasn’t usual for solicitors to seek people in cemeteries to hand-deliver letters. He kept his hands by his sides and eventually Chesterton got the point and lowered the letter.

  “I haven’t spoken to my uncle in over a decade. I don’t think that letter can be for me.”

  “It is, I assure you. I personally accepted it from your uncle and swore to deliver it in person. He was adamant about that.”

  “How did he die?”

  Chesterton cleared his throat. “This won’t be easy to hear, but I’m afraid that he was found dead in his house. The police suspect he was murdered.”

  9

  “Murdered?” Seth’s head flooded with a dozen images and feelings and none of them were good. He led the way to a bench, and they both sat down.

  “The police are keeping it out of the press,” Chesterton said.

  “What happened?”

  “It looks like an intruder, a burglar perhaps, not counting on your uncle being home.”

  Chesterton offered the letter to Seth again and this time he accepted it. The paper was richly textured and Seth’s name was elegantly written on the front. There was no address, the letter had always intended to be hand-delivered. Seth hesitated before opening the envelope. There had never been any kind of relationship between Seth and his uncle beyond the usual family get-togethers, and no contact over the last few years.

  “Do you know what’s in it?”

  Chesterton shook his head. “I’ve got an idea.”

  The paper tore easily against Seth’s finger and he quickly pulled out the contents. There was a single sheet of heavy notepaper inside, matching the envelope, and as he unfolded it, he saw the same elegant handwriting that had graced the envelope. The letter was addressed to Seth and signed off by his uncle. At the top, his uncle had written the date. He’d written it five months ago.

  Seth read through the letter, stopping several times as he picked through his uncle’s handwriting, and when he’d finished, he read it again, this time pausing at the end of every sentence, making sure he’d got the intended meaning.

  “I don’t think I understand.” The letter didn’t read like it was from his uncle at all. In the space of a few minutes, Seth felt like he’d been thrown from one reality into another.

  Seth,

  You must forgive me for not keeping in touch with your side of the family. Circumstances have meant that it has been far safer these last few years to keep my own company. It is a safer if lonelier life for all of us involved.

  There is a certain pattern to how these things should pl
ay out I suppose, and you should not be reading this unless I’m dead. And since that is the case, there is one thing I need you to do for me—and it’s imperative that you act on this immediately! Time is of the essence. If for whatever reason you decline my request, there is a secondary course of action open—it’s one I don’t particularly want to go down but, well, suffice to say, you’re not under obligation. There is a Plan B.

  Over the years, over many years, I’ve been a collector. The objects I’ve been collecting have been accumulating at my house, the same house you’ll remember playing at as a child, and these objects have become a fairly complicated collection.

  With my death, that collection needs somebody to take care of it. I’d like that someone to be you.

  You’re probably thinking this is all very interesting but why would you want to uproot your life to guard your mad uncle’s collection.

  The answer is simple.

  You have an ability, a gift that I’ve had occasion to notice. I hope that you’ve been able to put your gift to good use. I’m not entirely sure that the same could be said of me, but I suppose, I have at least tried to prevent the end of the world, so there’s that. By the way, don’t let anyone put that on my headstone. Even if it’s true.

  The collection has taken me twenty years to gather by the time of my writing this letter, and it has taken a substantial amount of effort to bring together. I’ve been wrong to assume that others would be interested in the collection and want to help look after it. But recent events have caused me to reconsider and reflect and I know now that I should have prepared for this a long time ago.

  I am a collector of occult artefacts. These objects have come from all over the world. It’s cost a huge amount of money and personal sacrifice to gather and I need to ensure that the collection remains intact. I can’t allow any of these items to get into the wrong hands. There is much that is relatively harmless, and much of it that is genuinely useless, until it reaches the wrong hands. Make no mistake that in the wrong hands, there are some items in the collection that could cause great pain and suffering.

  And I bequeath this collection to you.

  Hopefully, you’re still reading this letter and haven’t tossed it aside.

  I’m not a madman. I’m not delusional. But I think you see things differently; in much the same way I do. The world is not what others think it is. There is far more cold to it than they know. Far more evil nesting in the shadows than people will ever experience.

  It’s our responsibility to ensure that we are the only people to see the world like that, because believe me when I write that there are those that want to unravel everything we’ve built, to tear down our world and start again. We must never allow those people near the collection, or those dark days might just come to pass.

  Be strong, Seth. And be cautious, for whilst the world breaths, there is light.

  Yours faithfully,

  Lamont Loomis

  10

  The benches had been here as long as the church itself. There was a history of the village lodged in the wood through decades of prayer and belief. Seth remembered hiding behind the pews as a boy, playing with his toys and getting a whack from his Gran for disrespect. The cushions might have been updated but the smells and the scratches would always remain.

  It had been over a year since he’d crossed the threshold, and Seth was transported back like he’d never been away. The church had never felt like a good place to him; he failed to see what the regulars saw in it. Was it part social, part faith? He came to realise that it didn’t matter. Whether it was habit or fear of the sins they’d committed that week, or the chance to catch up on the village gossip, they were drawn to hear his friend speak.

  Seth had texted his friend, eager to meet and talk through the events of that morning in the cemetery with Chesterton. Jesus, that was a hell of a lot to process. He’d parted company with Chesterton, promising to meet him in the morning at his office where he’d get to hear the will read and formally take possession of the collection.

  But he wasn’t sure he wanted it.

  The door to the vestry opened and Malc entered the nave. He had his phone in his hand, checking some detail, then he pocketed it and headed for Seth, a line of worry etched above his eyebrows.

  “You found me then?” he said. Despite the smile, the eyes betrayed concern for his friend.

  “Wanted to talk, somewhere I knew we would never be disturbed.” Seth smiled. A bit of gentle banter between friends—a plaster to hide the scars that bound them.

  “Numbers are up this year. They’ve been rising ever since I took over. Word must have gotten around about how awesome the vicar is.”

  “Or maybe they just come in out of the cold and like a nice doze before their Sunday roast.”

  “Ouch. Unnecessary.” Malc sat on the pew in front of Seth and turned to face his friend. “You sounded worried in your text.”

  “Now, that’s not true. How can anyone sound worried in a text?”

  Malc checked his phone and read out, “Need to talk. It’s important. Am worried.”

  “You added that on. I never said I was worried.”

  “But you want to talk, and it’s not something you want anyone to overhear.”

  “I’m worried.”

  Malc nodded. “Did you go to the cemetery?”

  “Yes, Mum and Dad were there. I didn’t think they would be. I mean, I guess I should have expected them to be there, but I hadn’t thought it through.”

  “Did you speak to them?” His voice raised in hope.

  Seth shook his head. “They were in their own space; it didn’t seem the right time.”

  Malc tutted. “It was the perfect time, you idiot. They would have wanted to see you.”

  “It wouldn’t have made things any easier.”

  “You’re still expecting it to be easy? How long has it been since you spoke to either of them?”

  “Six months.”

  Malc raised an eyebrow.

  “OK, twelve months.”

  “Whatever they’ve done, they don’t deserve it.”

  They were almost as important to Malc as they had been once to Seth. Malc had practically grown up at their house. He’d been there on the day after Seth had seen his first Almost Door and had been there on the day that Kelly went missing. There were no family secrets from Malc. By cutting them out of Seth’s life, he’d inadvertently cut them from his friend’s.

  “My uncle, Dad’s brother, died this week. The police think he was murdered. I met his solicitor in the cemetery. He had a letter for me.” Seth handed over the letter and gave Malc a chance to read it, trying to recall whether Malc had ever been there at a family gathering when Lamont had been present. He didn’t think he had.

  Malc finished reading. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. Didn’t he have a family? A wife?”

  “She died when I was a kid. I don’t really remember her.”

  “So, who found the body?”

  “A neighbour noticed the kitchen door had a broken window, and they hadn’t seen him for two days. They called the police. What are you thinking?” Seth asked.

  “I’m thinking Plan B.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Never been more so. Lamont has spelt out the dangers of this collection and how it took over his life. You are not in a good place to take this on right now. Trust me.”

  “Aren’t you at least curious about this collection? I’ve never even heard of Lamont having an interest in the occult until this morning.”

  “There’s having an interest in the occult and there’s being obsessed by it. If your uncle has been collecting artefacts, he’s probably in the latter category.”

  “He doesn’t say what Plan B is.”

  “As long as it doesn’t include you, I don’t think you need to worry. Let it be someone else’s problem.”

  “But what if I’m the best person to do this? It’s not like I’ve got a lot going on right now. Perhaps
I should take the collection and try to make some good out of this situation.”

  “Trust me, nothing good can come out of a collection like you’ve described.”

  “And what about the Church?”

  “What about the Church? What have we got to do with it?”

  “You don’t expect me to believe that the Church isn’t interested in occult collections.”

  Malc’s frown threatened to wipe the rest of his features from his face. “The Church is not interested. It wouldn’t encourage anyone to dabble in things they don’t understand.”

  “In case they are dangerous.”

  “No artefact is dangerous on its own. What’s dangerous is the belief that a person has in the artefact. That’s the only danger.”

  Seth nodded. “And at Ravenmeols, inside the inner sanctum. There was plenty of artefacts there that might prove differently. Roy Oswald had that book with him and used that in the ritual to open doorways and summon hitchers. There were other things on that altar. I sensed their power as I got closer to them.”

  “You’d been knocked unconscious, were drugged with whatever incense they were burning. You were hardly in a fit state of mind.”

  Seth bristled. “I remember you charging into the room like something from The Exorcist. What the hell was all that about?”

  Malc had the weary expression of one who’s told the same story over and over, but that’s what Seth was bothered about—that it was only a story. There was more there than Malc was saying.

  “I’ve told you what happened.”

  “Let me hear it again.”

  “To what end? What exactly will make you put this to bed? What do you want to hear from me?”