Dark Lakes, Volume One: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (A Dark Lakes Collection Book 1)

by Matthew Stott

  Oh!

  That was another thing I did know about my old self: I’m a driver. I had to pass my test again, but the moment I got behind the wheel it was obvious I knew my way around a gear stick.

  So, for those of you keeping track, I’m a man who wears socks (at least one) and knows how to drive a car. How the police haven’t been able to figure out who I am with those hot leads I’ll never know.

  The scenic Lake District opened up before me as I left behind Keswick and tootled down the Borrowdale Road, singing a Weezer song to myself (Buddy Holly, naturally). I had to make do with singing the lyrics solo as the car radio didn’t, and never had in the time I’d owned it, work. I paid three different people money to rectify this situation, but within days of it being fixed, the newly refurbished radio would conk out again. Fed up of throwing good money after bad, I decided to soundtrack further journeys with my own mouth.

  As I drove, Derwentwater—the lake I was discovered naked and bloody beside almost ten years back—slid up to join me. The road I was travelling on hugged close to Calfclose Bay, which was where I was prodded into existence by a fisherman’s boot. I’d spent many evenings sat at the point I was discovered, looking out across the water, waiting for a spark of something to hit me. A memory. Just one. Some fragment of my life, of what had happened to me. Was I a criminal? Was I the victim of some strange and random attack? Was I a Tory, for Chrissakes?

  But no memories or revelations ever came; just the silence of nothing. And sometimes ducks quacking, which really took the edge off my solemn brooding.

  Shrugging off my morbid thoughts, I sang louder to cheer myself up (an Elton John number this time, Saturday Night’s Alright (For Fighting) if you must know). I soon found myself at the pub I’d agreed to meet my prospective client in. I walked into the cosy bar and winced at the smell of stale beer. The ceiling was stained yellow still by the ghosts of smokers that had huddled beneath it, puffing away for decades.

  I scanned the tables and booths. The clientele was thin on the ground and exclusively male. I purchased a glass of lemonade, a packet of crisps (cheese & onion) then settled down in a corner, swiping a copy of the previous day’s paper to flick through. By the time I’d finished my fizzy drink and leafed through the paper for the third time, I was getting the feeling that I’d been stood up. I was just rising to leave when the door opened and a woman in her late fifties shuffled in, looking around for the person she was supposed to meet. Putting two and two together, I stood up and beckoned her over.

  ‘Hey there, Mrs Coates is it?’

  She looked around, a little embarrassed by my greeting, then rushed over, sliding into the booth to sit opposite me.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ I said.

  ‘Mr Lake?’

  ‘In the flesh. Would you like a lemonade? I’ve finished mine so this would be an opportune moment to purchase one in for you whilst I refresh my own.’

  She blinked twice. ‘You what?’

  ‘Lemonade? To drink?’

  I returned a minute later with a glass of pop in each hand and another packet of cheese & onion between my teeth.

  ‘So, Mrs Coates, why don’t we get straight down to brass tacks? You know, that may be the first time I’ve used that phrase. I should Google where it comes from. “Down to brass tacks.” Odd one, isn’t it?’

  Mrs Coates eyed me warily, as though she’d invited the vicar in for afternoon tea, and only upon allowing him into her living room did she take a closer look and realise he was actually a wild mongoose with a switchblade.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not mad, I just make a poor first impression. I have that on good authority from a friend of mine.’

  ‘You’re friend is right,’ replied Mrs Coates, swigging back a mouthful of lemonade.

  I took a look at the woman sat opposite me—her tightly-permed, blue-rinsed hair, her smoker’s mouth puckered like a cat’s behind, her tired, lived-in body—and wondered what on Earth she was talking to me for. I was hoping for something juicy to distract me from all the recent murder business. It could be anything, anything at all. A haunting in her mews, a suspected vampire bite sighted on the lily-white neck of her favourite niece, the body of a deceased faerie fished out of her ornamental pond, anything! A potential gamut of weirdness stretched out tantalisingly in front of me.

  ‘Mr Lake, my cat Boris has gone missing.’

  Or it could be a missing fucking cat.

  ‘Come again? It sounded like you said you dragged me all the way here because of a cat.’

  ‘Yes. My cat Boris is missing.’

  ‘Yup, that’s what I thought it sounded like.’ I swallowed a mouthful of pop and a crisp or two.

  ‘I’m beside myself with worry, Mr Lake! My Boris is an inside cat! Oh, occasionally he’ll take a little stroll around the garden, but he never crossed the garden fence, he doesn’t like it out there! So for him to go missing, for days even, well, I imagine you can understand my distress.’

  She placed a couple of MISSING posters down on the table. Boris the cat looked back at me, one ear white, the other black.

  ‘Mm-hm,’ I replied, tipping the rest of the crisps into my mouth and having a good chew. ‘Mrs Coates,’ I said, trying not to spit crisp shards into her saggy face, ‘I’m not really in the beloved pet retrieval business. I’m in the weird, unexplained, and hopefully supernatural business. Unless your cat was of the witches variety, or perhaps resurrected from a pet cemetery, I’m not entirely sure why you decided to look me up.’

  ‘Oh, well you see, Mr Lake, it’s not just my Boris. There’s Ginger, too.’

  ‘Ginger?’

  ‘Oh yes! And Cotton, Sooty, Nemo Bananapants; and that’s just the cats from my street. All told, as far as I know, a good twenty-seven cats have gone missing, and all on the same night.’

  ‘Twenty-seven?’

  ‘Twenty-seven!’

  ‘In one night?’

  ‘In one night!’

  Hm. Okay, maybe there was something to this story after all. It wasn’t the village greengrocer levitating off the ground and speaking in ancient Babylonian I’ll grant you, but that many cats going AWOL in a single night definitely strayed on the weird side. Chances were it was just some local nut with a cat compulsion, or maybe an increase in the local fox population, but what the hell, it would help take my mind off the previous night.

  ‘Okay, I’ll have a poke around Mrs Coates, see what’s what.’

  ‘Thank you! I do worry for Boris, he should be home and safe!’

  ‘My fee is fifty pounds a day, with a minimum of four days payable.’

  ‘Oh, okay. That’s a bit steep.’

  ‘A small price to pay for the hope of rescuing poor, lost Boris, is it not?’

  ‘Of course. Of course, yes!’

  I held out my hand. ‘Those four days are actually payable upfront. In cash. Paper cash, no coinage, if you please.’

  Mrs Coates dug into her bag for her purse.

  Two-hundred quid! Even if the whole cat thing turned out to be a whole load of nothing, as very much suspected, two-hundred smackeroos was not to be sniffed at.

  I sipped at my second glass of lemonade and had a think about what I’d like to spend my money on.

  6

  ‘You were supposed to be here thirty-three minutes ago,’ said Big Marge, eyes fixed on the pages of her suburban infidelity and botched tit jobs magazine.

  I strolled up to the hospital reception desk and gave her a wink. ‘Aw, that’s nice, you’ve been counting the minutes until I walked in here. It must be love.’

  Big Marge raised an eyebrow then jabbed a meaty thumb in the direction of a mop and bucket. ‘I’ll tell you what you’re not going to love; the three inches of shit up the walls of the second floor Men’s.’

  As I mopped up a stranger’s abandoned anal deposits, I found myself musing once more on the previous night’s terminal encounter. Someone had attacked Mary Taylor and Janet Coyle, and I found it highly unlikely t
hat it was the mysterious tramp. No, whoever it was—whatever it was—had something of the unnatural about it. I’d felt it in that burst of… of whatever it was that washed over me when our skin briefly touched.

  Something of the night had attacked those women. Something hungry. No, something starving. A patch of dark given life. A shadow that sought to kill and feast. Which sounds crazy I know, and probably wasn’t going to fly too well when I was called in to answer Detective Maya Myers’ no doubt numerous questions.

  Whatever it was that killed that woman, I could only hope that Mary Taylor had something useful to offer the police so they could cage the animal before it struck again.

  ‘You know, you really have a gift for cleaning up other people’s shit,’ remarked Neil Smith, doctor and all-round wank puffin, as he entered the toilets and made his way to the urinal to relieve himself.

  ‘Doctor Neil—’

  ‘Doctor Smith—’

  ‘Doctor Neil, I’m going to take that as a strange yet genuine compliment as to do otherwise would make you seem like a tosspot, and I know you don’t want to be thought of as a tosspot.’

  Neil made to reply, stumbled as he tried to fully take in my reply, then gave in, zipped up, and began to wash his hands. He eyed me evilly in the mirror. ‘I don’t like you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly kept that information close to your chest.’

  He narrowed his eyes again, unsure whether I was taking the piss or not. For someone so educated, he really was quite slow.

  ‘One day, turd boy, something horrible is going to happen to you. Something worse than horrible. Something just, ooh, awful. And when that happens, I’m going to be there front row and centre.’

  ‘Something worse than this conversation?’

  Doctor Neil grimaced, threw the paper towel he’d been drying his hands on in the bin, and stomped out of the room, swishing his white doctor’s coat in a way that didn’t at all scream super villain.

  I finished up and washed my hands three or four times in scalding hot water, then complied with my stomach’s grumblings and went off in hunt of a vending machine. Not every man can think of food after such a near-turd experience, but I have a surprisingly strong constitution for a person of such a remarkably svelte build. Besides, this wasn’t the first present I’d been given from the bottom shelf.

  ‘There you are,’ said Chloe, rounding a corner as I bit down on the second finger of my Twix.

  ‘Were you looking for me?’ I asked, desperately hoping that the smell of excrement wasn’t clinging to me like a poop wetsuit.

  ‘In your dreams,’ Chloe replied, grinning.

  ‘You just missed another classic Joseph and Doctor Neil conversation.’

  ‘You know he doesn’t like it when you call him Doctor Neil.’

  ‘Doctor Neil doesn’t like it when I call him Doctor Neil? Did Doctor Neil tell you that, because Doctor Neil hasn’t said a thing to me about it.’

  Chloe grinned and gave me a playful shove.

  ‘So, how’s Mary Taylor?’ I asked.

  ‘Alive and awake.’

  ‘She’s spoken? Does she know what her attacker looks like? Does she know why he was attacking her, or what he was hoping to get?‘

  ‘Woah, woah,’ said Chloe, raising her arms, ‘I’m sorry but I haven’t interrogated her to within an inch of her just-about-hung-onto life just yet, Columbo!’

  ‘Right, yes, of course. Though perhaps more Sherlock than Columbo; I would never wear such a ratty coat.’

  Chloe rolled her eyes and managed to look so adorable doing it that I practically swooned.

  ‘‘Gis a bit of that then,’ she said, snatching the last of my Twix and sliding it into her mouth in a way that may or may not have made my knees wobble a touch.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale. Well, paler than normal, so really, really pale.’

  ‘I’m fine. All good in—’

  ‘Please don’t say “the hood.”’

  ‘—The corridor. All good in the corridor.’

  Chloe smiled as she turned and headed away. ‘Cheers for the choccy. See you later, Columbo.’

  ‘Yes, but not if I, you know, see you first you won’t. Not in a stalkery way.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chloe, turning on her heel and walking backwards. ‘I made a crap load of chilli last night. It’s gotta go if you fancy tea at mine tonight.’

  I want you to understand how much self control it took at that moment not to launch myself from the floor and go for another of those freeze frames.

  ‘It’s a date!’ I said. ‘Well, no, not a date, but another thing. A meal.’

  Chloe shook her head and turned to face where she was going again, disappearing around the corner. ‘Come round about seven, yeah?’

  ‘Will do!’

  Okay, was that a date? It could be. I mean, I said the word “date” twice. But Chloe didn’t, she just said she wanted to get rid of some old chilli before it went bad. Then again, she didn’t say it wasn’t a date after I mentioned the word date. Twice. Maybe it was a date?

  No.

  Don’t be stupid.

  Or…?

  I know I sound somewhat like a man who has never known the touch of a woman, and there’s some truth to that. After waking by Derwentwater ten years ago, I was too preoccupied with just who on earth I was to really be interested in hitting on the ladies. Plus, well, in some respects it’s like I am only ten years of age. I had no experiences stored in my head from my no doubt legendary sexual history. Not a kiss, not a hand-hold. After a few years I did make some tentative steps into the world of boy-girl stuff, but then Chloe came into my life and, well… I won’t say I’d exactly been saving myself for her, but I hadn’t been actively trying to give my equipment a thorough means-test either.

  And now here we were.

  With the maybe-could-be-date.

  Chloe and me.

  Or is it Chloe and I?

  As I pondered the conundrum further, I liberated more chocolate from the vending machine. Once I was done with that I went to pay the surviving member of the previous night’s horror show a visit. I wanted to check that she was well, but I had an ulterior motive. I wanted to be close to her, to see if any of that residual weird sensation I’d felt the previous night was still there. The strange feelings and sights that had washed over me. See if I could make sense of it. See if she was in any fit state to answer a soft question or two about exactly what, who, and why she was in hospital and her friend was in the morgue.

  I was going to try and put it more delicately than that though. I may be an idiot, but I’m not an idiot.

  I tapped softly on the door then stepped inside.

  ‘Hi, Mary, are you awake?’

  The only response was from her heart monitor, beep-beep-beeping a hello.

  It was as the door closed behind me and I stepped towards the bed that I began to realise that something wasn’t altogether correct. It was a sensation as much as anything I saw. My skin itched and I felt the gooseflesh rise.

  ‘By the pricking of my thumbs,’ I said, hushed.

  It was at this point that I saw the markings on the floor. Strange shapes, daubed in what looked like blood, arranged in a circle around Mary’s bed. The same sort of occult-looking symbols I’d seen around the first victim.

  This was not good.

  ‘Mary?’’

  Something dripped on my head, stopping me in my tracks. I lifted my hand and touched the spot, bringing my fingers before my eyes to see sticky red.

  ‘Oh…’

  I looked up to find a dark, quivering shape attached to the ceiling. Now I had a starker look at the thing, it was less person-shaped than I had first thought. It had a torso, legs, and a head, but the rest of it consisted of numerous octopus-like limbs that held the thing to the ceiling by row upon row of suckers.

  At this point I should have been racing from the room, screaming my throat raw as I tried not to pee myself, but inste
ad a strange calmness descended over me. A sense that what I was looking at was not a creature from a lunatic’s fever dream, but vermin to be exterminated.

  ‘You’re done, ‘ I said. ‘You’ve had your fill, now get the hell out of here!’

  The creature’s hairless head twisted sharply to look at me, its eyes giant, wide, and entirely yellow, its mouth a screaming beak that screeched with fury.

  The strange sense of calmness suddenly left me to be replaced with a familiar, all-consuming terror. I staggered backwards, almost falling over the chair behind me. With little time to think about what I was doing, I grabbed the chair and launched it in the beast’s direction. The chair struck it squarely on the head, causing it to scream in anger before its octopi limbs sent the thing swiftly towards the window, launching it through the glass and out into the car park beyond.

  I gasped for breath for a moment or two, relief coursing over me that the thing had chosen flight over fight, then ran to the broken window to see where the creature was fleeing to.

  I saw no sign of the beast, with its huge yellow eyes and numerous gross, sucker-limbs. Instead, I saw the homeless woman, sprinting away from the hospital.

  7

  Checking on Mary, I was relieved to discover that she was unconscious but otherwise okay. Some fresh wounds, but only superficial. For the second time now, I had been her unwitting saviour from Mr Octopus. Which no, is not the most fearsome of names to give to the dark, twitching horror I’d witnessed, clinging to the ceiling with its thick mollusc limbs, but it was the first thing that sprung to mind.

  I pulled out my phone to snap a few pictures of the occult shapes daubed on the floor around her bed. As with the last time, I felt a strange sensation teasing at me as I looked at the symbols. A sense that they were imbued with an energy of sorts. With a meaning that my brain insisted I understand.

  Mary moved and moaned in her bed, derailing my train of thought.

  ‘It’s okay, Mr Octopus has gone, you’re okay.’

  I patted at her arm like a worried aunt, then ran from the room, intending to tell Big Marge in reception to get the police on the blower. I then screeched to an almost-falling-over halt as I realised I was leaving Mary alone and that Mr Octopus might well take the opportunity to return and finish the job. Also, that I still had my phone in my hand and I could call the police myself and stay with her.