Spinetinglers Anthology 2008

by Nolene-Patricia Dougan

  And then it was there, in her mind. The best answer she had, and she ran for all she was worth, searching frantically though the village gardens, the clock striking the three-quarter hour, before she found their salvation in Gordon Mason’s own outhouse. Then, she was racing back the way she had come, sheltering her gift from the wind, as if it were a guttering candle. Her legs burned as she ran unseeing through the dark wood to where the Hunt waited.

  Gwynn looked at her in expectation, his horde looked at her with hunger, and the hounds kept digging, only a few holly trees standing resolutely against the onslaught. Tom lay in a stupor, while Katy looked at her mother with quiet expectation.

  Sally looked up and held Gwynn’s gaze. This close to a beating heart, even the Lord of Death could not hide the desire in his eyes.

  With a tremulous hand, she held up her offering as she held her breath. He kept her gaze for a moment, then reached out and took the sprig she held in her hand. His skin brushed her own for a moment, and her nerves screamed at the pain of absolute cold, but Sally did not flinch.

  He held the sprig of rosemary to his nose, breathed its scent deeply and became lost in thought, in remembrance. When their met eyes again, his black orbs were sparkling with merriment, but it was a cold, cruel humour. He threw out a laugh, deep and booming, which shook the trees to their roots and caused a commotion among the Hunt, before he swept round and vanished into the forest. His horde melted obediently into the darkness after him, and suddenly it was over.

  Sally rushed to Tom’s side. He was feverish, but his soft, brown eyes met her own, and they smiled.

  “What did you bring?” Katy asked Sally in wonder. Sally looked at her daughter and grinned.

  “You were my inspiration, or rather, Ophelia was.” Katy looked confused, then realisation dawned. She returned her mother’s grin.

  “‘There’s rosemary,’” she said quietly, “‘that’s for remembrance. Pray, love, remember.’ Of course, what would the dead desire more?”

  As the last toll of midnight rang out through the village, signalling the end of the Hunt, the congregation in the hall gave a collective sigh of relief, then looked accusingly at Gordon Mason, but he merely sneered at them.

  “What does it matter?” he asked.

  “She was a slip of a girl and her mother not much older,” his wife said in a furious whisper, “and you sent them to their deaths.”

  “The Hunt needs quarry,” he snapped back. “Better them than us.” With this parting shot, Gordon took his leave with resentment thick around him. He picked up a spring of holly, as he left out of habit, and he twirled it idly between his fingers as he made his way home. The air was bitingly cold, and he could smell snow coming.

  A deep, darkness parted from the shadows, and Gordon found himself staring up into the smile of death.

  “It’s a fine evening for a walk, Gordon,” Gwynn ap Nudd said. Gordon swallowed nervously, gripping the holly tight between his fingers.

  “That it is, sir,” he replied. “I trust you had good sport this evening.” The leader shrugged.

  “Not as good as you promised, Gordon,” he said, and in his eyes, Gordon saw a fire burning brightly. “She took the challenge and she passed with spirit,” he continued.

  Gordon cursed under his breath. He could see other shadows now, forming out of doorways, crawling over roofs. He chanced a look behind him, but he was too far from the sacred ground of the church now to make a dash for it.

  “It’s nothin’ to do with me if you choose to let them escape,” he replied, and saw the fire turn white hot. He took a step backward. “I held my end of the bargain.” Gwynn took a step forward. Gordon took another two steps backward.

  “Besides,” he added, nervously waving the holly at Gwynn, “There’s nothin’ you can do to me. I got me holly and it’s past midnight. You got no power here no more.” Gwynn smiled, and it was an awful sight to behold. He pointed to the church clock, the gears inside it frozen, both hands resolutely pointing at the twelve. It was only then that Gordon noticed a ringing in his ears, as if the air was filled with the sound of a chime that hadn’t yet died away.

  Gordon turned back, bowed by fear, his stomach cramping. The gaze upon him was of unrelented anger.

  “You think time has any hold over me?” Gwynn asked. “Or this paltry token?” he added, gesturing with distaste at the twig being waved at him. Gordon glanced down at the last hope he held in his hand, just in time to see his wrist being encompassed by the jaws of a huge hound. It took a second for the pain to register, as the blood pulsed from the stump, and then a scream ripped from Gordon’s throat, as he fell to his knees. The beast whined, trying to spit out the holly leaves that spiked and pricked its gums, while its fellow beasts descended as a mob to fight over the meat of the lost limb.

  Whimpering, Gordon looked up at the unsmiling face of the leader of the Hunt.

  “You should be more careful with the deals you make,” Gwynn said, “You promised me quarry, and I have come to claim it.” He grinned as Gordon tried to crawl away, clutching his raw stump. “But I like all my quarry to have a sporting chance,” he added, “so, I’ll only break one of your legs.”

  Playing Chase

  by Colin Doran

  Ten

  I’m close again, my feet pounding on the concrete, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. Sweat runs down my face, as I sprint toward the house and pray this will be the time I catch him.

  I’ve been chasing him for sixteen weeks now, and I’m always one step behind. One step and three dead girls, soon to be four, if I don’t hurry.

  I reach the house and kick the door in, not even breaking stride as I do. I look around. Nothing. It’s empty, just like always.

  “NO!!!” I scream in frustration, fire scorching my lungs.

  The house is barren of any furnishings, gleaming hardwood floors staring up at me. In the centre of the main living room are two items: a Dell laptop and a cellular phone. I’m sick with fury, tired of always being too slow to catch him. I’m forty years old now, and twenty years ago, this scumbag would be dead or in jail by now. Maybe he knows that. Maybe he’s playing with me.

  Then the cell phone rings, just like it always does.

  “Hello, Chase. Still running a little late, I see.” the deep, distorted voice on the other end says. He’s using a voice distortion box, making him sound like some kind of demon from The Exorcist. “You know the drill, open the computer.”

  Nine

  I open the laptop, and immediately see a video image, as it begins to play.

  “You’re watching a live feed, Detective. You don’t have much time; I’m getting bored with this one. Can you find us?” he mocks.

  The phone goes dead. I watch the screen intently; trying not to look at the poor little girl tied to the radiator in the corner and instead trying to find something that will help me identify her location. He always holds them in places I’ve been before, places I’ll recognize.

  I don’t know why this man picked me, or who could have plotted this kind of methodical vengeance against me, but I plan to find out. Being a detective in a city as violent as Detroit, I’ve made more than my share of enemies. To be completely honest, though, I can’t think of one with this kind of serial motivation. This killer is driven, exacting, and worst of all, he enjoys the hunt. Unfortunately for me, he’s good at it; better than I am. So far, anyway.

  “Come on!” I goad myself, heart pounding, as I realize it’s already taking too long. The room on the laptop’s screen looks like some kind of storage room, only empty.

  Then I see it. I lean in close and squint my eyes, trying hard to focus on the wall behind the six-year-old girl. There, written in faint graffiti, is the number 420. It’s small and barely legible, but it’s there, and right away I know where they are. Once again, they’re not far, less than six blocks away. I long ago abandoned my car, realizing with traffic and lights, I could travel the short distances a lot faster on foot, even at my age.


  I turn and once more bolt, full speed out the door.

  Eight

  Four-twenty is the Detroit Police code for possession of marijuana. I once arrested a Puerto Rican gang leader named Ramon Encarnación, for possession of marijuana, with intent to distribute. He had nearly two hundred pounds of pot stashed in the same storage facility I was now sprinting toward.

  “I’m getting bored with this one.” The killer’s voice echoes in my head, motivating me to move faster.

  I can’t find another dead girl, I just can’t. And this time the killer has upped the ante: the little girl is my niece.

  Seven

  I’m running again, and I start to wonder which part of my body will break down first. My legs? My lungs? My heart? I’m moving like a bolt of lightning, cutting through backyards and alleys, as people dive out of my way. My mind is filled with horrific images of the dead girls past, burned on to the surface of my brain like a brand. From this, my thoughts shift to the places he keeps leading me to, wild goose chase after wild goose chase. How does this man know so much about me? He seems to know my every move, even before I do. He knows my past, my entire existence; he even seems to know my thoughts. A killer inside my head, and I’ve got to find him before he kills again.

  I’m halfway to the storage park, when an image lodges in my consciousness and halts me in my tracks like a deer in headlights. I’m remembering the room I just came from, the one he had shown me on a TV screen at the place before that. It was an old, abandoned crack house, where I had participated in several raids while I was still with narcotics, before I became a homicide detective. There was an old television with a beat up VCR on top of it. There was a tape sticking out of the VCR with a yellow post-it note on the spine which said “push.”

  I studied the video, just as I had all the others, trying to pick the next destination out of my memory. The thing that stuck out was the crucifix on the wall. It made me remember the arrest of Bobby Henri, a man who had savagely murdered his wife and two daughters. When we found him, he was knelt down in front of the cross, praying calmly and quietly. It was the same cross, and I had gone running again toward the abandoned residence.

  The cross was not what had me frozen to the sidewalk at the moment, though. It was what I saw below the cross when I arrived at the house. There was still a faint trace of blood Bobby had smeared across the word “betrayal” carved in tiny letters below the cross. It hadn’t been there in the image on the TV screen. I’m sure of it.

  Six

  I’m unsure what this means, and for a moment I’m stuck; I don’t know which way to go. The room wasn’t the same, I’m positive! This could mean only one thing. He’s playing me. He’s not actually at these sites, I don’t know how, but he’s simulating the images of the locations he’s supposedly hiding, holding the girl. He’s leading me to places he’s not going, that’s why I’m always a step behind.

  He must have some kind of computer generation device to animate the scene behind the image of the little girl. The bad news, however, is how the hell do I find him? The laptop! I may be able to have someone from IT trace the signal, and find out where he’s broadcasting from! It’s definitely worth a shot, and I’m sure now I’m never going to catch him if I keep biting the worm on the hook.

  Five

  I’m running again, but this time I’m running back. It’s my only hope, and I’m running out of time.

  Outside the house, there’s a black van parked half a block up the street that wasn’t there a few minutes ago, and the shades on the first floor are drawn.

  He’s here, he’s inside the house.

  Four

  This lowlife has balls, coming back to the scene of the crime. I secretly hope he gives me a reason to shoot him.

  Although I move in stealth mode now, it is quick and without hesitation. I operate purely on reaction, as a direct result of instinct and adrenaline, and it usually works out pretty well for me. I don’t think, I move. On the porch, I see a partial footprint in the shape of a work boot. On the welcome mat, a single strand of long, dirty blond hair, most likely belonging to a nine-year-old girl.

  I have no idea how much longer he plans to keep her alive, so I open the door blindly and rush in, hoping for the best.

  Three

  The first floor is the same as I left it, minus the Dell laptop. Gun drawn and pointing the way, I carefully make my way around the empty foyer. My heart is racing so fast that it throbs in my ears.

  Clear. They’re on the second floor.

  I think about calling for backup, but it’s a waste of precious time, they won’t get here soon enough, and he’ll probably hear me if he hasn’t already and kill the girl.

  As I head for the stairs, I wonder why he came back to this place, what is the significance? I’m still not even sure if he was ever here to begin with. I have no idea who this delusional psychopath is, but I can’t wait to find out.

  I’m about to bound up the stairs two at a time, when I feel a vibration against my hips. Seconds later, it’s followed by a mechanical ringing. It’s the cell phone he left me, still inside my jacket pocket.

  And it’s ringing.

  Two

  “I’m impressed, Chase. I never thought you’d find us. You make a fine detective, the city of Detroit should be proud, even if it did take you three dead girls to find me.” He’s given up the voice box, and I can hear the snide gloating in his voice.

  Three dead girls. My niece is still alive.

  “I suggest you stay down there where it’s nice and safe, Detective Impressive, lest you should find your pretty little niece in pieces.” he laughs maniacally.

  I can’t do that, there’s no way. If I back down now, he’ll kill her for sure. I think he knows I know it, too. Unless I stop him within the next minute or two, she’s dead, if she’s even still alive now.

  And that’s when it dawns on me. I haven’t heard a sound from her the entire time. Not during any of the phone conversations, not on the videos, and not even now, when she’s less than twenty yards above me. Maybe he has her gagged, or drugged, but I should have at least heard movement or something.

  I make the quick and rash decision that he either killed her already or he doesn’t have her with him. And I charge.

  One

  At first I can’t find them, and I think I’ve been fooled again, but in the last room I come to, I kick in the door, and finally come face to face with my killer.

  Immediately, I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. Sarah is there, and he has a long hunting knife to her throat. He smiles, and in that instant, I know it’s now or never, and I aim and squeeze.

  And pray.

  Zero

  The thing I don’t understand is that I have no idea who this man is. I’ve never seen him before in my life. It doesn’t make any sense.

  There are two bodies on the floor spewing blood onto the carpet. He cut her throat, but I think I shot him before he could cause fatal damage. One of the bullets also tore through her right shoulder, but all in all, I think she’s going to be okay.

  The unknown killer now chokes on his own blood, as he gasps for his last few breaths.

  “I was always behind you.” he coughed. “I was following you, watching you chase imaginary destinations I set up for you. I always transmitted from the place you had just left.”

  I lean over him. “Who are you?” I demand. “Why did you do this to me?”

  The man smiles up at me again, blood running from the corner of his mouth. I realize for the first time that he is young, really more of a boy than a man.

  “You left.” he wheezed.

  “What?”

  “You left us. You left... before... I was born.”

  Horrified, I watch as my son dies in front of me.

  Tiw’s Cup

  by Tony Walsworth

  The mist was lifting, leaving only the bitter cold behind. It bit into his face with icicle teeth, as he drew a deep breath and turned his stiffened neck to look
around him. He couldn’t remember anything, not even his name.

  Ethan, his own voice eventually told him. His name was Ethan.

  Ethan sat, his back propped up against the mouldering dampness of the wall. The half-light revealed something of his surroundings, an old room, empty and smelling of rot. Wires hung out of the walls like burst veins. Floorboards, dry like old bones. The windows dusty and pock-marked, with brick holes placed by the young engaged in dismantling the old.

  And all this blood.

  The survival instinct is a singular entity. Ethan didn’t care where the blood had come from, only that it wasn’t his. He felt no pain and was therefore gently reassured.

  The mist lifted further. Ethan sat for a short eternity between thoughts. His body, rigid and heavy, felt no inclination to move. This pale mist, an odd composition of thickness and light, felt almost tangible to him. In normal circumstances, thick fog allows you to see that which is close up but obscures the distance. This mist, which filled the room, seemed to work the opposite way around. But it was lifting, Ethan felt sure. It was only a matter of time.

  His cold mind, though still somewhat solid and lethargic, forced his eyes to rest on his bare feet. At least he assumed that they were his. These were dirty and misshapen, bulbous and swollen, but they seemed to be in the right place so they must be his. Damn this fucking fog! Where the hell was he?

  This question was not uncommon in Ethan’s life. Anyone else would have had grave cause for concern if they had been in a situation that prompted this question more than a few times in their entire span. But in Ethan’s life, this question came up a lot. Ethan was an adventurer, a spiritual warrior, a Byron, a Shelley, a baroque sensualist. Waking up in strange places with no memory of the previous night was what he did. From an early age, he’d been considered intellectually gifted. He could speak intelligibly at six months old and read pretty much anything by the age of four. His parents positively celebrated him, but they were inevitably missing something. He was beyond them in virtually every aspect by the time he was nine. That’s not to say that Ethan was arrogant or dismissive, far from it. He loved his parents deeply, but his inner nature drew him into fundamental conflict with their orderly lifestyle.