The Power of Dark

by Robin Jarvis

  Sinking back against the pillows with his hands behind his head, Verne let out an exhausted but contented sigh.

  ‘That,’ he declared, ‘was the most epic night ever. What next?’

  His world was charged with excitement. He couldn’t believe his luck in finding the Nimius.

  But then a frown returned to his face. It was Sally who had found it and Verne’s guilt troubled him. It was time to confess everything to Lil. It was only right he should share this awesome discovery with her. Besides, he wanted to. Together they could decide what to do about it. He thought about sending her a text straight away, but before he could even reach for his phone, he was sound asleep.

  Throughout the West Cliff, the inhabitants of Whitby dreamed deep and long as a great enchantment began working on them.

  Too angry to sleep, Tracy Evans lay on her bed, surrounded by the empty crisp packets, chocolate wrappers and biscuit crumbs that told of an evening of vexation and moping. She had been having another text argument with her boyfriend, who didn’t believe her about the supernatural goings-on at the previous night’s seance. The row had escalated, with cruel names called on either side, until finally he finished with her for good.

  Running through the texts over and over, the injustice of being called a liar inflamed Tracy’s anger and resentment. She wasn’t a particularly honest person, but this time it wasn’t fair. Something weird had happened during the seance. Bev and Angie would back her up, but she knew he wouldn’t believe them either.

  She fired off a few more spiteful insults, but he was no longer replying. Throwing the phone down in disgust, she switched off her bedside lamp and seethed in the gloom.

  ‘I hate you,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘I hate everyone. Hate, hate, hate!’

  A chill crept over the room and the flesh on Tracy’s bare arms prickled. She shivered and pulled the duvet over herself. Moments later her phone beeped and she snatched it up eagerly. But the new text wasn’t from her ex-boyfriend and the name attached wasn’t one she recognised.

  ‘Dark,’ she read aloud. ‘What’s that mean?’

  Curious, she read the message.

  He was not worthy of you

  Tracy agreed with that and replied quickly.

  Bev? That you?

  My name is Dark. You reached out to me last night and I answered. Why did you run away?

  Tracy sat up.

  ‘Can’t be,’ she breathed in disbelief.

  Is this a wind-up? Ghosts can’t send texts.

  This night anything is possible. Would you prefer to hear my voice? Shall I speak to you through this instrument?

  Go on.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Who is this really?’ she demanded.

  The deep, silken voice that answered sent a delicious tingle through her.

  ‘I have told you,’ it said. ‘My name is Dark.’

  ‘And you’re a spirit, using the phone? Yeah, right. Didn’t know there was an app for that.’

  ‘I am the troubled shade of a man who lived here long ago. Your pain and anger have drawn me to you, Mistress Evans. You are the light that has guided me through the cold, pathless deeps.’

  Normally, Tracy would have snorted with scorn at such a cheesy line, but there was something about the rich, attractive voice that made her blush with pleasure and an insidious power began to creep over her.

  ‘So where are you now?’ she asked. ‘Is there a phone box in the cemetery?’

  Behind her a solid black shadow rose up the wall, the tall, sinister silhouette of a man with a crooked neck. Tracy was too focused on her mobile to notice.

  ‘I am in your hand,’ the voice lied. ‘Within your talking instrument.’

  ‘You’re in my phone? How?’

  ‘Strange powers are at work tonight. Many things are now possible. Two opposing forces have seized control of this town: a witch’s curse and a device called the Nimius. Go, observe your parents if you do not believe me.’

  Tracy rose and left her room. Her mother and father were usually both snoring loudly at this hour, but she found them sitting on the bed in the dark, dismantling their alarm clock, radio and electric blanket.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Tracy cried. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘They cannot hear you,’ Mister Dark told her. ‘The Nimius controls them.’

  Tracy went out on to the landing once more and looked into her brother’s room.

  Ten-year-old Liam was cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by pieces of a Disney night light and radio parts. Tracy watched as his fingers swiftly started pulling his games console apart.

  ‘In every home this side of the river, the same thing is happening,’ Mister Dark said. ‘Preparations are being made for the coming battle. The two cliffs will go to war. There will be no survivors.’

  ‘What?’ asked Tracy groggily. A small part of her was wondering why this didn’t frighten her; surely she should be panicking and trying to call someone for help? She shook her head, but she couldn’t resist the lulling words of Mister Dark that were so comforting to hear. Everything felt safe when she listened to him.

  ‘None except you, Mistress Evans,’ the controlling voice continued. ‘I shall save you. I have already shielded you from the influence of the Nimius, whilst those around you dance to its whims. You shall be spared the doom that approaches.’

  ‘Me?’ Tracy asked, struggling to take it all in. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because we are alike, you and I. You feel the world is against you, a foe to be fought, and no one understands or listens. You think you are alone.’

  ‘It’s like you know me.’

  ‘And you have a pretty neck.’

  Tracy gazed at the phone in her hand and smiled. Mister Dark’s words were as mesmeric as the forces that controlled her family. She was numb to the real horror of what was happening and she wandered back into her room.

  ‘You think I’m pretty?’ she asked.

  ‘To me you are ravishing, Mistress Evans. I could eat you up.’

  ‘Call me Tracy. Wow. You sound so nice. Could . . . could I see you? Is that possible?’

  ‘You would like to look upon me? See my face?’

  ‘Duh! Not fair you can see me but I can’t see you.’

  ‘Quite so. Then you may.’

  ‘Hang on, you’re not another of them skeletons, are you?’

  ‘No. I promise. But to clear the veil between us you must first surrender an offering – of blood. Just three dainty drops to strengthen and seal our bond, smeared across the glass of this talking instrument. It is a small price, is it not?’

  Tracy was already pulling a drawing pin from her wall and jabbing it into her thumb. Hastily, she squeezed three drops on to the phone’s display and wiped them over it.

  Mister Dark uttered a deep, relishing breath and beneath the scarlet streaks the phone screen went murky and dim. Then shimmering ripples of light ran through it and a figure began to form in the centre. It was the image of a young man with shoulder-length hair, dressed elegantly in black. His head was bowed and Tracy stared, transfixed, as he slowly raised his face.

  She gasped. ‘You’re gorgeous! You could be in a boy band!’

  Behind her, the misshapen shadow on the wall shook as if with laughter. The vision in the phone was as handsome as she could possibly imagine, with penetrating eyes, perfect unblemished skin and a seductive smile.

  ‘Good evening, Mistress Tracy,’ he greeted her. ‘You think me fair to look upon?’

  ‘You. Are. Awesome!’

  ‘If we two could be together and escape the impending cataclysm, would you like that?’

  ‘You mean you’d be alive and real?’

  ‘I would be a living man, able to hold you in my arms and be your adoring, faithful suitor who would shower you with gifts.’

  ‘Then duh times a hundred!’

  ‘Is that yes? You desire it to be? At whatever price?’

  ‘To get out of this dump and be with yo
u? Bring it on! I don’t care how.’

  The face grinned back at her.

  ‘Thank you, my love,’ he said. ‘May the Three grant us this blessing.’

  ‘How soon?’ she asked.

  ‘When the battle is done, when the river runs red and both powers are spent. Then shall Dark arise and take you by the hand. Till then, say nothing and have patience.’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘There is but one small task I must ask of you.’

  ‘What? I’ll do anything.’

  ‘I will tell you soon. Now sleep, beloved.’

  ‘I won’t be able to now!’ Tracy protested. ‘Don’t go!’

  ‘I must. The blood offering is already exhausted and I must fade.’

  ‘I can give more!’ she said, fumbling with the drawing pin.

  Mister Dark chuckled softly. ‘Not yet, gentle heart, but my spirit shall keep watch over you. The pact between us cannot be broken now.’

  The screen grew dim and the handsome face vanished.

  ‘Sleep,’ his haunting voice told her.

  ‘As if,’ she said.

  The shadow behind her raised its hand. The girl whimpered and sank on to the bed, unconscious.

  ‘Credulous fool,’ Mister Dark hissed.

  ‘Wake up, please, Master Verne,’ a strangely metallic voice was saying in Verne’s ear. ‘It is Monday morning and time to commence your day.’

  Verne mumbled and rolled over. He opened his eyes and tried to work out what he was looking at.

  ‘Dad?’ he ventured.

  ‘Mr Thistlewood is assisting Master Clarke with his motor scooter,’ the odd voice told him.

  Verne sat up. His father’s steampunk butler outfit was leaning over him.

  ‘Why are you wearing that?’ the boy asked.

  ‘I repeat,’ the voice said politely, ‘Mr Thistlewood is assisting Master Clarke with his motor scooter. He completed work on me one hour ago.’

  Verne blinked.

  ‘Stop mucking about, Dad,’ he said, feeling cranky.

  ‘I am called Jack Potts. What would you like for breakfast, Master Verne? It is my pleasure to serve.’

  Verne stared at the costume more closely. This wasn’t his father dressed up; this was a genuine, working robot.

  ‘That’s crazy!’ the boy yelled. ‘How? What? How? ’

  ‘A selection of juices and cereals is available,’ Jack Potts informed him. ‘Or I can provide a cooked option if you would prefer?’

  ‘Erm, I’ll make do with toast, thanks,’ Verne said through a fixed grin.

  The butler bowed then left the room.

  Verne leaped to the sock drawer and yanked it open.

  ‘Did you do this?’ he growled at the Nimius. ‘It’s mad! What else have you done?’

  Slamming the drawer shut again, he hurried from his room.

  His mother was downstairs in the kitchen, watching Jack Potts clasp a slice of bread between his hands. The bellows in the chest puffed in and out, his eyes lit up and his metal palms turned red-hot, toasting the bread.

  ‘Isn’t he fantastic?’ Noreen said when she saw her son. ‘I’ll never have to clean up after you slobs again. The only downside is you have to keep putting ten pences into his head to keep him going.’

  Verne stared at his mother with wide eyes. Her face was more immaculately made up than usual and her hair was curled in an elaborate style he had never seen before. But what really caught his eye was her bottom, which was juddering and joggling from side to side. It was wrapped in a preposterous contraption made from hot-water bottles, cling film and the motor from an old tape recorder, all plugged into the mains. It looked incredibly dangerous.

  ‘It’s to burn off those last stubborn ounces,’ she explained, seeing the look on his face. ‘Came to me in the middle of the night and I just had to get up and lash it together. Your father was the same. Only took him three hours to get our new butler working. I’ve been having the absolute best ideas for new gadgets.’

  ‘Would you care for jam or marmalade, Master Verne?’ Jack Potts enquired, slathering low-fat spread over the palm-printed toast with a forefinger that was made from a knife.

  ‘I think I’ll stick with cornflakes,’ the boy said, backing away and wondering why his mother was so accepting of all this. It was insane. Robots like Jack Potts only existed in science fiction.

  After breakfast, Verne put on his school uniform. It had been freshly pressed by the new butler. The creases in his trousers were so sharp Verne thought he could probably mow a field just by running through it and his shoes were as highly polished as a piece of Whitby jet jewellery.

  ‘This is getting way too weird,’ he muttered to himself as he fiddled with his tie. Passing his parents’ bedroom he heard a high-pitched beeping noise and looked in to investigate. Jack Potts was folding clothes and placing them on the bed.

  ‘I do believe we require more storage in here,’ the robot told him.

  Verne looked at the wardrobe, which was the source of the beeping. A dial was now fitted to the door and a circle of coloured light bulbs from the amusement arcade was arranged around it. One of the lights was blinking in time to the beeps.

  ‘What’s that?’ Verne asked.

  Jack Potts finished smoothing a silk blouse and turned to him.

  ‘It is one of Mrs Thistlewood’s ingenious inventions,’ he announced. ‘This is her omnifunctional personal grooming styliser and beautifier.’

  ‘Mum’s never done anything like this before,’ Verne declared. ‘She doesn’t even know how to work the DVD.’

  He peered at the dial. The settings were written in Noreen’s handwriting and he read them dubiously as he clicked it round.

  ‘Casual daytime. Practical gym class. Professional businesswoman. Midweek evening out. Weekend impresser. Special occasion mega glam. Is this why her hair is so Edward Scissorhands today?’

  ‘I do not recommend further exploration,’ the robot warned him. ‘Would you permit me to straighten your tie?’

  The thought of those mechanical hands at his throat made Verne shake his head hastily. Ignoring the advice, he opened the wardrobe.

  Every light flashed and the wardrobe shook as Verne was pulled inside. There was the sound of whirring gears, whistles and buzzers and the boy’s muffled howls could be heard out in the street. Moments later there was a ping like an egg timer and Verne was spat out.

  ‘Most becoming and individual,’ Jack Potts complimented him.

  Verne ran to the mirror and let out a yell. The device had curled and lacquered his hair, and his face had been painted with a blurred and wonky version of his mother’s most glamorous make-up.

  Rushing to the bathroom to scrub it off, he yelled again when he discovered his eyebrows had been threaded.

  There came a polite knock at the door.

  ‘Pardon me, Master Verne, you will be late for school.’

  The boy left the bathroom, his face red and raw. He had managed to remove the make-up, but his hair still looked like a permed sheep.

  Jack Potts attempted to pass him his coat. Verne snatched it from him, then hunted for his scarf.

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I have put it with the rest of the rubbish,’ the robot replied. ‘It looked too shabby and home-made for you to be seen wearing.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Verne cried. ‘My best friend made that for me! Go get it right now!’

  ‘It will be covered in slops. I could wash it today for you if you wish?’

  ‘Too right I do!’

  ‘Or I could make a new one? I am capable of producing a more professional and appealing muffler than that.’

  ‘No, I just want that one and don’t you mess about with my stuff again.’

  ‘As you wish, Master Verne. I am earnestly repentant.’

  ‘And I’m really going to be late for school now.’

  Clarke had come in during the middle of this and he gave his brother a friendly thump on the shoulder.
‘I’ll give you a lift on the Vespa!’ he offered. ‘Dad and me have been tuning her up and I’m just about to give her a trial spin.’

  Verne grabbed his rucksack and followed his brother outside.

  Jack Potts wandered through to the kitchen, fished the scarf from the bin using a large pasta fork and carried it at arm’s length on to the balcony where he set fire to it and watched it burn.

  The West Cliff was busy as usual on a Monday morning. The sun was out, the gulls were making their customary racket and people were preparing to commence another working week. Verne didn’t notice the strangeness at first, but as he gazed around he began to realise a change had come over this once familiar and reassuringly normal place.

  A window cleaner first drew his attention to it. The man was halfway up a ladder, whistling briskly, but his arms were folded and the windows were being cleaned by a crawling contraption made from a food mixer with chamois leather attachments dragging squeegees.

  Further down the road, Verne saw a woman in her dressing gown proudly overseeing a small spinning device, wielding several dish mops and a sponge, that was busily washing her doorstep. A little way along, a man was riding a bicycle with super-suction tyres up the wall, leisurely whitewashing the brickwork.

  Verne’s unease mounted. It wasn’t a normal Monday at all. What was going on?

  The gulls overhead began to shriek more raucously than ever. A stuffed Dracula toy, strapped to a flying drone made from an electric fan, flew across the rooftops to squirt water at them.

  Verne watched it pursue the gulls round the chimneys until a dinner bell began clanging and he peered down the pavement to witness an old lady setting forth in a petrol-driven supermarket trolley. She was grinning with delight and perfectly comfortable for it was decked out with lots of cushions and a tartan blanket covered her knees. It was steering itself and she was leafing through a magazine, only breaking off to ring the bell at anyone who got in her way.

  ‘Madder and madder,’ Verne murmured.

  The inventions were so ludicrous it should have been funny, but he felt only dread and a rising sense of panic.

  The noise of a vacuum cleaner made him turn round. An embarrassed-looking dog was being taken for a walk by an adapted Hoover, which was poised and ready with its nozzle for the inevitable clean-up duty.