Close Encounters of the Strange Kind

by Michael Kerr

  As they stood, both scared and confused, Sally’s skin returned to its former smooth and unblemished state, and the raging heat in her veins dissipated.

  It was almost too simple. Within less than half an hour of arriving at the public records office, and with the assistance of an enthusiastic clerk, they found all the information they needed.

  Travis Ludlow had been appointed as Witchfinder General in 1688 by the then lieutenant governor, Peyton Greenhow. A painting of Ludlow, reproduced in the Salem Gazette, showed quite clearly the ornate lion head ring on his finger. And courthouse lists yielded the all important fact that one Ariana Pelham, a spinster aged twenty, had lived in the parish of Twycross, and had been accused and found guilty of practising the art of bewitchment, to be subsequently condemned to the fire.

  Back home, still up at midnight, Sally and Jim were sitting together on the sofa in the den sipping Jack Daniel’s on the rocks and trying to make sense of the enigma that was disrupting their lives.

  “I don’t understand why she would single me out to relive her torment,” Sally said. “Why not one of the other women who’ve just moved onto the patch?”

  “I’m only guessing, Hon, but it wouldn’t surprise me if we found out that our house is built on the very spot where she was torched,” Jim said.

  “You mean to say you really believe that what’s happening is supernatural, not just all in my mind?”

  “After you came up in those blisters, and then they vanished in front of my eyes, I became a convert. Up until then I thought this sort of hokum was safely confined to between the covers of books that authors like Stephen King write.”

  “Does it feel cold to you, Jim?” Sally said as her arms suddenly crawled with gooseflesh.

  Jim nodded as the temperature dropped and the hairs on the back of his neck tingled and stiffened. As their breath fogged the now chilled air, the figure of a young woman, her skin an alabaster-white against long tresses of jet hair, appeared as a slightly out of focus holographic image before them. She was without substance, and the backdrop of the wall behind her was still clearly visible through the wavering manifestation.

  “It’s her...Ariana,” Sally whispered as Jim dropped his glass, dumbstruck at the projection from the past that was drifting across the room, hovering a few inches above the Axminster carpet. It stopped a yard away from them, a spectre that studied them with dark, hypnotic eyes. The mouth remained closed, and yet they both heard the rich, silky voice that spoke in their minds.

  “Leave Twycross this instant, Sally,” it said. “You have in some way touched me, and so I give you fair warning. Go, or you will suffer the same fate as all others who have trespassed on this accursed land.”

  Before Sally could reply, the vision distended, expanding outwards to be absorbed by all four walls and the floor and ceiling of the room. The cold receded, and warmth was allowed back into the space that the spirit of Ariana had occupied.

  “Jim, let’s go, now,” Sally said. “Something terrible is about to happen.”

  “You got it, Sal,” Jim said, his voice no more than a whisper as he got up, looking around for the car keys. “I don’t understand it, but I agree. Shit is about to hit the fan, big-time.”

  With tyres screaming, smoking and laying down twin trails of rubber on the concrete driveway, Jim gunned the engine and the Cherokee shot out into the street, clipping a rollout trash cart and causing it to spin across the sidewalk to spill garbage bags, which split open like black satanic underbellies to disgorge their stinking contents over the pristine open plan garden of their neighbour’s home.

  A mile south of the ‘Bend’, on the highway that would take them to Salem, Jim stopped next to the River. He fumbled a cigarette from the pack on the dash with tremulous fingers, lit it and inhaled the calming toxins.

  Without saying a word, both of them stepped out of the four-by-four, and Jim walked around it to Sally, put his arm around her waist and held her tightly. They looked back apprehensively to the distant development that had been built on what they now thought of as being a small portion of hell on earth.

  Thunder rumbled and cracked through the darkness; cannon fire on high, followed by myriad, jagged tines of forked lightning, that in a torrent of brilliant light struck the community of Harper’s Bend like a fusillade of death-dealing serpents’ tongues, turning the earth black and barren in the wake of a fireball that obliterated all that had lived and stood within the old parish limits of Twycross.

  Over the ensuing weeks, there was much speculation as to what had happened that fateful night. Only Sally and Jim knew the terrible truth, but would never tell it, knowing that they would only attract ridicule and disbelief.

  The power that had manifested to fulfil a curse that would never be repealed, had sunk back into the earth, content to stand guard in wary hibernation; forever ready to rise again and consume any and all who attempted to settle in its Godless domain.

  2

  JAKE AND THE VAMPIRE

  Jake Taylor jabbed at his glasses, pushing them back up the slope of his snub nose, only for them to immediately begin to slip back down again. With the light off, he was sitting in the darkness of his bedroom, squinting out through a gap in the curtains to keep watch on the house opposite, where the vampire lived.

  There was no one he could tell. He was only twelve-and-a-half, so no adults – especially his mom and dad – would believe him. And if he told his schoolmates they would laugh, and worse, would take the mickey out of him for the rest of term, and probably forever.

  It was Saturday morning when Jake plucked up enough courage to tell Cassie Palmer that the woman who’d recently moved into the big house across the street was one of the undead.

  Cassie lived next door to Jake, and although much older than him (by at least six months), they were the best of pals. They enjoyed hanging out together, and talking about all sorts of stuff, including TV shows like Buffy, Angel, Twilight, and even the old X-Files series, imagining that they were agents Mulder and Scully.

  “So why do you think that Mrs. Pavlovich is a bloodsucker?” Cassie said through a mouthful of gum, as she sat on the edge of the decking and retied the laces of her Nikes.

  “I don’t think she is, I know she is,” Jake said. “She’s Transylvanian, and you never see her outside during the day.”

  Cassie grinned. “My mom says that she spoke to her last week, and that she said she was from Russia.”

  “Get real, Cass. She’s not likely to say, ‘I’m a vampire from Transylvania’, is she? Have you heard her talk? She sounds the same as Dracula did in old movies.”

  Cassie hiked her shoulders in a shrug. “It’s not much to go on,” she said. “I won’t be hanging garlic at my bedroom window or wearing a crucifix, just because she talks with a funny accent.”

  “It’s more than how she speaks,” Jake said, taking his glasses off and wiping the grimy lenses on the bottom of his Bart Simpson T-shirt. “I passed her on Main Street one evening last week, and you won’t believe what happened.”

  “So tell me,” Cassie said, leaning forward and showing a little more interest.

  “Well, she smiled at me, but her eyes were cold and really weird. It was as if she was looking at a plate of food. She even licked her lips. I think that if I’d bumped into her down a dark alley, she would have…you know, bitten me and sucked my blood. As she walked along the sidewalk past the Pizza Palace, I looked in the window, and…and she had no reflection. She definitely isn’t human.”

  “You could be wrong about her,” Cassie said. “Vampires aren’t real, just make-believe.”

  “Says who? That’s why they never get caught, because people don’t believe in them, or don’t want to. I bet she spends all day in a coffin in the cellar, and then comes out at night to feed on people.”

  Cassie gave it some thought, stopped chewing her gum and blew an enormous bubble that burst with a loud pop. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s just suppose she is a real vampire. What do yo
u plan on doing about it?”

  Jake hadn’t planned on doing anything. But he didn’t want Cassie to think he was scared, so said, “Break into her house during the day and check it out. If I don’t find a coffin, and there are mirrors on the walls, then I’ll have to admit that she’s probably human; maybe just a serial killer or something.”

  Cassie shivered, even though the sun was warm on her back. She imagined finding a coffin in a dark cellar with a real live, or to be more precise, an undead vampire stretched out on top of a layer of soil from its homeland.

  “When are we going to do it?” she asked.

  “We?”

  “Yes, of course. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

  “I suppose. We need to make a stake and get everything else we’ll need. I was going to sneak over there tomorrow morning and…and deal with it.”

  “You mean actually stick it to her with a stake through the heart?”

  “Yeah. It’s the only way to kill a vampire. Then you have to cut its head off.”

  “Yuck! That’s gross. And you have to use ash wood for the stake. We’ll have to go to the park and find a fallen branch, or break one off.”

  “Why ash?”

  “Because I read it in a book. It has to be ash, or it won’t work.”

  By late afternoon they had collected everything that any self-respecting vampire slayers would need to rid the Earth of a ghoul masquerading in human form. They stashed the items in the shed at the bottom of Jake’s garden, behind a stack of wooden seed trays and plant pots, in Jake’s backpack, which instead of school books now held an eighteen-inch-long sharpened branch ‒ that was as thick as Cassie’s wrist ‒ a hammer, a large knife with a serrated blade, some cloves of garlic, a torch, and a small plastic bottle that they had filled with holy water from the font in St Mary’s church.

  “I’ll meet you in the lane next to Mrs. Pavlovich’s house in the morning,” Jake said.

  Cassie nodded. “Okay. What time?”

  “Better make it early. Let’s say six-thirty. Will you be able to sneak out?”

  “No prob. See you then. And don’t forget to wear a crucifix.”

  At six-fifteen the following morning, Jake collected the VSK, which was the acronym he’d given the Vampire Slaying Kit, from the shed.

  It was freezing cold, and he was wearing a fleece zipped up to his neck, and was now having second thoughts about breaking into a neighbour’s house. He didn’t know if he was brave enough to plunge a stake into someone’s heart and hammer it home. Icy tendrils of fear were writhing in his stomach like live eels, making him feel sick. He had to go through with it, though. If he called it off, Cassie would think he was wimping out, and she would be right.

  Cassie was already there when he arrived. Had she not turned up, then he would have been happy to have gone back home and minded his own business.

  “This is exciting,” Cassie said, grinning at him as she folded a piece of gum into her mouth. “Let’s go and do a Van Helsing on the local neck-biter.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Jake said. “It isn’t a game, you know.”

  Cassie frowned. “Are you losing your nerve, Jake? This was your idea, remember?”

  “I’m up for it,” he said. “C’mon, let’s go and get it over with.”

  They looked around, and when they were sure that the coast was clear, they scaled the wall that surrounded the property and dropped down into the large back garden.

  The house looked very much like all the old haunted houses in movies. It was a big, rickety place that seemed to squat behind the six-feet-high walls. The garden was full of long yellow grass and stinging nettles, and trees that were dead or dying, with branches that reminded Jake of twisted, crooked fingers.

  Cassie suddenly felt ten degrees colder. It was as if she had walked into a meat locker, like the ones that butchers kept frozen sides of animals in, hung up on hooks. The house seemed to be more than the bricks and mortar it was built from. It was in some way menacing, and she imagined that it knew they were there, and was watching them, waiting to trap them when they went inside.

  At the side of the old house they found two wooden doors set horizontally among thick clumps of weed in a brick surround. The timber was rotten, and Jake used the knife to quickly force the rusted screws out of the hasp, that was padlocked to prevent anyone getting in. Panting and puffing, he eventually managed to remove the hasp and padlock and heaved one of the doors up and laid it back, before taking a deep breath and walking slowly and carefully down slippery, slime-coated stone steps into the darkness of the cellar. Cassie followed him, staying close as he switched on the torch and shone its beam around the underground room.

  There was no coffin. The chamber was empty, with whitewash blistering and flaking away from damp, crumbling brickwork. Crossing the room, they climbed a flight of steps at the far end of the cellar and opened a door that led into a large dining kitchen.

  “What now?” Cassie whispered.

  “We search the house, find her, and do the business.”

  Tiptoeing out of the kitchen and along a gloomy hallway, they mounted a wide staircase to the landing. Jake’s heart was pounding, and he realised that he was holding his breath. The house smelled of decay. Wallpaper was curling away from wet plaster, and the greasy carpet was tacky on the soles of his Keds. He noticed that all the windows were cloaked by heavy drapes, obviously to keep out the light.

  As they entered a large bedroom, a voice from behind them said, “Vot are you two children doing een my house?”

  Jake and Cassie spun round and gasped with fright, to be confronted by Mrs. Pavlovich, whose large frame filled the doorway, blocking the only escape route.

  “W…We thought th…that the house was empty,” Cassie stammered.

  “Yes. We were j…just exploring,” Jake added.

  Irina Pavlovich’s laughter boomed in the murky room. She reached out and flicked a light switch, and the dull yellow glow from a fly-dirt spotted bulb cast low illumination on the scene.

  “You nosy keeds know very vell that thees ees my home,” Irina said, holding her hand out and beckoning Jake with long, milk-white fingers. “Geev me ze bag you haf on your back. I vant to see vot you haf brought to my house.”

  Jake felt sick. He wanted to bolt past the woman and escape, but couldn’t leave Cassie behind, so slipped off his rucksack and handed it over as ordered.

  “Vot ees thees?” Irina demanded, withdrawing the stake and some of the garlic bulbs. “You theenk that I am a vampire, and haf come here to keel me, is that eet?”

  There was nothing to say. Tears fell from Cassie’s eyes, and Jake thought that his parents would probably ground him for at least five years. He had been stupid. The woman was a little spooky, but how could he have thought that she was a…OH, JEEZ! As he watched, the woman’s eyes began to glow, no longer black like chips of coal, but as red as fiery embers. She snarled, and her lips drew back to reveal long, curved fangs. She rushed at them with her arms outstretched, grasped Cassie by the throat and brought her mouth down towards her neck. She was a vampire.

  Jake had no time to think. He just reacted, sprinted forward and kicked the vampire in the shin with all the force he could muster.

  Irina Pavlovich grunted, turned to him, and hissed like an angry snake. “You vill pay dearly for zat,” she said. “After I haf sucked the lifeblood from your friend.”

  Jake’s fear was suddenly overshadowed by anger. No way was he going to stand by and watch this monster kill Cassie. He looked around for a weapon, but knew that he would be too late to use anything he might find.

  The window! Just three steps to it. He darted across the room, grabbed a heavy drape with both hands and jerked it back to allow the full light of day to fill the room.

  The vampire shuddered, screamed, dropped Cassie to the floor and staggered back diagonally towards the door, its blistering hands up to protect its smouldering face.

  Jake rushed forward, pulled the sharp stake fr
om the backpack and lunged at the wailing monster. His aim was true, and the point of the stake sank deep into the unbeating but somehow undead heart, to pierce it and bring an end to the thing that had appeared to be Mrs. Pavlovich.

  The eyes of the vampire became sun-bright for an instant, and then dimmed as the fallen body twisted, shrivelled, and the flesh was burned away to reveal a skeleton, which in turn disintegrated into a pile of grey ash that then faded to leave no trace on the carpet.

  Jake helped Cassie to her feet and they ran from the room and headlong down the stairs, into the cellar, to leave the house by the way they had entered it and rush across the garden, to scrabble over the wall and hurry home.

  It was a couple of days later when Jake saw Cassie at the local library.

  “What is it, Jake?” she said. “You look worried.”

  “I am, Cass. It’s Mr. Brewster, the bank manager who lives three doors down from our house. He’s a werewolf.”

  3

  PARLOUR GAMES

  The new store was a joke shop, nothing less, but much more. The black, mirrored plate glass windows gave no insight as to its wares, or to the inherent danger that lurked within. This was no ordinary store on Main Street, but a world of make-believe, which for its prospective customers would offer jocular fantasy that would all too soon become terrifying reality.

  Under the black and red striped canvas awning, across the opaque window in large, gold, Caslon lettering was the legend:

  ‘PARLOUR GAMES’

  DAEMON HAGGARD. Proprietor.

  Stockist of:

  Party Goods * Wigs * Hats * Make-up

  Masks * Jokes * Novelties

  TRY BEFORE YOU BUY!

  Parlour Games had – until six weeks previously – been The Belfry, a music shop that may not have gone belly-up had it sold CD’s and ipods instead of sheet music and old-fashioned wooden recorders and acoustic guitars. Since the Belfry’s closure, the premises had been boarded from public view while refurbishment was carried out.