by Phil Price
The Turning
Published by Zombie Cupcake Press
83 Ducie Street, Manchester, M1 2JQ
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
This is a work of fiction.
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© Copyright by Phil Price 2017
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover design © Zombie Cupcake Press
Editing by Carol Tietsworth
Many thanks to my wife, Angie for her help, love, and patience.
Special thanks also to Kelly Miles. You’ve been an inspiration.
Last but not least, Zombie Cupcake. You’re the best.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
-Edgar Allen Poe
Prologue
The man sat at his writing desk, his laptop barely illuminating the cramped study. No writing was being done. On the desk was a heavy crystal tumbler, half filled with golden liquid. The bottle sat a few inches away. He always enjoyed a glass of whisky, opting usually for a nice bottle of single malt. However, over the last few months his drinking had increased, fuelled by the bad dreams and indecision that wracked his thoughts. The whisky had dropped in price and quality. As long as it did the job and eased him into a deep dreamless sleep, he didn’t care. Another sip was taken before continuing his reading. Over the last few months he’d read more and more about vampire folklore. It appeared that every civilisation from since the dawn of time held various accounts and stories of the mysterious creatures. He was currently reading the account of an unfortunate girl in Cornwall at the turn of the seventeenth century. The web page was framed in black, twisted wraiths and skulls dotted around its perimeter. It gave the screen a macabre feel, seeming to lower the temperature in the small room. The young girl in question had been visited by a vampire before her death. The local clergy had buried her in an unmarked grave. A stone tablet had been placed in her mouth, the casket filled with Hawthorn to ward off evil. The man took off his steel rimmed glasses and pinched the top of his nose, closing his eyes as he did so. A large hand rubbed at his bearded face. A beard that was showing more silver every day it seemed. He sat for a minute in silent contemplation before nodding to himself. The fiery liquid was downed in one go, the burn spreading from his throat down into his chest.
He stood and shuffled out of the study into the darkened hallway. Slipping on his sports jacket and loafers, the man opened the cupboard under the stairs. Reaching inside, he flicked the light switch, bathing the hallway in a yellowy hue. He moved garments out of his way on the hanging pole until reaching the winter coat at the back. The man reached into the large pocket, drawing out a silver cross. He weighed it in his left hand, liking the sturdy feel it gave off. His palm tingled as he slapped it with the metal object. He flexed his fingers before stowing the cross in his jacket pocket. Walking down the hallway, he scooped his keys from the side table, stowing them in his trouser pocket. A mobile phone and an old wrist watch were found next. He pressed a button on the keypad, making the display glow. Quarter past eleven. He had enough time. His watch was clipped on his wrist, the phone stowed in his inside pocket just in case he needed it. For what, he knew not.
If what he may encounter was a possibility, calling the emergency services would be a waste of time. It would certainly give the operator on the other end of the line an unusual twist to their night, the man thought. He spotted a lighter on the window sill and put that in his pocket, purely on a whim. Walking back through the house to the front door, he stopped at a picture on the wall of his wife, Denise. She had travelled to Ipswich to tend her dying mother. She’d told him to stay behind to perform his duty. A duty that was ebbing away it seemed. She’d noticed the empty whisky bottles in the recycling, coupled with witnessing his troubled dreams. Dreams that had started several months before. On several occasions, she had woken to find him mumbling incoherently in his sleep, clearly distressed. When she’d gently questioned him at the breakfast table the following morning, he would make excuses of late night movies that had followed him into his subconscious. She’d let it go. If it needed to come out it would in the fullness of time. She also had a grieving mother, who’d recently lost her husband and was now on her last legs too. They had busy lives, full of duty to loved ones. He locked the door and walked down his front path, turning right passing a tired row of shops. What once had been a thriving community now seemed like a ghost town. The local car factory had closed a few years before, hitting the area hard. This was coupled with a world-wide recession a few years later that left its scars on the whole country. Times had been tough, and things would take time to recover. He unzipped his coat as he started sweating. Summer was struggling to give up its hold on the land. Autumn could wait.
Ten minutes later he was walking past his local pub. The Hare and Hounds had a warm glow that gave the establishment an inviting pull. It was Friday night and the revellers inside looked like they had no intention of finishing up. The man had been young once. He knew people were winding down after their week at work. As he passed by the entrance, a young couple burst through the double doors, giggling at some private joke. They spotted the man and their laughter died down.
“Hello Father Stephen,” the man said. “Isn’t it a bit late for a stroll?”
“Hello John, Sarah. I’ve had a cold over the last few days. I thought I’d take a walk before turning in for the night.” He looked at the young couple. He’d known them from when they had attended the local primary school, some twenty years before. “Finishing early?”
“We thought we’d beat the rush to the chippy. It can get crowded as they all spill out of the Hounds.”
“What’s on the menu tonight?” he said as he suddenly smelt the aroma floating from the chip shop.
“Chicken and mushroom pie and chips for me and a kebab for greedy guts here,” Sarah said as she nudged her husband in the ribs.
“Well, enjoy your midnight feast. Be seeing you.”
“Goodnight Father,” they said in unison, before heading off towards the chip shop. He hung back a few steps, letting them enter the brightly lit frontage before he followed. He made a right turn just before the two shops, heading up a steep dark roadway. At just shy of two metres and tipping the scales at twenty stone, Father Stephen found the ascent arduous. His breathing was ragged as he climbed further and further towards his destination. He paused and checked the display on his phone. Ten minutes until midnight. He knew he would reach the spot in time. The vicar had only visited it once before, but it was clear in his memory. He’d caught up with Doug a few days after his friend had banged on his Vicarage door in the middle of the night to ask him for help with his son. It was the night when his whole world, his faith, his understanding had been turned on its head. A few days later the two men had made their way to the spot on a crisp winter’s morning. The silent hills had seemed devoid of such fanciful tales as vampires and doorways. He had known Doug for thirty years, trusting his word implicitly. However, that word had been tested on that night. Now, as he stood at the spot he suddenly felt wary. Stephen checked his phone again. Two minutes to go. He instinctively wrapped his hand around
the cross in his pocket. The coolness comforting. The night was deathly quiet, the only sound he could hear was his slowing heartbeat and breathing. He stood there looking at two stout trees, positioned three feet apart. Suddenly the wind kicked up along the hillside, sending leaves and bracken skittering across the forest floor. He felt a building pressure in his head before his ears popped. Strange, he thought as a low hum filled his skull. Oh God! In front of his eyes a faint blue glow seemed to appear between the trees. It quickly made the shape of a doorway. He walked towards it, aware that the cross in his hand was now warm. He pulled it from his pocket, letting it bounce against his thigh as he walked. He stood within reach of the doorway as it gently pulsed between the trees. He could hear sounds on the other side. Wild sounds. Shrieks and wails that seemed out of place in the Lickey Hills.
“Unbelievable. Doug was right,” he muttered. Stephen was a man of Christ. All his life he’d followed the good book with unwavering commitment. Now everything that he’d once believed was being torn apart. He was staring at a doorway to another world. Another universe. Another dimension. He wasn’t sure what to call it. The vicar knew it was not part of his world. How could his God exist when this doorway did too? He made up his mind quickly, knowing he had limited time. He stepped through the void. Into the unknown.
One
September 2010
“Come on Douglas. The estate agent is waiting,” Alison said through the open car door. Doug was trying to multi-task. His new mobile phone had been on charge as they’d driven down from the Midlands. Unplugging it, whilst under scrutiny from his wife was making him a bit ruffled.
“Okay. I’m done,” he said as he climbed out of the car, shutting the door. He walked around the boot, coming to a stop next to his wife.
She tutted. “Tuck your shirt in. Look at your jacket. It’s all skew.”
“Oh no! We can’t have that, can we? What would the new neighbours say?”
His wife gave him a stern look as another woman approached from the house that had a sign swaying in front of it. Doug forgot Alison’s expression as the other woman introduced herself.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson?” They nodded. “Lynn Bustard, Atlantic Estates. How was your journey down?”
Alison shook the woman’s hand, appraising her coolly. She noticed with a degree of envy that the woman was roughly her age, but wore it far better. She was slim, with short grey hair, cut stylishly. Not like the mass of red and grey curls that she fought to keep under control every day. Her face didn’t look like the face of a sixty year old. Maybe she’d had work done, she thought smugly. “Mostly fine. A bit of traffic around Bristol but nothing to write home about. I’m Alison. This is Doug,” she said as almost an afterthought.
Doug shook the agent’s hand, a warm smile crinkling his face. “Pleased to meet you Lynn. Unusual name. Bustard?”
“Yes,” she said. “Like the bird. Had a few nicknames at school as I’m sure you can imagine. Your wife told me over the phone that your house is sold and that you’re looking to move as soon as possible.”
Doug liked her Cornish twang. “Yes. Our buyers have had surveys done and all appears to be in order. So we’re a few weeks behind them in terms of schedule. But that isn’t a problem. Our son and daughter-in-law have just moved to Tintagel and we’ll be able to bed down with them if needed.” The agent nodded before walking up the pretty garden path towards the property. Doug watched her walk, noticing that she had dark seamed nylons on. His wife caught him looking at her legs before bustling past him, tutting as she did so. He stood for a moment, smiling. If only all women dressed like that, he thought before trudging up the path after them.
☨☨☨
Jake came around the corner of the cul-de-sac, noticing his parents’ car parked next to the dormer bungalow. He could see the front door was open. At least they got here on time, he thought. The Atlantic wind kicked up, ruffling his dark hair and clothing. The ocean was to his left. Sparse clouds on the horizon gave the vista a picture postcard look. He ran his fingers through his locks before stepping off the pavement to cross the street. He had a carefree stride, long and loping. The horrors of the last few months seemed to have been blown away on the ocean breeze. His leg was better, apart from the two scars that would forever be tattooed there. One had been a flesh wound, the other deeper. He kept his eye on them, doing what had to be done to ensure they were under control. He’d never spent so much time in church as he did now. Katherine played along, knowing it helped his leg heal. To what extent it would heal was still uncertain. He felt fine though. More than fine. He’d never felt better. Whether that was due to the sea air, or due to his love for Katherine, he knew not. He did not care. The last few months were becoming a fuzzy memory. He still had the dreams. He still woke up sometimes in a sweat, checking the bedroom for signs of danger. However, no danger could be found. All was as it should be in Jake’s life. For that, he was beyond grateful. His life had risen from the depths of despair and grief from a few years previous, when he’d lost his young wife and daughter to a hit and run. They would never be forgotten. Jake knew that. Katherine knew that. He had a new focus now though. Katherine was due to give birth within the next few weeks. The last few months had been a whirl of activity, taking their minds off of the horrors beforehand. Their third bedroom had been turned into a nursery. Katherine was like the proverbial kid in a sweet shop when Jake had taken her to a retail park near Truro. They had spent most of the afternoon buying all manner of baby clothes, travel systems, bottles, sterilizers, and other items that they’d need for the arrival. Jake also bought two large cans of emulsion for the walls. Pink emulsion. The moment they discovered that Katherine was pregnant, Jake realised they had a problem. She didn’t exist, certainly not on paper. She would need scans and visits to the doctors. How could she do that if there was no record of her? He’d made a call to Swanley, to ask a huge favour. Katherine needed an identity. The giant traveller and Jake had history. They had an understanding. They would help each other if needed. Swanley had put Jake in touch with an associate, who for a considerable fee had provided her with a life. He was told her identification would hold up under regular scrutiny. However, intense digging would pull holes in it. Jake knew that this was the best he could hope for. If the worst came to the worst he knew they had an escape route. A doorway, between two trees in a far off forest.
☨☨☨
Jake heard voices as he neared the bungalow. He looked up at the first-floor window to see his mother, who was fiddling with the curtains. She noticed him and waved. He reciprocated before heading up the path, stepping through the open doorway into the hall. The voices grew louder as he made his way to the kitchen at the rear of the property.
“Hi Dad,” he said, noticing an attractive older woman stood next to a breakfast bar.
“Hey Son,” Doug beamed, grabbing him in a bear hug. “This is Lynn. Lynn, this is Jake.”
Jake met the advancing woman halfway across the kitchen, taking her manicured hand. “Nice to meet you Lynn.”
“Likewise Jake. I was just telling your father about the local pubs. I think I’ve won him over.”
Doug nodded his agreement. “The Cornishman’s Arms sounds right up my street. Jake took me to the,” he hesitated, plucking the name from his memory. “King Arthur a few months back. That wasn’t bad either. I think I’ll enjoy life down here.”
Alison entered the kitchen, making a fuss of her son as soon as she caught sight of him. “Hello Jake,” she gushed, unusually so. “How is Katherine?”
“Hi Mom. She’s fine. She’s having a bit of a nap.”
Alison looked at the estate agent. “She’s expecting their first child.”
“Congratulations. Sounds like you’re moving at the right time.”
“Well we need to find the right house first,” Alison cut in, cooling the temperature in the kitchen somewhat.
Sensing a change in mood Jake decided to talk shop. “So what do you both think of the house?
”
Lynn could also sense that a frosty cloak had descended over the room. She cut in before either Stevenson could answer. “I’ll be outside. I need to make a few calls. Give me a shout when you’re finished.” She excused herself, smiling at Doug as she left the kitchen.
“What’s up?” Jake said.
“Nothing Son,” Doug said. “The house seems fine. It even has an en-suite.”
“Your Father would buy anything from a woman who dresses like that. You can pick your jaw up off the floor now Douglas.” He smiled at his wife serenely. Turning up the annoyance to gas mark hot.
“What do you think of the house Mom?” Jake said, trying to thaw the ice.
“Well, I’m not over keen on some of the decor. Bit modern for me. But it’s just about the right size. I agree with your Father, the en-suite is something that I’ve always wanted. And I suppose the location is perfect. I just hope our furniture fits the house.”
“It will love. And if it doesn’t we can buy new furniture. Our sofa is looking a little tired.” Alison looked at Doug and nodded sagely. The idea of some new furniture perked her spirits up. The harlot outside was forgotten momentarily.
“Well, I’ll pop back home and get the kettle on. The spare room is ready for you. I’ll let you talk to the estate agent. I’m sure you have things to discuss,” Jake said, secretly winking at his dad.
☨☨☨
Jake made his way along the path towards the village. The sun was on its way towards its western horizon where it would kiss the Atlantic Ocean, before disappearing for the night. Tourists and surfers walked past him as he made his way up the high street. Children sat on walls, eating ice creams while parents looked at their smart phones, glad of the few minute’s peace. Jake turned right off the path into what looked like the world’s oldest post office. He’d always thought it looked like a giant had been sat on its roof, bending it beyond repair. He’d been told by one of the locals that it was the most photographed post office in the world. Jake had no reason to doubt that fact. After all, who photographs post offices? He ducked inside and walked to the deserted counter.