A Three-Book Collection

by M. V. Stott

  Rita crouched down to get a closer look at a drawing of a pair of rabbit ears that had been finger-painted on a cupboard door in blood.

  ‘It was definitely them,’ she said. ‘Has to be. Can’t be any doubt now.’

  Formby had told them all the things Alison Parks had told him, about her clients bad dreams. The bad dreams that were happening even while they were awake. Of the many sightings of scary men in animal masks. And then he’d told them about this. An elderly woman found dead by her visiting daughter.

  ‘We already knew it was them,’ said Waterson as Rita stood back up.

  ‘We assumed so, but now we know for sure. And this is a step up in their activity. They’ve been scaring people, but now it looks like they’ve moved on to killing, too.’

  She knew Cotton and Spike fed on fear, and when would the fear be sweeter than when a person knew for sure they were dying?

  ‘A lot more people are going to end up dead if we don’t get our arses in gear,’ she said.

  ‘So what do we do now exactly? We’re on the back foot as far as I can see.’

  Rita walked out of Joan’s kitchen, out of her house, wishing she didn’t feel quite so powerless.

  Alison could still feel the magic in her system. The soothing warmth that made her brain gently crackle with pleasure.

  She wished Formby would visit her more than once a week, but he said he didn’t want to give up more than one taste every seven days; that it would be irresponsible. He just wanted to keep all the good shit for himself, that’s what Alison thought. Well maybe she’d find another of the, well, whatever it was he was. There must be more of them. Little, ugly, pointy-eared people with sharp teeth and bad breath. She knew he had a family nearby, or a “clan” as he called it. Just as he’d snaffled up information from her, she’d made sure to coax the odd thing out of him. If he wouldn’t supply the amount of magic she wanted, then she’d find someone in his clan who would.

  ‘You’ve been telling tales on us,’ said a man Alison had not realised had entered her office.

  She sat up, shaking herself out of her thoughts, out of her beautiful, numbing stupor. It was work time. Who was it she was supposed to be seeing next?

  ‘Uh, sorry, away with the fairies there,’ she said, then looked for the first time at the man stretched out on the couch in front of her. He wore an old-fashioned brown suit with a waistcoat and pocket watch, his hands in dirty white gloves resting upon his chest. On his head he wore a decaying rabbit mask.

  ‘My brother and I do not mind, you understand. We are not trying to hide ourselves away from the detective, are we, brother mine?’

  A grunt from behind caused Alison to turn and find a man in an identical outfit, only wearing a hedgehog mask.

  ‘Who are you? What’s going on?’ she said, worry starting to worm its way past the soothing effects of the magic.

  ‘We’re much too strong for her to do anything about, thanks to the effect of our Angel friend, but still. Nobody likes a tattletale, Doctor.’

  The man in the rabbit mask swung his legs around and slowly rose to his feet.

  ‘I said, who are you?’ She reached for the phone on her desk but a gloved hand slammed down against hers and pinned it to the desk.

  ‘I believe you know who we are, Doctor. I am Mr. Cotton, and the man causing your wrist some amount of discomfort is my fine, fearsome brother, Mr. Spike.’

  Alison was shaking. ‘No, that’s not… those were just…’

  ‘Your clients’ nightmares? Yes, that is us.’

  It was impossible. Some sort of shared psychosis. It was rare, but it happened; whole communities experiencing the same delusion.

  ‘I’m afraid we must punish you now,’ said Mr. Cotton. ‘Loose lips sink ships, after all.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything!’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid you said everything, you little piggy. And now, I do believe my brother would like to show you his face.’

  Mr. Cotton gestured to Mr. Spike and bowed. Alison could hear Mr. Spike’s excited breathing as he began to tease off his mask.

  Alison Parks’ next client was a young boy. His name was Liam, and he sat in the waiting room alongside his mum and dad. His parents were worried about their boy’s increasingly strange behaviour, not least of which was a recent incident that involved him going missing in the middle of the night, only for Dad to find him walking home in his pyjamas, barefoot.

  When Alison’s receptionist tried and failed to raise her on the phone, she knocked on the door instead. ‘Hello? Doctor Parks? Your two o’clock is here. Doctor Parks?’

  The receptionist opened the door, Liam and his parents stood just behind her. Inside the office they found Alison Parks, her body splayed out on the floor, eyes wide and terrified, a hair band with rabbit ears atop her head.

  Liam stared at the dead body as the receptionist screamed.

  10

  Reality was a spooked cat trying to wriggle free of Carlisle’s desperate grip and dart off into the bushes.

  ‘Stop squirming,’ said Carlisle, as though the universe would nod its head and settle into his arms for a nap.

  The boy on the beach had been an anchor point, something that Carlisle had been able to latch onto to prevent his form drifting apart, but that did not mean what happened next would be easy.

  He needed an ally. Someone he could trust who could help him escape from Cotton and Spike’s clutches. This presented some issues. Carlisle was not the sort of person who had nurtured warm relationships over his long life. There was, to be blunt, no one with the ability to help him who would do so out of the kindness of their own heart. Why help a fiend like Carlisle twist free of his trap only to put their own ankle in its rusty jaws?

  This forced Carlisle to do something he preferred to avoid wherever possible; to make a promise. A promise to help whoever helped him in whatever manner they pleased. It put him in a weak position, and Carlisle hated to be in a weak position. To be in someone’s debt. Then again, Carlisle also hated being in an about-to-be-very-deceased position, so a promise would be made.

  First things first though. Although the boy had anchored Carlisle to some extent, had stopped his violent spiral towards the mountainside, he was still not practiced in the art of astral travel. He could not walk, or fly, or catch a bus to his desired location. There was a knack to it, to moving from one place to another, and it was a knack that seemed to change with each new attempt.

  Carlisle’s first thought had been Giles L’Merrier, the mighty wizard and master of the dark arts, who currently lurked within his antiques shop in Soho, London. But chances were that L’Merrier would not lift a finger to help him, even if he offered up a thousand promises. L’Merrier was the very definition of mercurial, and was as likely to delight in Carlisle’s comeuppance as he was to assist his release. Carlisle was glad that his actual stomach was elsewhere, otherwise it would be clenching painfully as he pictured the smug look spreading across L’Merrier’s face as he told him of his situation.

  Perhaps it was lucky then that, not having mastered the knack, Carlisle found himself not within L’Merrier’s shop of Uncanny antiquities, and instead sat in a booth at London’s Beehive Pub, a bar for Uncanny types, sat opposite a ghost that he did not recognise.

  ‘You are not Giles L’Merrier,’ said Carlisle. His words sounded muffled, like they were coming from behind a closed door.

  The ghost, handsome, dressed in a slightly dishevelled black suit, blinked and rubbed his eyes. ‘Where did you come from, mate?’ he asked, squinting at the vague approximation of a man that had appeared at his table.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Carlisle.

  The ghost scratched the bristles on his chin. ‘Name’s Jake Fletcher, what’s it to you?’

  ‘You are dead,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Oh, is that what happened? I wondered why I didn’t get any Happy Birthday messages this year.’

  Carlisle didn’t smile at the ghost’s witticism. Instead, he concen
trated on remaining where he was as the material plane did its best to reject his astral form.

  ‘How did you come a cropper then?’ the ghost asked.

  ‘I’m not dead,’ replied Carlisle. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  ‘You sure? You look proper ghosty to me. And pale. You’re paler than an Irish shut-in’s rear end, mate.’

  Carlisle wished very much that his physical form were with him so he could reach over and squeeze this person’s soul until his eyes bulged.

  ‘I need help,’ said Carlisle. Perhaps the astral realm had somehow read his needs and delivered him to a person able to assist him.

  ‘That right?’ said the ghost. ‘Well, you’re in luck, pal, you’ve found the Spectral Detective. So what do you need doing?’

  ‘I require—’

  ‘How do you like Spectral Detective, by the way?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Spectral Detective. Trying to brand myself. It’s all about branding these days.’

  ‘Please stop.’

  ‘I thought Ghost Detective at first, straight to the point, no messing around, but Spectral Detective has a little extra oomph to it, am I right? A little more poetry, maybe. Less on the nose.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Dead Detective, that was the next one. My mate Jazz Hands offered that up. I liked the alliteration, but it sounded a bit morbid to me. A bit defeatist.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Carlisle. ‘I don’t care how dire my situation is, nothing is worth this torment.’

  Spectral Detective Jake Fletcher blinked, and the pale stranger was gone. ‘Rude,’ he muttered, then licked his lips and gestured to the landlord for a fresh pint.

  Carlisle’s world was shifting colour and sounds again: disparate places, smashed together, piled high, overlapping impossibly. He hadn’t intended to leave the ghost quite so swiftly—perhaps he could have helped in some small way—but Carlisle’s astral form refused to linger any longer, and he found the phantom too aggravating to fight the irresistible pull.

  Carlisle reached out again. Concentrated on a person and imagined arriving wherever they might be. He knew of an angel named Vizael who might be able to lend a hand. Carlisle had never had any direct dealings with the angel—and by all accounts he was not just ancient but beginning to lose his marbles—but an angel was an angel.

  He pictured the old man and reached out, the astral winds shoving him this way and that. He opened his eyes. He was sat on the slope of a hill covered in blood red grass. He had arrived in the wrong place once again. Carlisle sighed and looked up at the sky, which swam with rolling waves of fire. He had passed into a new realm, attached to but not part of the everyday.

  ‘The Dark Lakes,’ he sighed.

  Carlisle had never been to the Dark Lakes, but he recognised the place from the Uncanny texts he had read over the centuries. It was a realm that housed an army of the dead awaiting a beast known as the Magic Eater to lead them into battle. Or so the story went. Carlisle was not sure how much of that he believed himself. People were prone to exaggeration in the name of a good yarn.

  ‘All true,’ said a small voice at Carlisle’s side. He looked down to see a short figure had joined him on the red hill’s slope. It was a fox, stood upon its hind legs like a person. A Roman helmet was perched on its head, and in one paw it gripped a small axe.

  ‘I do not appreciate my thoughts being read, fox,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Oh, weren’t you speaking out loud? Or in my little head?’ said the fox, tapping his helmet with the hilt of his axe. ‘I cannot read minds, not me. I am just a humble fox. But I know the Dark Lakes and I know the Magic Eater, too. The Red Woman rules this land and desires his hand.’

  ‘Well, that is fascinating, but I am not here to learn the local history.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘I require help.’

  ‘I help. I help a lot, ask Joseph.’

  ‘I do not know who that is.’

  ‘I do. I know what his face looks like and everything.’

  Carlisle longed to lift the fox and kick it so hard it would sail up and into the sky of fire.

  ‘I am trapped,’ he said, ‘beyond the reach of most, at the mercy of things born from the nightmare realm.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied the fox. ‘Not nice.’

  ‘No. I seem to have found myself here, which means, I hope, that perhaps you might be of some assistance. In return I will give you a promise, to use when and as you please.’

  ‘Ooh, that is a pretty price indeed,’ replied the fox, grinning, its little sharp teeth gleaming.

  ‘So, can you assist me or not?’

  ‘Maybe. Might be able to. I know people and things and hidden stuff, too.’

  ‘Then take me to someone who can help and the promise is yours.’

  ‘No need to offer a promise, I’m a good fox.’ He grinned again and then began making his way down the hill towards the black lake that sat at the bottom. Carlisle followed.

  ‘Where are we going and who shall we meet there, fox?’

  The fox waved Carlisle forward with his axe, his white-tipped, red bushy tail bobbing along behind him. ‘Follow me, see-through person, I know where the Yellow Man rests.’

  Carlisle stopped for a moment. ‘The demon?’

  ‘Big demon. Very big and bad. I know lots of people, you see, some are bad but they can still help if the price is fair.’

  ‘I understood the Yellow Man had fallen.’

  The fox snorted. ‘Nothing so old can be wiped away for long. Specially not a high demon like him.’

  They reached the edge of the lake and the fox pointed at the water.

  ‘There is no boat,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Need to walk in. Get wet. Get wet and count to five, and the Yellow Man shall arrive.’

  ‘Thank you, fox.’

  The fox grinned and walked away, whistling.

  Carlisle looked out at the lake, then began to drift into the water. He could not feel the cool of the water, and it did not cling to him, making him damp, as there was nothing to make wet. He moved forward, eyes closed, and counted out loud, ‘1-2-3-4-5.’

  He opened his eyes.

  He was no longer stood in the water, and he was sure he was also no longer in the Dark Lakes. He was in another realm altogether. At first it was dark, so Carlisle was patient, allowed his eyes to adjust. Gradually, his surroundings began to fade into view. He was in a cave. Thick tree roots snaked their way down from above, clinging to the damp walls. The ground was wet. He crouched to look closer and found that the cave had an inch-thick carpet of blood. He wondered if that was what the tree was feeding upon.

  He moved forward, his astral form passing above the blood, drifting deeper into the dark.

  The Yellow Man was waiting for him.

  ‘Here at last? The cave told me you’d turn up one of these days, Carlisle.’

  He was, as his name suggested, yellow-skinned. From toe to hair, he looked as though he had been fashioned from gold. Two entirely black eyes watched Carlisle, an easy smile upon his face. From the top of his head, two large antlers twisted. He was naked and draped over a throne that appeared to be alive. Pieces of flesh, of bone, sewn together. It twitched beneath him, emitting dull cries of pain.

  ‘That does not look very comfortable.’

  The Yellow Man laughed. ‘The pain of others is always comforting,’ he replied with a voice as smooth as velvet. Carlisle was already wondering if this visit had been the best of ideas. That was the last time he’d take advice from a fox.

  ‘Oh, he’s a good fox,’ said the Yellow Man, ‘and he has brought you to somebody who can indeed help you squirm free of your situation.’

  ‘You can?’

  ‘I am the Yellow Man. A high demon. I have met the Beast and tamed it.’

  ‘For a while,’ replied Carlisle.

  The cave grew darker, just for a moment, as the Yellow Man’s face twisted into a snarl. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone, and the easy
smile was back. ‘You know, I’m quite the fan of Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike’s work. They do fashion such delightful nightmares.’

  ‘Yes, a great couple of lads,’ replied Carlisle. ‘Why would you help me?’

  ‘I have heard your offer. It is very attractive.’

  ‘What would a high demon need of a promise from me?’

  The Yellow Man clicked his fingers, his throne of pain thrashing in fear beneath him. Hands began to reach out of the cave walls, each of them clutching a jar with a screw-top lid. Inside each jar—and there were hundreds of them—was a swirl of light.

  ‘You want me to promise you my soul?’ asked Carlisle.

  ‘By jove, I think he’s got it! It really would be a treat to add you to my collection. Oh, the other demons would be green with envy. Apart from those that are already green, of course. I wonder what colour they would turn?’

  ‘So you help me and I spend eternity in a jar? A tempting offer.’

  ‘I would let you out from time to time. You are special, I would have other uses for you. You are not like these ordinary souls. You are a thing of the dark, like me.’

  ‘I am not evil. Well, as such.’

  ‘You are on our side.’

  ‘I prefer not to join teams.’

  The Yellow Man inspected his cuticles. ‘Make your choice, Carlisle. You can accept my help or you can die.’

  Carlisle began to back away. ‘I believe I shall explore alternatives.’

  ‘Oh, there are none. I’ll be seeing you very soon.’

  The Yellow Man clapped his hands together and the cave was torn from view, sending Carlisle spinning into a whirl of nothing.

  11

  Alison Parks’ corpse lay naked on an autopsy table in Blackpool Hospital’s morgue.

  Rita frowned. It had only been a few hours since Formby passed on information from Alison about the web of nightmares Cotton and Spike were weaving across Blackpool, and now here she was, dead. The idea that it could be a coincidence was difficult to swallow. Now, as she and Waterson looked down on her dead body, it was clear it was not.