A Three-Book Collection

by M. V. Stott

  ‘You got your ugly dad’s fat face, too.’

  ‘Fuck off, Mum!’ he cried as he rushed by once again.

  As he burst into the backyard for what must have been the fiftieth time, he became aware that he no longer heard the pack of Mr. Spikes in pursuit. He stopped at the yard’s wall and turned. A single Mr. Spike peered at him through the kitchen window.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Waterson. ‘Tired out from all the running? I ran three different marathons when I wasn’t dead, you were always on to a loser, mate.’

  Mr. Spike reached up and began to remove his hedgehog mask. Waterson was pretty certain that the last thing he should do was see what lurked beneath that rotting mask.

  He turned back to the wall, only now the wall was a hundred Mr. Spikes’, all slowly removing their masks.

  ‘Shit. Shit!’

  Everything was that same mask. The world was the sound of Mr. Spike’s rasping breath. Wherever he turned, the mask’s glass eyes looked back, his own horrified face reflected back at him. A pair of white gloves inched it up and up and—

  An axe erupted out of one of Mr. Spike’s masks, cleaving it in two.

  ‘What?’ said Waterson, more or less reaching the end of his tether. He crouched and looked through the gap that had been created, to see a familiar face looking back.

  ‘Come on then, idiot,’ said Rita, waving Waterson forward from beyond the split in Mr. Spike.

  ‘You know that looks really, really weird.’

  ‘Shift it!’

  Waterson ran forward and jumped through the gap in reality as Mr. Spike’s teeth chattered in frustration.

  12

  Ben Turner sat on his bed in Big Pin’s basement and tried not to think about what he’d seen in the toilets.

  Tried not to think about Magda, the woman who’d bitten him, turned him monstrous, appearing there and speaking to him.

  He clenched his hands together to try and stop them shaking.

  He knew she hadn’t really been there. Of course he knew that, she was dead. Very, very dead. Thanks to meeting Dan Waterson, he’d been made aware that ghosts were a thing, but that hadn’t been Magda’s ghost. For one thing, her soul had been claimed by a demon (and it was vaguely worrying how readily he accepted that. Souls, demons, no big deal. His entire world had expanded in an instant).

  So Magda was gone. Properly gone, soul and all. He knew it hadn’t really been her, back to turn him once again. Back to make him her hungry, faithful hound. No, this was nothing but a waking nightmare. Part of Rita’s investigation, something to do with those masked dream monsters. A nasty trick meant to terrify him.

  Well, it had bloody well worked. A-Plus results to the mask-wearing bastards.

  Okay, it was nothing but a trick. Cool. He understood that. The thing was, Ben really needed to go to the toilet, and was now afraid to go by himself. Which was crazy. He’d been alternatively sat on his bed and pacing his room for the last hour, trying to work up the courage to just walk upstairs, cross the bar, and head into the toilets.

  He eyed the empty plastic bottle on the floor again.

  No, he wasn’t going to pee in a bottle, that was daft.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, he stood and left the basement, feet heavy and unwilling. Upstairs, Linton was giving a man with horns a pair of bowling shoes.

  Ben’s heart was beating way too fast.

  ‘Get it together, you tit,’ he mumbled to himself.

  He placed his hand against the door to the Gents, took a breath or two, then pushed his way inside.

  The toilets were empty: a urinal, a couple of sit-down stalls, the sinks. He didn’t like the way he looked in the mirror, wide-eyed and pale-faced. Ben hustled over to the urinal, unzipped, pulled out, and sighed in relief as he had one of the longest pees of his life.

  Satisfaction washed over him, the fear that the nightmare might repeat itself fading now as the pain in his bladder abated.

  So of course, after washing his hands, he passed the stalls on his way to the exit to see Magda standing inside one, waving.

  Carlisle was struggling to find his way home. To find his way back to his body.

  Who knew how much damage had been suffered, to his muscles, to his mind. Not to mention the things that hunted for empty bodies. Had the almost things sniffed him out yet? He hadn’t meant to be apart from himself for so long, but it was difficult to judge the passing of time when in an astral form. All he knew was, he felt deeply that he’d been away for longer than he should have.

  It had been a waste of time. He’d found no one who could help. His only option now was to get back into his body, to try and regain a little strength, then jump out and have another go. That was if Cotton and Spike didn’t murder him before he was able to try for a second time.

  ‘Find me,’ he said. A mantra. A rope to hold on to as the raging waves and winds of sights and sounds battered against him. Tried to send him tumbling into the jaws of nothingness.

  ‘Find me.’

  The rope tugged him forward ever so slightly. He was a horse sinking into quicksand, his rider vainly attempting to pull him to safety.

  ‘Find me.’

  The only place he’d found potential help was with the Yellow Man, but the price was too high. He also did not like the idea of the dark claiming him as one of its own. He thought of himself as a rogue, a bastard, a swindler, a killer, but since when did all that make a person evil? Very presumptuous.

  ‘Find me.’

  Was that salt water? The sea? Waves crashed overhead; real waves this time.

  ‘Find me, find me, find me.’

  The water was gone. An Angel was on Its knees inside a glass box.

  ‘Haha!’ said Carlisle, relief coursing through his astral form. Now to slip back into his body, catch his breath, restart any of his organs that might have failed in his absence, and then he’d try again. Then he really would find his way to L’Merrier and offer him a fistful of promises if that’s what it took. This would not be the end of Carlisle. A couple of mask-wearing freaks weren’t going to put a full stop upon his existence. He was Carlisle, and he would hear their masks crack beneath the heel of his boot.

  He soon found one small problem standing in the way of his continued existence and thirst for revenge.

  His body was gone.

  ‘Well, fuck,’ said Carlisle, and his muffled words echoed around the marble walls of the Angel of Blackpool’s prison.

  Ben Turner was breaking the number one rule Rita Hobbes had given him.

  He was outside. Outside, in public, and on his own.

  After running like a scared rabbit from the latest Not Magda to appear, he’d found himself several streets away from the sanctuary of Big Pins without even realising he’d left the place. His mind was a spinning top of fear, and all he knew was that he had to go, go, go.

  And now here he was, approaching the seafront. He should turn around and get back quick-sharpish before things turned from bad to worse and he was recognised. He wasn’t even wearing his baseball cap, and his shades were sat on the bedside cabinet.

  Yes, he should absolutely turn around and speed-walk back to Big Pins, head down, not making eye-contact with anyone as he rushed back.

  But he didn’t.

  Fresh air.

  He’d been trapped inside for so long. And yes, he knew it was for his own good, but he was going stir crazy. His reaction to the pretend Magda was proof enough of that. He knew it was a waking dream, but it had twisted him up inside. Maybe if he’d had something else to focus on as he drifted around Big Pins like a ghost, but he hadn’t, and so the dream had wormed its way under his skin.

  It would be okay. He would be okay. He’d just sit on that bench over there and watch the sea for a few minutes. Shake off the inside air, clear out his head, and then he’d go back. Rita wouldn’t even know he’d left.

  He made his way over to the bench and sat, glancing around to see if anyone was looking at him, but th
ere was hardly anyone around. He was okay. He was fine.

  Ben Turner closed his eyes and stretched out his legs, leaning his head back and enjoying the sound of the waves crashing, of the seagulls crying, of the traffic passing by behind. After a few joyful minutes he opened his eyes and pulled out his phone. He searched for an appropriately adorable cat video, then sent it to Rita. He wondered what she was doing at that moment.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, putting his phone away. He leaned forward, ready to stand and make his way to Big Pins, when he realised he’d been joined on the bench. A young boy with a mass of dark blonde curls was sat at the other end.

  ‘Why do I hear a wolf when I look at you?’ asked the boy.

  ‘I… I’m sorry?’

  ‘My name is Liam. I can see stuff. See even more stuff now since the ghost thingy.’

  ‘Right. I should probably be off,’ replied Ben, standing.

  ‘It’s coming from the sea,’ said Liam.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The bad stuff. Everyone’s having nightmares, even when they’re not asleep, and it’s all coming from the sea.’

  Nightmares? Ben pushed away the image of Magda waving at him. This was the case that Rita, Dan, and Formby were investigating. Could this boy actually know something helpful? Perhaps Ben could help out after all.

  ‘I’ve had the waking nightmares,’ said Ben, sitting back down on the bench.

  ‘I think we all will pretty soon. I think all day every day will be nightmares.’

  ‘You said something about the sea. What did you mean?’

  Liam turned and looked at Ben for the first time. ‘Can’t you see them?’

  ‘See what?’

  Liam pointed out to sea. ‘The black fingers.’

  Ben squinted, but all he saw was the tide, the sky, the seagulls circling.

  ‘I couldn’t see them at first, but then a ghost came to me. Well, I think he was a ghost, he was all see-through anyway. I was stood on this beach and scared and the ghost whispered to me and passed through my head, I think, and then I could see more than before. Then I could see the black smoke fingers and I think I got what they meant.’

  ‘Can you show me?’ Ben asked.

  Liam shrugged. ‘Dunno. Maybe.’

  Liam reached out with one hand and Ben took it.

  ‘Can you see them? The smoky black fingers?’

  Ben could see them.

  There were hundreds of them, thousands. Thin trails of dark smoke starting way out on the horizon and arching over them both before dipping back down all across Blackpool.

  ‘That’s what’s causing the nightmares?’ asked Ben, staring up in wonder at the writhing, snake-like trails.

  ‘Think so. Part of it, at least.’

  Liam pulled his hand away, Ben blinked, and the smoke trails disappeared.

  ‘Okay, my friend, she’s going to want to know about this. Do you think you can show her?’

  Liam shrugged and nodded and Ben pulled out his phone, ready to call Rita. He did not manage to make the call.

  ‘Stay right where you are, sir.’

  Ben’s heart sunk as he turned to see two uniformed police officers, batons drawn.

  ‘Benjamin Turner, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder.’

  Ben turned to see Liam, hands in pockets, wandering away up the beach.

  13

  Mr. Cotton and his brother in terror, Mr. Spike, were stood in the cool of the Angel’s marble prison.

  ‘I wonder what you dream about,’ Mr. Cotton said to the Angel of Blackpool, which was still on Its knees in the glass box, hands resting on Its thighs, head bowed, pure white robes pooling around It.

  ‘What say you, brother of mine?’ asked Cotton of Spike, but Spike did not answer as he was sulking. His favourite plaything had gone missing.

  ‘Never fear,’ said Mr. Cotton, and the mask he wore smiled and wiggled its nose in mirth at the very idea that they should know fear (though of course it did not smile or twitch its nose as it was just a mask). ‘Person by person, town by town, country by country, we shall spread across this world and infect all with our beautiful terror. None shall escape. Sooner or later, Carlisle shall fall under your boot again.

  Mr. Spike made a wet sound that might have been joy, and clapped his hands, the dirty white gloves he wore creating a cloud of grey dust as they were struck together.

  Mr. Cotton raised a hand and toyed with one of the thousands of smoky tendrils that wormed their way from the Angel and through imperfections in the glass box. Imperfections the Angel had spent close to an eternity creating so that It could eventually escape Its bonds. Now Cotton and Spike were using them for their own ends, amplifying their natural gifts many times over.

  ‘Have I ever told you of the first person whose heart I caused to stop with blind terror, brother mine?’ asked Mr. Cotton. He had, but he enjoyed the telling, and Mr. Spike was always such a good listener.

  ‘There was a child, a miracle, born to a mother and a father who had long since accepted that they would not be gifted with such a thing. I watched the birth, watched the new parents weep tears of pure joy. At night, as they slept, I sang to the child and it wiggled its fat little legs in pleasure, her tiny heart, no larger than a plum, beating strong and firm.’

  Mr. Cotton clasped his hands behind his back and began to sway in time to his words, as though they were the dreamiest music imaginable.

  ‘Every night I watched the baby as it became aware of itself. Of the world around it. Of the two big things like itself that cared for it. Such pure, reciprocated love, brother of mine, oh, it did warm my innards. One night, I took a knife from the kitchen drawer and I introduced myself to the mother, her hair long and golden, her eyes a bright, bright blue. She did not want me in the house, but I explained to her that it was all fine, fine, fine. I used the knife upon her and then wore her face as my very first mask. I went to the child’s crib and lifted it by the neck. It weighed not much more than a bag of sugar. With the child in one hand, the knife in the other, and peering through the eyeholes of a face that was not my own, I waited for the father to arrive home from work. When he finally arrived, his eyes did open wider than any I had witnessed before or since.’

  Mr. Cotton’s feet tapped out a rhythm against the marble floor, and Mr. Spike clapped along, his breath eager against the inside of his hedgehog mask.

  ‘The father made sounds the likes of which I had never heard. He could only make sounds and not words. As he took in what greeted him that evening, words had been stolen from him. As I began to whittle away at the child, the father clutched his chest and crumpled to the floor like a marionette whose strings have been sliced.’

  Mr. Cotton stopped his dance and turned to his brother, bowing. ‘Now, is that not a story to be cherished, oh brother? There have been so many since, and soon there will be many, many more. But you must never forget where you came from.’

  Mr. Cotton held out a hand and Mr. Spike took it. ‘Come, there is no rest for the wicked.’

  And in less than a moment, the Angel was alone.

  14

  Despite Waterson’s insistence, Rita refused to share her experience of the dreamscape she’d been subjected to.

  ‘Hey, I told you what mine was about,’ complained Waterson.

  ‘Your mother being a bitch is hardly fresh information.’

  ‘Oi! She wasn’t being a bitch, they were making her. She never thought the things she was saying.’

  They walked to Big Pins in a heavy silence for almost another minute before Rita mumbled an apology.

  ‘As always, you are forgiven,’ replied Waterson.

  ‘Look, it was just something from my childhood. Something I dealt with at the time.’

  ‘Moorsgate?’

  Rita didn’t reply, which was all the confirmation Waterson needed.

  They entered the blind alley, Big Pins’ spluttering neon sign lighting the way home.

  ‘They really are sneaky little bastards, eh
?’ said Waterson as they stepped into the warmth of the bowling alley and headed for the bar.

  ‘Oh, the most bastardy of bastards, but don’t worry, we’ll be giving them a good boot to the bollocks soon enough.’

  ‘Right. How, exactly?’

  Rita frowned as she took a stool and waved Linton over. ‘Not sure on the specifics just yet, but it’ll come to me.’

  Waterson smiled and took the seat next to her.

  ‘Linton my man,’ said Rita, ‘a pint of something wet, if you please.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Linton replied with a grunt.

  ‘Who’s gone?’ replied Waterson.

  ‘The other one. The one who isn’t you and isn’t her.’

  ‘Ben?’ said Rita.

  ‘If you say so,’ Linton replied, pulling her a pint.

  ‘Shit,’ said Rita slamming her fist on the bar top. ‘Shit! I told him to stay put, I told him he wasn’t safe!’

  ‘Maybe your doggy needs more obedience training,’ replied Waterson, swallowing back a smirk as Rita glared at him.

  ‘This isn’t funny, he’s a wanted man. Wanted for murder, remember?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine. He’s not stupid, I don’t think. He’s probably just gone for a quick, well-disguised walk around the block. No doubt he’ll be walking back through that door safe and un-incarcerated at any moment.’

  Rita leaned past Waterson to look at the entrance, willing it to open. Her phone ringing made her jump and almost fall from the stool.

  ‘Ah, that’s probably him now. Maybe he has a new cat video for you.’

  Rita scowled at him as she answered, ‘Hello? .... Okay.’ She hung up.

  ‘Was it him?’

  ‘It was him.’

  ‘See, he’s fine.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s in jail.’

  Waterson nodded. ‘Fine-ish?’

  Rita swigged half of her pint in one, then headed for the door. ‘Ghost Boy, with me.’