The BIG Horror Pack 2

by Iain Rob Wright

  “I’m fine. How’s Mum?”

  “She’s still resting. Wasn’t feeling very well last night.”

  “She was drunk.”

  Blake didn’t have anything to say to that. Ricky was apparently old enough to know that his mother had been more than just ill. “Did you get the picture frame out of the rubbish?” he decided to ask. The mystery was still bugging him.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m talking about your picture frame we dug up. I threw it in the rubbish.”

  Ricky kept his eyes glued to the television. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t like it.”

  “Okay.” Ricky shrugged.

  “Ricky, will you pause your game and look at me for a moment, please?”

  Ricky huffed, but did as he was told.

  “I thought you liked the picture frame. Don’t you mind that I tried to throw it away?”

  “I guess. It’s just a picture frame, though. Bailey and Grandma are dead, we don’t have a kitchen anymore, and Mum is sad. I don’t care about the stupid frame.”

  “That’s pretty grown up. So you don’t mind if I get rid of it?”

  “No.”

  Blake ruffled his son’s hair. “Okay, then. Let me know when you’re hungry and I’ll…well, I guess I’ll have to go out and get something. Just not pizza, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  Blake was just about to leave when Ricky spoke again. “Dad?”

  “Yes, son?”

  “Is Uncle Steven going to stay for a bit longer?”

  “Do you want him to?”

  “I think so. He’s family, right?”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “Then I want to get to know him.”

  “Okay. I’ll be up with a fresh bandage.” Blake closed the door quietly and went to check on Liz. He was surprised to find her awake and sitting at her vanity table. She was naked.

  “Liz? Are you okay?” He approached her cautiously from behind.

  She didn’t reply. She picked up a brush and started untangling her hair, pulling aggressively at her knots. Blake noticed again how thin she was. Her spine showed through her back.

  Blake tried to clear the air. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for a lot of things. I’m sorry I whisked us away to this cottage in the middle of nowhere. I’m sorry…for what I let happen to us…what I let happen to you. You’ve been alone and that’s my fault. I’m not sure there’s even time to make it up to you, but I’d like to start trying. I love you Liz. I’ve never not loved you.”

  Liz didn’t reply. She continued yanking at her hair.

  “Liz? Liz, will you say something, please?”

  Blake placed a hand on Liz’s shoulder. She was freezing. “God, Liz, you’re going to catch your death.” He stepped around in front of her. Her eyelids were closed, flickering like she was in a dream.

  “Liz…?”

  She continued sitting there, brushing her hair. Liz had never been a sleepwalker, but he was pretty sure that that was what she was doing now. The stress of the last two days, mixed with pills and alcohol, had obviously left her fitful and disturbed.

  Blake placed both hands on his wife and gently shook her. “Liz. Liz, wake up. You’re sleepwalking.”

  Liz’s eyes snapped open. She looked terrified. She began to squirm, to struggle against Blake’s grasp, but he held her firm. “Liz, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  She blinked and managed to focus on him. “B-Blake? What’s going on?”

  He kept eye-contact with her. “You’ve been sleepwalking. At least, I think you have. You’ve been sitting here fast asleep, brushing your hair.”

  She looked at him like he was insane, but she didn’t argue. “Really?”

  “Yes, are you okay?”

  She shook her head. “There was a fire.”

  “You remember? It’s all fine. The damage was contained to the kitchen.”

  “How did…?”

  “The pizza boxes were on the oven. You fell asleep.”

  Liz shook her head adamantly. “I...never.”

  Blake clenched his fists and felt his stomach knot. “Liz, we need to have a long conversation about a lot of things, but you need to take some responsibility here. You passed out drunk while our son was upstairs. The fire happened on your watch.”

  Liz stood and pushed him away. She seemed unaware she was naked because she placed her hands on her hips angrily. “I did not pass out. I had a nap, that’s all.”

  “A nap that nobody on Earth could wake you from. The pills might have had something to do with that.”

  Liz took a breath and ground her teeth. “There’s no way.”

  “I’m not your enemy here, Liz. I have a lot to answer for too, I know that, but I’ve never been your enemy. You’re in pain, I get it. You’ve been abandoned by your husband and pulled away from your life after something dreadful happened, and now your mother has died. I get it, but you’re drinking way too much and last night you endangered our son. That’s on you.”

  “I did no such thing. That’s just your opinion and it’s wrong.”

  “Perhaps, but why don’t you go talk to Ricky, because one of the first things he asked me this morning was if you were okay. He knew you were drunk. He saw you passed out, Liz. You may not respect my opinion anymore—hell, I don’t blame you—but take a moment to think about Ricky, because right now we’re both letting him down.

  Liz pointed her finger at Blake and went to say something, but nothing came out. She put her finger against her trembling lower lip instead. And then her nose began to bleed. She wiped the trickle with the back of her hand and then looked at the red streak it left behind.

  Blake shook his head. He moved up close and cupped his wife’s cheek. “Look at you, Liz. You’re falling apart, physically and emotionally. I love you, and when you’re ready, I want to talk about our marriage. I want to be a better husband, but I can’t do that until you let me.”

  Before he left, Blake had one more thing to address. “Liz, I’m sorry for asking this, but did you get Ricky’s picture frame out of the bin? Just nod if you did.”

  She didn’t nod. She shook her head.

  “Okay, I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready” He left Liz alone in the bedroom and headed downstairs. He found Stevie in the family room. He was sitting on one of the recliners with the picture frame lying across his lap. In his other hand he held a partially blackened, slightly melted aluminium meat tenderiser. “Found it in the kitchen,” he said when Blake walked in. “Thought we could make sure the frame goes away for good this time. Did you find out who got it out of the bin?”

  Blake shook his head. “According to Ricky and Liz, neither of them.”

  Stevie looked down at the picture frame and pulled a face. “I’m not sure I want this thing on me anymore.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Blake. “We’re going to take it outside right now and smash it to pieces.”

  Stevie stood with the tenderiser in one hand and the picture frame in the other. “You don’t really believe this thing put itself back on the table, do you?”

  “No, I think Liz did it and has forgotten. She wasn’t exactly in her right mind last night.”

  “No shit, but go easy on her, man. You can’t get through to a drunk with blame. It’s guilt that got them there in the first place.”

  Blake frowned. “What does she have to feel guilty about?”

  “She probably feels like she ruined everything by letting Richard Heinz into the house, and not being able to stop him from hurting her. If she’d fought him off, the two of you might not have drifted apart. She probably feels like a victim; and victims blame themselves, trust me.”

  “I want you to stick around, Stevie. I don’t think I can sort this out without you.”

  Stevie smiled. He patted his brother on the arm. “You can and you will. I’ll stay for a while, but this is your life, big bro. Only you can sort it out.”

  They left the house and h
eaded for the field round back. “Shall we do it here?” Stevie pointed to a patch of flattened grass. There’d been a bouncy castle there the summer before. Blake considered how sad it was that Ricky had bounced on it alone all summer.

  Blake shrugged. “I don’t care where we do it. Let’s just get it over with.”

  Stevie threw the frame down hard on the mud. Once again, the glass remained intact, the smudge still across Val’s smiling face. Stevie offered the meat tenderiser to Blake and he took it. He got down on his knees and raised the makeshift hammer over his shoulder.

  “Should we say anything first?” asked Stevie.

  Blake frowned. “Like what?”

  “I dunno, the Last Rites or something. Whatever exorcists say.”

  “How about good riddance?”

  “Okay. Good riddance…weird evil picture frame thingy.”

  Blake swung and landed a blow perfectly on the glass.

  The meat tenderiser rebounded back up at him.

  He just managed to flinch away in time to avoid cracking his own skull open. He caught a glancing blow that opened up a slit above his left eyebrow.

  The picture frame remained intact.

  “Shit!” Stevie reached out to his brother. “You okay, man?”

  Blake waved a hand. “I’m fine.” He swung the tenderiser again. It rebounded off the glass without leaving so much as a scratch.

  Blood dripped from Blake’s eyebrow, spilling over his smiling face in the photograph. It felt like a warning. He dropped the tenderiser onto the mud and glanced up at his brother, blinking through the steady stream of blood. “I don’t think we’re being paranoid anymore. This thing is unnatural.”

  Stevie nodded, eyes wide and unblinking. “This is real, isn’t it? I mean, this thing is evil…or cursed…or, I dunno. Are we crazy?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “We need help.”

  Blake shook his head in desperation. “From where?”

  Stevie shrugged. “Google?”

  16

  “What should I search for?” asked Blake as they sat in front of the iMac in his office. After heading upstairs to give Ricky a new bandage, he and Stevie had decided to do a little research.

  “Just type in ‘evil picture frame.’”

  Blake rolled his eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m bloody serious. Just type it in.”

  Blake typed and then hit ‘enter’. “I can’t believe I just searched that,” he muttered.

  Stevie shushed him. “Look, there are loads of results.”

  His brother was right, there were thousands of hits, but Blake was disappointed a moment later when he saw most of them were website listings trying to sell stuff. Most of the links were flogging ordinary, mass-produced picture frames.

  Stevie tutted. “None of that looks any good. We need to try something else.”

  Blake thought for a moment, trying to grasp for something useful. He’d spent countless hours in this office researching criminals and police work, but he never thought he’d be looking for the type of answers he was now. “Ricky found the picture frame buried in the field. Maybe it was put there by the previous owner.”

  “Can you get the deeds up?” asked Stevie.

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  Blake typed in Poe’s Place, along with the address, and was pleased to find the very first listing concerned his house. The hit read: Poe’s Place, Redlake. Furniture maker found…”

  Blake clicked the link and waited for the page to load.

  Stevie folded his arms. “What are you, on dial up?”

  “Welcome to the countryside. We don’t do anything fast.”

  “Except ejaculate,” muttered Stevie.

  Blake found himself chuckling, but was quieted by the page that appeared onscreen. It was a scan of an old newspaper article.

  REDLAKE ECHO.

  LOCAL FURNITURE MAKER HANGS SELF IN HOME.

  Well-known local furniture maker, Harold Killings (63), was found dead Sunday morning by his niece, Sarah Preston (26). He was found hanged from a light fixture in his parlour, where it is thought he committed suicide. It is currently unknown what motivated Mr Killings to take his own life, but he will be missed by the local community of Redlake, where he owned a small workshop. Daniel Cooper, a baker from the shop next door, described Killings as ‘a quiet yet likable fellow.’

  Mr Killings was unmarried and mostly kept to himself. His only surviving relative is the niece who found him, daughter of deceased sister, Gladys Preston. It is unclear at this point who will receive control of Mr Killing’s modest estate, as a will is yet to found, but if one fails to materialise, it is likely that Poe’s Place cottage, the home of the deceased, will go to his niece.

  March 18th, 1955

  “A man died in my home,” said Blake.

  Stevie sighed. “You probably should’ve looked that up before you moved in.”

  Blake sighed also. “As much as it creeps me out, it doesn’t really tell us anything.”

  “It’s a start, though. Look up the niece…Sarah Preston.”

  REDLAKE ECHO.

  INHERITOR OF DEAD MAN’S PROPERTY DROWNS WITHIN WEEKS OF MOVING IN.

  Sarah Preston (26), niece of recent suicide victim Harold Killings (63), has been found drowned in the bathtub of her new home after what appears to be a freak accident. Contusions found on the back of Miss Preston’s head suggest a slip in the tub, leading to her striking her head and slipping beneath the water. Her home, Poe’s Place cottage, was built with full indoor plumbing, allowing occupants to enjoy a hot bath any time. Unfortunately, that luxury turned deadly when the unmarried Miss Preston fell unconscious while bathing. It is unknown what will become of the rural cottage now that it has claimed the life of two family members in less than a year, but it may end up on the open market. The question is, who would want to live there?

  November 28th, 1955

  “Great, that’s two people who’ve died in my home. I’m not sure I want to look any further. Maybe next I’ll find out about a cult that met here and sacrificed babies.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” said Stevie. “It could just be a bad coincidence.”

  “You mean like what’s been happening to my family lately? I don’t think I believe in coincidences anymore.”

  Stevie nodded. “Good point. Maybe it’s the house that’s cursed.”

  “We’ve lived here for three years and been fine. It wasn’t until Ricky dug up the picture frame that our luck changed.”

  “Maybe you should look up the reporter.”

  Blake sniffed. “Good idea.” He identified the author of the piece as being A.R. Hartley. He entered the name into the search engine along with ‘Redlake Echo.’

  They waited for a moment, then Blake flopped back in his chair and grunted. “He died.”

  Stevie leant forward and read the information. “Twenty years ago.”

  Blake went to X off the screen, dejected and annoyed, but Stevie stopped him. “Hang on a minute.”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s another article by A.R. Hartley. It’s dated 1991.”

  “Must’ve been one of the last stories he wrote before he died. That’s why it’s at the top; it’s the most recent.”

  Stevie waved his hand. “Yeah, forget all that. Look at the headline.”

  Blake read it aloud. “Reverend Thatcher opens Redlake museum dedicated to town’s bleak and colourful history.”

  Stevie patted his brother on the back. “That’s our man, I’m telling you.”

  “Yeah,” said Blake. “He just might be.”

  17

  “Should we call first?” asked Stevie. “It’s getting late.”

  Blake shook his head. “The website said the museum’s open ‘till eight. We’ll get a better measure of the man if we turn up unexpected. If we call ahead, he might do some research and try to pass himself off as more of an expert than he is.”

  “Cynic
.”

  “I write murder mysteries for a living, I have to see the world that way.”

  “Or maybe you write murder mysteries because you already see the world that way.”

  “I’m not in the mood to be psychoanalysed.”

  Stevie shrugged. “Our hour’s up, anyway.”

  Blake grabbed his coat from the entrance hall and checked the pocket for the sackcloth. Once he found it, he slid the picture frame back inside with the bones. He shoved the entire bundle into his brother’s arms and then put on his coat. “Meet me by the car,” he said. “I’m going to check on Ricky and Liz.”

  “There’s no need,” said Liz. “We’re both fine.”

  Blake found Liz coming down the stairs. She’d freshened up, washed her hair, and even made an effort to leave it down. All in all, she looked a whole lot better.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  Blake was about to explain but then realised he would sound mad, so he lied. “Stevie and I are going to get some food. We can’t exactly cook anything here.”

  Liz sighed. “No, right, of course. Can we have a chat first, though?”

  Blake cleared his throat. When he saw Stevie nod to him that things could wait, he said, “Okay, shall we go sit in the living room?”

  Liz nodded and they headed down the hallway. The open fireplace mocked him with irony. There were two natural fires in Poe’s Place—one in the living room and one in the master bedroom—but it was the modern, recently installed oven that had caught fire.

  “Our marriage is finished,” said Liz, just like that. Blake felt like throwing up, but then she continued. “But I want to start a new one. You’re right about my drinking. I knew I had a problem, but I didn’t really care. I felt so alone, so abandoned. I wanted to drink because it made me feel better. I’m sure you, of all people, understand that.”

  “I do. I understand completely.”

  “Good,” she said. “I was raped, Blake.”