The BIG Horror Pack 2

by Iain Rob Wright

  “You’re talking about Noah,” said Blake. “Wasn’t that God’s work?”

  “It was a god’s work, but not the God. Anyway, that is not your current burden,” he nodded to the picture book in Stevie’s lap. “And nor is that my own book you’re holding. It belongs to the Imam from the Mosque in town.”

  Stevie raised an eyebrow. “You borrowed it from an Imam?”

  “Yes, religion isn’t a game of football. It’s okay to fraternise with the other team. The Imam is a good man, who also believes there is more to existence than what is written in the Bible or Quran. He leant me that book from his own archives.”

  “What did you lend him in return?” asked Blake.

  “The complete DVD box set of Fawlty Towers. Now, let us focus on another book.” Thatcher placed the new book on the desk and turned it towards them, already opened. The dark eyes of a stern gentlemen stared up at them from a black and white photograph.

  “Who is it?” asked Blake, examining the middle-aged man with jet black hair and an ill-fitting suit to match.

  “The man who built your home, of course: Oscar Boruta, an Austrian immigrant who built the cottage in 1926.”

  “I had no idea it was that old,” said Blake.

  “The cottage you live in is not. The original burned down in 1938 and was rebuilt on the same foundations a few years later by Harold Killings, a carpenter.”

  Blake leant forward. “Yes, and he hung himself in the cottage and left it to his niece.”

  “Who also died,” added Thatcher.

  “Then you know?”

  “I know some things, yes. This picture frame you speak of, I know nothing of specifically.”

  Blake deflated. “Well, is it the house that’s cursed or the picture frame?”

  “From what I understand, Poe’s Place cottage was lived in happily for many years after the death of Miss Preston and only fell into disrepair ten years ago when it was repossessed by the bank to cover the last owner’s debts. It was eventually bought and renovated by a great mystery writer.”

  Blake flinched. “You know who I am?”

  “Of course. Who doesn’t know the wonderfully talented Blake Price? You’ve dropped off the radar a little recently, though. When is your next book out? I quite enjoyed the last.”

  “I don’t know. Can we just focus, please? What’s so important about this Oscar Boruta? I assumed the picture frame belonged to Harold Killings. He was a carpenter, after all.”

  Thatcher shrugged. “Perhaps, but I doubt it. Harold Killings made doors and beds, to my recollection, not picture frames and knick knacks. Oscar Boruta is a far more likely culprit. Boruta brought Pagan beliefs to Redlake and many wisely feared him. He ate raw meat and would often go after women like a lust-crazed beast. His body odour was, by all accounts, most foul.

  “Nobody knew where all of the man’s money came from, but Boruta would often sell trinkets from a rickety old cart in the centre of town. Despite people’s distrust of the man, his trinkets were beautiful and often very cheap. These were hard, war-torn times, you understand, and people would get a bargain wherever they could. Boruta’s trinkets were all carved from wood and shared a common design.” Thatcher turned the page of the book, and once Blake saw what was inside, he recoiled.

  “That’s it!” he said. “That design with the flowers and the flames. It’s the exact same as the carvings on the picture frame.”

  Thatcher smiled. He then finally removed the picture frame from the sackcloth. Sure enough, the flames and flowers were the exact same as in the book. “I thought that might be the case. I just wanted to take an educated guess first, so that you would trust me all the more. Speaking of matters such as these with a stranger is not easy, I know.”

  Blake was still staring at the design in the book and hardly listening. “What is this book? How do you have it?”

  “It is an heirloom,” said Thatcher, “passed down through generations, though not necessarily via family. It was given to me by a very old man in 1988, a reporter named Andrew Robert Hartley. It was given to his father by one of the last remaining monks at the abbey before it was decommissioned and eventually turned into a museum. There are men and women protecting this town, gentlemen. I am proud to be one of them.”

  “What does the pattern mean?” asked Blake. “The flowers, the flames?”

  “It represents scorched earth,” said Thatcher. “The flowers represent life, the flames represent destruction. This same design was carved on every single trinket that Boruta sold to the people of Redlake. He worshipped destruction and that is exactly what he sold to the innocent people of this town.”

  Stevie shifted in his seat. “How?”

  “The trinkets he sold were all cursed, or so my precursor, Mr Heartily, explains in his accounting of it in this book. He was a man of thirty in those days, but the book before you was passed on by his father, who’d raised Andrew to believe in the unnatural. By day, A.R. Hartley was a sceptical news reporter, but by night he was a demonologist and theologian. He believed that Boruta was an agent of the lesser gods.”

  Blake was beginning to feel silly again, but he fought to play along. “So these trinkets, how do you know they were cursed?”

  “All who possessed them came to ill end. The local butcher purchased a mop bucket from Boruta and slipped on soapy water the very next day, breaking his neck. The local headmistress bought a stepladder that sent her tumbling onto a lit stove as she sought to change a light bulb in her kitchen. There are dozens of such accounts of people meeting their ends soon after purchasing something from Boruta.”

  “So what happened?” asked Stevie, perched on the edge of his seat.

  “In 1928, the townspeople, led by Andrew Robert Hartley, came together and decided that Boruta was evil, a warlock or demon. They descended upon the man’s home, Poe’s Place, and ransacked it. They found no workshop there, where the man might have created his wares, but they did find the trinkets themselves. They set fire to all of them, and to the cottage itself. Then they found Boruta outside in the field. The man did not run when he saw the baying crowd coming towards him, nor did he fight with the shovel he was holding at the time. As the people of Redlake beat Oscar Boruta to death on his own land, he simply smiled. So they smashed his teeth out with rocks before caving in his skull and burning his body outside his home. Reports say Boruta spoke only a single word during the entire affair. Eligos.”

  Blake frowned. “Eligos?”

  “Eligos is one of the lesser gods. One who seeks to break down God’s barriers and destroy mankind. He is a tarnished knight, dedicated to the triumph of evil over good. As I said, Andrew Robert Hartley suspected Boruta was an agent of evil, a corrupter; either a man turned wicked or something else from the realm of Heaven itself.”

  Stevie frowned. “Heaven? I thought it was a good place.”

  “Heaven is a place like any other. It has many inhabitants both good and bad, regions and nations, each with their own leaders and agendas. Whether heavenly or not, Boruta was intent on bringing the town of Redlake to its knees, and he almost succeeded. However, the people of this town know about the things that go bump in the night. They tell their children bedtime stories with just a little bit more flourish than everywhere else. Redlake is one of the battlegrounds where the existence of this Earth will be fought. You made the unfortunate error of moving here.”

  Blake had heard enough. One minute he was completely enamoured by Thatcher’s words, the next he felt like a fool. The grander the man’s proselytising the more unbelievable it was. “Okay, I have to get home. The picture frame is evil, I get it. Unless you have some way of helping me, this is getting us nowhere. I need to be at home with my family.”

  “I don’t know that I can help you, Mr Price. I’m sorry. You have placed a photograph of your beautiful family inside and one member is already dead, correct? I’m also assuming that you cannot remove the photograph or destroy the frame?”

  Blake nodded. “That’s
right.”

  “The same was true of Boruta’s other trinkets. No one who purchased one lived long enough to see their next birthday. Your family is in peril, but I don’t know a sure way to help you. I fear you are doomed.”

  Blake lost his balance for a moment, but Stevie caught him and turned a wicked glance towards Thatcher. “That’s bullshit. What’s the point of devoting your life to this crap if you can’t do anything to help people?”

  “I will help as I can. I will keep the picture frame here and ensure it does no further damage.”

  Stevie huffed. “But in the meantime, my brother will just have to die? Screw that!” He lunged forward and shoved the picture frame back into the sackcloth, before scooping the whole bundle up into his arms. “We’re taking this back with us and we’ll find a way to destroy it ourselves. Then I’m going to come back and make you eat the bloody thing.”

  Thatcher nodded. “I will prepare my appetite.”

  19

  Stevie was chewing on the side of his cheek and shaking his head. He was obviously furious, but Blake only felt numb. All his hopes had been on Thatcher knowing a way to help him, or at the very least having him dismiss the notion of a curse. Instead, Thatcher had confirmed Blake’s fears and then made them even worse. There was no help, no way to destroy Boruta’s frame.

  “Thatcher’s insane,” said Stevie. “I mean, all that talk about this town being a battleground for the end of the world… There’s a Nandos over there on the corner. Are we really supposed to believe that the staging ground for the apocalypse will take place in a town with a Nandos? Insanity!”

  Blake shook his head and sighed. “I didn’t believe any of that either, but I did believe what he said about the picture frame. The thing is cursed. We’ve tried to destroy it, we’ve tried to remove the photograph. My family’s cursed, Stevie, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “I won’t accept that. Screw that.”

  “Stevie…”

  “No, I’m not going to start believing in curses any more than I’m going to believe in the Beast of Bodmin or UFOs. It’s all bullshit.”

  Blake looked at his brother and didn’t know what to say.

  Stevie breathed deeply, trying to calm down. “Look, it’ll be okay, we’ll figure this out. All that’s actually happened is that your dog got run over and Val died of a heart attack. Well, newsflash: dogs get run over and old ladies die of heart attacks. This is simple paranoia, and I’m sorry I got involved in making it worse.”

  Blake patted his brother on the arm. “Come on,” he said. “We should grab dinner from the Chinese and get home. Liz and Ricky will be starving.”

  Stevie frowned at him. “Seriously?”

  “We’ve still got to eat.”

  They headed back towards the car and placed an order with the appreciative staff of the Chinese restaurant. They ordered a coke from the bar while they waited, then took a seat on the bench beside the window. Blake was silent, trying to digest what he’d learnt from the eccentric museum owner. Thatcher was unhinged, certainly, but he’d also provided evidence to support his madness in the way of books and documents. Just because Thatcher was crazy, didn’t mean that he was wrong.

  Blake watched a van drive past as he sipped his coke, and wondered if it was the one that’d struck Bailey. There’d be no way of knowing.

  He took a careful sip from his drink. If he’d been paying more attention, he may have taken a larger gulp. It was a good thing he didn’t. He lurched forward. Blood spluttered from his mouth and stained the carpet.

  Stevie leapt up. “Blake!”

  Blake put a hand up to say everything was okay—although he wasn’t entirely sure that it was. He reached into his mouth and plucked out a jagged piece of glass. It’d sliced the side of his mouth, but thank God he hadn’t swallowed it. He held the shard in front of him and examined it while spitting out more blood.

  The owner of the restaurant came rushing over and saw what Blake held in his hand. “Oh no, I am sorry.” He hurried to get a rag from the bar and handed it to Blake. “I’m very sorry. Please, food is ready. No charge. Oh no. Oh no oh no.”

  Another time and Blake might have been fuming at such deadly negligence, but he suspected this wasn’t the restaurant owner’s fault. “There was part of a broken bulb in my drink,” Blake informed him. “Do you know how it got there?”

  The owner chewed at his nails erratically before saying, “Light blow above bar ten minute ago. Light blow.”

  Blake wiped his bloody lips with his sleeve and then patted the owner on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault, okay?” The real culprit was a man long dead, Oscar Boruta.

  The restaurant owner had gone completely white and handed over their food with a pained grin. “I am very sorry, sir.” He said it over and over again, seeming to find it impossible that Blake wasn’t screaming about a lawsuit.

  Stevie took the food and the two of them returned to the car. Once they were inside, Blake turned to his brother. “Still think it’s bullshit? If I’d swallowed that glass I would have choked on my own blood.”

  “But you didn’t. It was an almost accident, so how does that count?”

  Blake started the engine. “I don’t know. Maybe the picture frame can manipulate events to try and kill me, but can’t guarantee it. Maybe it’ll keep trying until it succeeds.”

  “Let it try,” said Stevie. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  “Where were you with the glass in my drink, then?”

  “I wasn’t expecting anything then, but if you won’t relax, I’m going to have to humour you. I’ll watch your back if it makes you feel safer.”

  “It doesn’t,” said Blake, “but I appreciate it anyway.”

  They headed back home in silence, Blake concentrating hard on the road, expecting a fox to fly out in front of him at every bend. At one point, a mini cooper seemed to veer towards Blake’s Citroen, but it corrected itself at the last second. Blake wondered if the curse had made the driver lose focus for a moment. Another failed attempt, or another coincidence? Suddenly it felt like danger lurked everywhere.

  Stevie cleared his throat. “When we get back, we should go back on the Internet. We can look up this Boruta guy. At least Thatcher gave us a couple of leads to follow. Maybe we’ll find the answer ourselves.”

  Blake agreed. “Don’t see any harm in looking. Better than sitting around waiting for the ceiling to come down.”

  “So, there’s really no doubt in your mind that you’re cursed?”

  Blake reached the B-road and brought down his speed, ready to turn into the driveway coming up. “I want to do an experiment. Depending on the outcome, I’ll make my final decision as to what I believe. As of right now, I’m almost certain that digging up that old picture frame was the worst thing that ever happened to my family.”

  Blake pulled onto the driveway and stopped a few feet shorter than he usually would. He pulled on the handbrake and put the car in neutral. Then he nodded to the sackcloth in his brother’s lap. “Place it under the front tyre.”

  “You’re going to roll over it?”

  “Yes.”

  Stevie got out and disappeared for a moment as he knelt in front of the bonnet. Then he stood out of the way and gave Blake a thumbs up.

  Blake shifted into first and released the handbrake. The car rolled forwards. Blake felt the frame go under the front left wheel, but there was no cracking or tinkling of glass. He let the car continue rolling forward until he felt the back wheel travel over the frame as well. Then he pulled up the handbrake and turned off the engine.

  Stevie was already hurrying to pick up the sackcloth, seemingly excited about what they would find. Blake joined him beneath the light of the cottage’s security lamp.

  “You ready?” asked Stevie.

  “Just get it out and show me.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Stevie reached into the sackcloth and grabbed the frame, then, like a magician a
bout to reveal a trick, he slid the frame out.

  It was unbroken and without a scratch.

  “Half-a-ton rolling over it, and nothing,” said Blake. “The thing is made of wood and glass.”

  Stevie’s neck bulged like he was going to be sick. “Okay, okay, maybe I’m not just humouring you anymore. We’re really in the shit here, aren’t we, big bro?”

  “No,” said Blake. “Just me, Liz, and Ricky. You’re not in danger.”

  “Dad?”

  Blake and Stevie turned around to see Ricky limping towards them. His leg was still bandaged, the cloth grubby and wet.

  “Ricky? What are you doing out here in your pyjamas?”

  “It’s Mum,” he said. “She’s not very well. I think she needs a doctor.”

  Blake picked his shivering son up in his arms and headed into the house. “Where is she?”

  “In the lounge.”

  Blake hurried towards the lounge, and when he stepped inside he once again heard the familiar buzzing.

  Blake put Ricky down and shoved him back towards Stevie. He swatted at the flies irritably, but his focus was on Liz. She was lying on the sofa in front of the crackling fireplace. Her breathing was laboured and her eyes were tightly closed. A sheen of sweat coated her forehead and she’d gone the colour of unripe olives, pale green. Despite the fire burning only five-feet away, she was ice cold when he touched her. Flies buzzed everywhere, settling on her skin. Blake cleared them as best he could. “Liz? Liz, wake up.”

  Nothing. She was so deeply unconscious that she could be mistaken for comatose. Perhaps she was. Blake asked Stevie for his phone. Stevie handed it over immediately and Blake dialled 999.

  “Emergency. Which service?”

  “Ambulance. I need an ambulance.”

  There was a click followed by another operator speaking. “Ambulance Service. What is your emergency?”

  “My wife is sick. She’s really sick. She won’t wake up and she’s pale. I need an ambulance.”