The BIG Horror Pack 2

by Iain Rob Wright

  Blake lit the candles then sat beside Liz. He picked up a bottle of water he’d ordered from the Chinese and managed to get her to take a few sips. She murmured weakly but never opened her eyes. There was a bloody crust beneath each nostril. Eventually, Blake couldn’t bear looking at her and rejoined his brother on the floor.

  “Power-cut really did a number on your laptop,” said Stevie. “Hope there was nothing important on there.”

  “It’s all backed up. Besides, I think it’s only the screen that’s broken.”

  “We finally find a website with some solid advice and the power goes off. Wow.”

  “We both know luck has nothing to do with it.”

  “So we just sit here and wait?” asked Stevie.

  “At least until morning. Maybe then we can try to get help. Maybe the foxes will be gone during the day.”

  “What’s the deal with them, anyway? You said there were two dozen that attacked you?”

  “At least. They must’ve come from miles around.”

  Stevie scratched at the scruffy stubble on his chin. “That weird dedication site said something about Boruta being the master of wood and beast. Maybe his spirit, or whatever, is leading them here.”

  “But why and how? The man is dead. How could he be doing anything like that?”

  Stevie shrugged. “Maybe the photo frame is tied to him. Thatcher said they found Boruta with a shovel in his hand. You dug the picture frame up. He must’ve buried it the day he died.”

  “He knew they were coming,” said Blake.

  “Yeah, so maybe he worked some freaky-deaky on the frame. Maybe it’s a way for him to return. Maybe once the curse does its work, it’ll bring him back.”

  Blake saw a flaw. “The first picture we put in it was of Bailey and she died. Isn’t that job done?”

  “Bailey was a dog. Maybe only people count.”

  Blake shook his head. “We’re straying into crazy territory again here and I can’t operate there. All I know is that this picture frame is evil and we need to find a way to destroy it, or get my family’s photograph out.”

  Stevie raised an eyebrow and gave Blake a lopsided grin. “Maybe we can swap it for another one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Amy the Maid said we have to play by the curse’s own rules. It wants to kill somebody, but maybe it doesn’t care who.”

  “So we should try to put a different picture in? Of whom?”

  “I have an idea.” Stevie’s eyes were watery and heavy bags yanked his lids to show the blood vessels in his whites. Blake understood then how much his brother was suffering. He really did love Cindi, and he really had got sober.

  Stevie pulled out his wallet and held it over the laptop. He removed the picture of the suited gentleman and the posh car Blake had spotted yesterday. “Took it on my phone the day before I came here,” he said. “My first inclination was to visit the old dive I used to drink at and ask a favour from a few of my more unsavoury former drinking associates—the photograph was so they would get the right guy. I decided against it in the end, but not completely, which is why I kept the photograph.”

  Blake spoke in a soft whisper that he hoped convey the love he felt for his brother. “Violence won’t solve the problem. If your marriage is broken, it would’ve just been some other guy, if not him.”

  Stevie nodded. “Maybe—but a decent guy would’ve said no to a married woman, wouldn’t he? Like I said, this guy is a douchebag, and I’d rather see him die than my big brother or my nephew.” Stevie grabbed the picture frame out of the sackcloth and started forcing the photograph of his wife’s lover against the top edge where the glass met the wood. After a moment he started to grind his teeth with frustration. He had a tear in his eye, and when he looked at Blake he seemed deflated. “Sorry, man. I really thought it would—”

  “It’s for the best,” said Blake. “We can’t pass the curse on to someone else. It’s wrong.”

  There was a tearing sound and Stevie flinched back against the wall, dropping the picture frame onto his lap. The photograph of his wife’s lover was missing from his hand and he looked around for it. Blake quickly spotted it.

  Stevie picked the frame up of his lap. As he did so, something fluttered out from the bottom. It was part of Blake’s family photograph, a piece torn away and released from the frame. Blake picked it up and saw that it was the part of the photograph that featured Ricky. His son was no longer inside the picture frame. Instead, nestled between Liz and Val, was Cindi’s lover. The new picture had folded at the edges so that it didn’t cover anymore of the original photograph than just Ricky. It now looked like a family snapshot of Blake, Liz, a stranger, and Val.

  Stevie looked at Blake with a conflicted grin on his face. “I think we just saved Ricky.”

  Blake nodded. Inside he almost melted with relief, but he couldn’t help thinking, but at what price?

  22

  Blake woke with the dawn. It was still raining heavily but the moonlight had been usurped by the sun and the droplets on the window now sparkled all the colours of the rainbow. It wasn’t the dawn that woke Blake, however, but an electronic chirping.

  Stevie stirred next to him, then shot up into a sitting position. He patted himself down as the electronic chirping continued. He managed to locate his phone in his jean pocket. When he looked at it his eyes went wide.

  He tapped at the screen before placing the handset to his ear. “Cindi? Are you okay? I’m glad to hear—

  “What? No, I…

  “That isn’t…I…

  “Cindi, I don’t know anything about that. I don’t, I swear. I’m sorry. Look, don’t do anything stupid. I’m coming home. No, I don’t care. It’s my home too and I’m coming to see you. Cindi? Cindi, are you there?” Stevie pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it like it was going to explode.

  Blake nudged him. “What’s happened?”

  Stevie looked around in a daze until he indicated that he would like to leave the room to talk in private. Blake got up and straightened his legs, wincing as his knees cracked, then followed his brother into the hallway where they spoke in hushed whispers. It was clear that Stevie was frantic about something.

  “He’s dead. He’s fucking dead.”

  Blake folded his arms and felt himself shiver against the cold. “Who is?”

  “The hell you think? The guy that Cindi was seeing. His name was David, and he’s dead.”

  Blake suddenly remembered what they’d done last night. They’d replaced the image of Ricky with a photograph Stevie had taken of his wife’s lover. “No…it can’t be.”

  “Of course it can! This is exactly what we expected. He’s dead because of me.”

  “I thought that was what you wanted.”

  “Are you kidding me? I was upset and angry. I didn’t want to kill the guy. I didn’t even expect it to work. I was just…I don’t know. I was just hurting, you know, didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “Seemed like you did to me.”

  Stevie gritted his teeth, but said nothing.

  Blake was unsure how he felt about it. Had they really killed a man? Was the consequence that Ricky was safe? If it was, Blake couldn’t help feeling relieved.

  “I need to leave,” said Stevie.

  “What about us?” asked Blake, knowing it was selfish, but too worried to act otherwise. “We haven’t destroyed the picture frame yet.”

  Stevie shook his head. “I showed you how to save your family. You just have to become a murderer like me.”

  “You’re not a murderer.”

  “Really? David was stabbed to death in a multi-storey car park before the attacker drove away in his car. Cindi was with him when it happened. They’d been out to dinner. She just called me, certain I had something to do with it. She thinks I got my old friends at the bar to murder him, just like I’d originally planned to. Damn, maybe I did and I’ve lost my mind and forgotten about it.”

  “You’re not crazy,” sai
d Blake. “Neither of us are.”

  “I don’t know, Blake. I feel pretty crazy. Cindi sounded off her head—on drink, on drugs, I don’t know. I need to go home. I need to make her understand and make sure she’s okay.”

  “You’re going to tell her about the picture frame?”

  “Yes. I need her to understand that I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t really want to kill David. She needs to know how much I still love her.”

  If Stevie told his wife about the picture frame, she’d have him committed, if not arrested for admitting that he had something to do with the murder, supernatural or otherwise. Part of Blake couldn’t believe Stevie was running back to the woman who’d cheated on him and was currently grieving for the man she’d done it with, but when he thought about how much he loved Liz, he understood. “Okay,” he said. “You should go, but if those foxes are still out there…”

  “Let them come. I’m walking down this driveway and not even God himself, the supreme lord of whatever screwed up Heaven is up there, will stop me.”

  Stevie shoved past Blake so hard that Blake wondered if his brother was mad at him. He’d dragged Stevie into his problems when he’d obviously had enough of his own. Blake just hoped all of this didn’t drive Stevie back to the false friendship of booze.

  Or to a jail cell.

  Blake followed his brother through the house until they were standing at the front door. Stevie had his mobile phone in his hand and was frowning at it. “Still no signal,” he said. “I don’t get it. How did Cindi get through to me?”

  Blake shrugged. He had no answer.

  The driveway outside seemed clear, with only the wounded Citroen in view. The rain fell like gunfire on the gravel, exploding like tiny mortar shells as it hit the ground. The sky was dark, but the sun was fighting its way through the clouds valiantly. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

  “Looks safe out there,” said Blake. “Aside from the weather.”

  “Yep.” Stevie spoke in a flat, emotionless voice as he put on his coat. “You going to be okay here on your own, Blake?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “I got family of my own, you know? I have to go.”

  Blake hated to see his brother leave, but he understood. Maybe they were responsible for killing a man. Did that make them as evil as Boruta? “Just do what you got to do,” said Blake, “but please send help.”

  Stevie nodded. “You can count on it.”

  Blake disarmed the alarm and unlocked the front door. He remained standing on the doorstep whilst his brother stepped into the rain. Stevie made it ten feet before the snarling foxes appeared from the bushes.

  Blake waved his arms. “Quick! Get back in the house.”

  Stevie turned around, already soaked through and wet hair spilling into his eyes. “I can’t,” he said. “Cindi needs me every bit as much as Liz needs you.”

  Blake had no reply, so he just nodded.

  The foxes emerged from the bushes and padded onto the waterlogged driveway. They snarled at Stevie but made no attempt to attack him. He headed towards the road, taking each step tentatively.

  The foxes remained where they were.

  Stevie glanced back at Blake but kept on walking. Blake wanted his brother to return, but was afraid to shout out and say so, lest he startle the foxes into attacking.

  Stevie took several more steps. The foxes took a couple of cautious steps in his direction, their eyes boring into him, but they kept their distance.

  Blake held his breath.

  Stevie disappeared around the front of the cottage, towards the road.

  Blake waited for the foxes to give chase, but instead they slunk back into the bushes. He heard no screams from his brother, nor any sound of struggle. Stevie must have made it to the road safely. Blake missed him already.

  Thunder rumbled loud enough to shake the house.

  23

  Ricky’s leg had stopped festering and was well on its way to healing. Blake wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that Stevie had managed to replace Ricky’s picture in the photograph with the man who’d died last night. He was almost positive it did.

  Liz, on the other hand, was getting worse. Her skin was pale, but her eyelids had turned almost black. Her lips cracked and bled, while her nose gushed blood periodically. Blake knew his brother would send for help, but it might not do any good. The reason for Liz’s sickness wasn’t part of modern medicine.

  “Is she going to die?” asked Ricky.

  Blake chewed at the flesh inside his cheek. His son wanted an answer he didn’t know how to give. “I’m going to do everything I can to not let that happen.”

  “She needs a doctor.”

  “I know she does, son. Your uncle went to find one.”

  “I wish I’d never found that picture frame. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I think it is. I’m going to find a way to destroy it and then everything will be back to normal.”

  “Maybe we should bury it back where we found it.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, but there was no certainty that burying the frame would do any good, and that was if they could even reach the field without encountering the foxes. “It’s not safe to go outside, Ricky,” said Blake.

  “Because of the foxes?”

  “You know about them?”

  Ricky nodded. “I’ve seen them out the windows, sneaking about. They’re everywhere. I think they want the picture frame.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because they’re surrounding the house.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but they might be here to keep us trapped inside. We can’t trust the foxes. They’re bad.”

  Ricky sighed. “My game batteries are dead. I have nothing to do now.”

  Blake had an idea. He picked up a candle from the windowsill. “Come with me.”

  He led his son upstairs, into the master bedroom. Usually Ricky wasn’t allowed in—it was Blake and Liz’s private space—but he looked around now reverently.

  Blake went over to the bed and knelt beside it. He felt beneath the wooden frame until his hand knocked against what he was searching for. He set the heavy case down on the bed and lifted the lid.

  Ricky stared curiously. “What are they?”

  “They’re my Beano and Dandy comics. Stevie and I used to collect them when we were kids. They used to be in black and white, but eventually they were all in colour. They have all kinds of characters: Dennis the Menace, Desperate Dan, Korky the Cat, Ivy the Terrible, the Bash Street Kids. Stevie and I used to stay up late reading them together and laughing. I was planning to give them to you one day, but…well, I guess kids don’t really like comic strips anymore.”

  Ricky shook his head. “No, they’re really cool. I can have them?”

  Blake placed the box in his son’s arms. “There’s another three boxes in the garage, but these are all my favourites. Yours now.”

  Ricky was grinning from ear to ear. “Wow, thanks Dad. Is it okay if I read them in my room?”

  Blake was about to object, not wanting to let his son out of his sight, but when he considered the curse on Ricky was apparently broken, he saw no reason to argue. “Okay, but if you head anyplace else, you let me know, okay? You’ll have to take a candle with you.”

  Ricky nodded, then raced across the landing with his box of comics. Blake hoped he enjoyed them as much as he had. Blake’s own love of story-telling started with a 1979 Beano Book he’d received on his ninth birthday, the best present his dad ever bought him. Maybe Ricky would end up being a writer too, if not the footballer he currently dreamed of being.

  Blake was more determined than ever to watch his son grow up. Stevie had shown him there was hope—ways to break the curse. Blake could save himself and Liz if he found two other people to take their place. He would need a photograph of two substitutes.

  But who? Who could Blake willingly kill to save his own skin? Could he commit murder, which was what it would amount
to? If the picture frame made its kill quota, would that mean the reappearance of Boruta?

  While Blake mulled over the ramifications, he went to check on Liz. She hadn’t stirred all morning and her breathing was getting shallower. She looked like a corpse, and Blake longed for her to wake up so he could tell her what she meant to him. Before she’d been struck by this mysterious malady, they’d finally turned a corner in their marriage. Would they ever get that opportunity now?

  Blake bent down and kissed Liz on the forehead. It left an ashen taste on his lips. “I’m going to save you,” he told her. “Then I’m going to make you fall in love with me all over again and not let you down.”

  Before Blake left, he picked up the sackcloth and picture frame from the floor. He wouldn’t feel safe leaving it unattended. Then he headed to the study. At first Blake didn’t know what he wanted, but once he was standing inside his creative sanctuary, his brain shifted up a gear. The power was off, so there would be no way to print a picture of Putin or Piers Morgan, so Blake would have to find something already in his home.

  It came to him in an instant, and it was perfect.

  A few years ago, Blake had written a thriller novel about a criminal profiler at Scotland Yard. During his initial research for the character, he’d studied and catalogued hundreds of serial killers, including many still alive. Blake dove into his filing cabinet and started leafing through the contents. A bulging manila folder contained all of his research for The Knife Edge and he dumped it onto the desk now. The assorted printouts brought back grim memories. Looking into the life and crimes of sadistic killers had been a disturbing and lonely process. By the time Blake had finished writing the book, his view of humanity was tainted and he realised that even adults never truly lost their naivety of what the world’s underbelly was really like. He’d wondered how much of himself he’d sacrificed to being a writer, and whether it was too much.