by Matt Drabble
He approached the store front door quietly. It suddenly dawned on him that he didn’t know where Mr. Kessler lived, and he’d never had the conversational adult thought to ask. The store looked dark from the outside and Billy peered carefully through the large windows for a tell-tale shaft of light around the work room door; there was none. His heart was thumping hard as he pulled the key from his pocket and slid it gently into the lock. He had the sudden thought that perhaps he didn’t actually want to go in the store after dark. The puppets were creepy enough during the daytime. He angrily pushed aside such childish notions; he was Big Bill now, and Big Bill wasn’t afraid of toys.
He eased open the door and stepped inside. He only had one foot in the store when Danny abruptly pushed passed him and he stumbled forward clumsily.
“Careful,” Billy hissed.
“Shut your mouth,” Danny snarled, all pretence gone, “Fan out fellas, you know the deal.”
Billy could only watch on helplessly as Shaun and Paul barreled past him with little care. The three of them spread out quickly and began ransacking the shelves for anything of value. His heart sunk as he realised that he was only being used.
“Get out,” he said, trying for an authoritative tone but falling some way short.
Danny was on him in a flash, grabbing him painfully through his shirt, taking a painful pinch of skin with his grip. “Shut your bloody mouth and watch the damn door,” Danny barked, pulling his face in close. “If anyone comes, you holler out loudly or I’ll break your damn neck!”
Billy felt himself begin to well up; he fought hard against the tears and rubbed the sore patch of skin where Danny had grabbed him. He stood back against the door and watched the street, cursing himself for being manipulated so easily. He winced at the crashing sounds of the three looters as Mr. Kessler’s painstaking work was being thrown around and splintered with abandon.
“Where’s the bloody money?” He heard one of them hiss.
“There’s nothing here Danny, just a bunch of kid’s toys,” said the other low voice irritably.
Billy heard a harsh thudding slap of hand on flesh, “Who’s in charge here you dozy prick?” Danny’s voice snarled.
Billy stared into the darkness of the store. He could just see the three figures moving around, scanning the shelves for anything of value like Jackals picking at a carcass.
“There’s nothing here guys,” he pleaded, “Let’s go huh?”
Danny charged at him, “Where’s the money? Where’s the till? The safe?” He demanded.
“I don’t know,” Billy whined, “He’s not even open yet, I don’t think there is any money.”
“Shit!” Danny snapped.
“What now?” Shaun asked from inside the darkness.
“Hey check this out,” Paul’s voice was hushed and full of wonder.
Danny ignored him; he reached out and grabbed Billy by the throat, “There must be something here. What about a stock room or something?”
Billy struggled to breathe properly under the iron grip, “There’s a workshop out the back,” he pointed.
“Shaun,” Danny snapped, “Go check it out.”
“Hey you guys,” Paul said again.
“Godammit Paul what the hell’s the matter with you?” Danny said impatiently, not taking his attention away from Billy.
Through the gloom of the store and over Danny’s shoulder Billy could see just what Paul was so transfixed by. He was holding the Punch puppet in his pudgy hand, its deep black stare was locked with Paul’s moon face. Billy wanted to warn Paul that the doll wasn’t something to be messed with when the workshop door exploded and Mr. Kessler staggered out struggling with Shaun. Despite Mr. Kessler being taller and heavier than Shaun’s skinny frame, the man was old and frail and the younger boy was more than holding his own.
“I found this old fart out the back,” Shaun panted.
“What is this?” Kessler demanded, “What are you boys doing here? Get out, get out immediately.”
“Well well,” Danny said cheerfully, “Where’s the money old man?”
“What money is this?” Kessler said, “I have no money.”
“Don’t screw with me you old bastard!” Danny snapped. His hand flashed into his coat and he whipped out a black handle with a silver button. He pressed the button and a wicked blade flipped out and glinted menacingly in the gloomy light. Danny pushed the blade harshly against Billy’s neck, “Give us the money now or little Billy here is going to pay.”
“You let that boy go now, I shall call the police,” Kessler said still assuming that he was adult and thus in control.
Shaun shoved the old man hard and he fell backwards, his legs giving way as he crashed heavily to the floor.
“Shaun, is there anything back there?” Danny barked.
“I dunno, this old geezer grabbed me before I got a chance to look.”
“Well go look now dumbass. Paul go help him,” Danny ordered “Paul, PAUL!” He shouted when Paul didn’t answer.
Billy looked over to where Paul had been standing before, he wasn’t there now.
“For Christ’s sake, do I have to do everything myself?” Danny snapped. He dragged Billy one-handed towards where Paul had been stood holding the Punch doll.
Billy could hear the rising panic now in Danny’s voice; whatever he’d had planned had suddenly taken a left turn. The room suddenly seemed darker than it had before. Billy could hear Danny sweating, Mr. Kessler wheezing and Shaun worrying, but he could hear nothing from Paul.
He was dragged across the floor and between the shelves; a hundred deep dark painted eyes watching them all in disapproval. The puppets lined the shelves; their heads seemed to no longer hang loosely as before. The strings seemed tighter and the expressions more alert. Billy shuddered as he staggered. Suddenly his feet caught on something that sent him tumbling to the floor and Danny released his grip as Billy fell. Billy came down on what had been a clean and swept floor by his own hands, but he landed in something wet and sticky. Billy crawled away from the torn body of what had once been Paul. He had put his hand down in the gaping hole that had once been Paul’s face and his fingers were slick with blood and gore.
“Danny, hey Danny, let’s just go huh?” Shaun moaned softly, “This has all gone too far, let’s just go ok,” he whined.
“SHUT UP!” Danny roared, his voice augmented by fear.
“You should go now, while you can I think,” Kessler whispered from his prone position, “Please, just leave while you can.”
“Yeah Danny, let’s…” Shaun suddenly stopped mid flow, “What the hell is that?” He gasped, “What the hell is…” His voice was suddenly replaced by a wet gurgling sound.
“Paul?” Danny said incomprehensively towards the mess on the floor, “Shaun? Shaun where are you?” He stammered, “What did you do old man? What the hell did you do?” He gripped the switchblade knife with the conviction of a priest holding a crucifix.
Billy curled his legs up under his chin and rocked back and forth in a fetal position, his thumb crept into his mouth for solace. He felt all of their eyes watching, the deep dark painted eyes stared, eager and hungry. The limp bodies that hung from strings were all now alert and aware, and Billy could feel their collective stare.
He watched as Danny stood over him; to his credit his bravado was strong. He had yet to meet a situation in his tender years that could be solved by his own brute force. Mr. Kessler suddenly appeared before them, his face was creased and lined with sadness, and his shoulders were stooped with a heavy burden.
“You’re gonna pay old man,” Danny snarled as he launched himself forward, blood up and blade out.
Billy gasped as the knife struck home in the centre of Mr. Kessler’s chest; it hung there, imbedded, jutting out like a miniature diving board. Kessler looked down in sour, sad amusement; he reached down and pulled the blade free. Billy stared in disbelief. There was no blood and he shook his head refusing to believe his own eyes as only a tiny p
uff of sawdust fell from the small hole.
Danny turned and ran for the door, his sturdy legs pumping hard.
“I told you once young William, they are all my children,” Mr. Kessler said as he looked down at Billy.
Billy rocked back and forth, his eyes glassy and distant as the room exploded into life. Tiny wooden hands brought Danny down before he reached the door, and his screams were mercifully brief.
13.
BLACKWATER HEIGHTS
“Hey, that one was pretty good,” Martin enthused, he felt himself growing to the task as he wrote furiously. “What about the missing kids? Where did they fit in?”
“Nowhere, just a coincidence Martin,” Jimmy cackled, “The world just keeps on turning I guess, regardless of our little stories.”
“What happened to Kessler?”
“Oh, Mr. Kessler was long gone by the time they discovered young Billy in the store. The police questioned him for days afterwards, but poor Billy just wasn’t in a talkative mood,” Jimmy said grinned with a mean streak. “All they had was Billy and three dead boys. They eventually came to the conclusion that all four boys must have been taken by the child abductor that had been terrorizing the area, and it was assumed that Mr. Kessler was guilty of that particular crime. No-one was about to believe young Billy’s tale and so he ended up here on the sort of free holiday that the hospital sometimes offers the poor, as some kind of charitable tax break I think.”
“Do they take a lot of cases like this?” Martin asked pointing back at Billy’s room.
“Not that many, I think the hospital’s heart only stretches so far,” Jimmy replied.
The fluorescent lights overhead suddenly dipped and dimmed; the usual buzzing hum interrupted mid-flow.
Martin stared up the ceiling nervously as the shadows lengthened around him, “What was that?” He asked apprehensively.
“Just a little power fluctuation,” Jimmy replied. “Happens all the time unfortunately.”
The light faded all the way down to barely above black and Martin took a worried step backwards towards the stairs. The corridor suddenly seemed longer and it lengthened and stretched beyond his vision. The newly decorated wall facades melted away before his eyes. The slick smooth surfaces were stripped bare and reverted back to their natural state. The basement became devoid of the modern improvements, becoming a stone brick wall cellar once again. A stench of damp and mould permeated through the ages, and Martin could feel the creeping cold sea air seeping through the building. He could hear the rain battering the outside walls as the howling winds whistled through the home of Horace Whisker. Martin felt the sands of time slip before his eyes; instinctively he knew that this was before, before the hospital, a time of one tyrant and his kingdom.
Suddenly the air was split with the tap, tap, tapping of a cane. Martin closed his eyes and he could see the swishing silver cane and gleaming gold wolf head. He could feel the shivering horror of Emily Whisker as she shuddered beneath the covers, clutching her young son to her chest, desperately praying the monster wouldn’t pause outside her door tonight and praying that the growing echo of the wolf’s cane would soon fade as he passed. He felt quaking terror as though he was under the covers; he heard the tapping and then the dreaded silence. He wanted to scream as the door knob squealed in protest as the bedroom door creaked ever so slowly open, and then…
“Martin, MARTIN!”
He felt someone shaking his shoulders violently, and then he was back. The building was a hospital again; the corridor was brightly lit and an elderly janitor was shaking his arm with limited strength and concern on his withered face.
“Martin? Are you ok?” Jimmy enquired worriedly.
“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Martin managed, “Just kind of lost myself for a second there.”
“You know I couldn’t help but notice you taking those painkillers earlier,” Jimmy said kindly, “Those things can mess you up if you’re not careful.”
“I guess,” Martin said, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs.
“Don’t let this place get to you Martin; it’s still just a building, bricks and mortar, no matter what the legends say.”
“Why, what do they say?” Martin couldn’t help but ask, his natural curiosity overtaking his rational fears.
“Another time perhaps,” Jimmy said. “We still have a lot of ground to cover, and time’s a ticking,” Jimmy said as he opened another door.
14.
STORMY SEAS
Brittany Nicholls watched the waves from her safe and warm vantage point. The house had been built exclusively it seemed, with the views in mind. Every room at the front of the house had long wide windows that framed the ocean view like a Turner painting. She drew her long slender legs up under her body and her fingers curled around the hot cocoa mug as the delicious liquid warmed her through. The wind outside howled as the rain began to whip against the windows with an angry ferocity that made the glass shudder under the onslaught. Brittany was glad to be sitting inside; the fireplace crackled as the logs broke, and the dancing flames lit the room in swaying shadows.
Brittany was twenty three years old. She was dark haired and blue eyed; a dangerous combination of wealth and beauty that had drawn as many unwelcomed attentions as welcome ones. She was of an average height at around five feet six, slim, with a runner’s lean frame but augmented with a dancer’s curves. She had a wide, broad smile that glistened in perfect white, but without a shark’s aggression. She was generally sweet tempered and natured, but she was fiercely loyal to her friends and family. She did however keep her own heart high upon a secret shelf.
She was an author of some promise and repute in certain circles. The circles however that she had avoided to date were unfortunately the commercial ones. Her first novel, “Remnants of a Dystopian Dream” had been widely received by critics as a “Masterpiece produced by an author beyond her years”. However, it had passed the paying public by without drawing much attention. Her father was a well regarded lawyer in Southern California and her mother was a poet who had been once selected as the Poet Laureate to the United States. It was a large shadow that both of her parents cast, and it was one that she had yet to emerge from. Their family wealth was derived from her father’s side. Somewhere way back, some ancestor had bought a whole bunch of land that had turned out to be on top of one of the largest oil finds of the 18th century. Money had never been a problem for them from that point on and Brittany had benefitted from the finest education, but she had floundered for a direction to make her own. After the soaring delight of her critical acclaim - followed by the crash of being dumped by her publishers over their views about her commerciality - she had fled her homeland for some much needed realignment. She’d left home hoping that her depression would be lifted by a change of scenery, and that her artistic fire would be ignited again. But she had yet to come up with a single viable idea for another novel, and besides, she no longer had a publisher.
She had headed for the winter wilds of Western Wales on the British coastline; the season was wet and cold in equal measures. Being a Californian girl she had struggled to cope with the sudden drop in temperatures and the almost incessant rain. She had rented a small cottage overlooking the bay of Freshwater East some three weeks ago now. The one story house was big enough for one person, but not too big to rattle around in. It was set upon a steep cliff top and her nearest neighbors were several miles away. The solitude had been the deciding factor when she had selected the property. She’d had the central heating on pretty much constantly since she’d got there, in the vain hope of keeping warm. Her wardrobe had changed from floaty thin to chunky thick in a matter of days.
The harsh weather outside seemed to ease slightly and she quickly jumped into the gap. Grabbing her thick waterproof coat and boots she headed out into the day.
The weather forecast had predicted the storm of all storms was about to come rolling in over the horizon, and residents were being told to batten down their respective hatche
s. Part of her was excited about the onrushing weather event as her days back in the US were spent beneath varying degrees of Californian sunshine. She had never witnessed a Mother Nature hissy fit and she was curious to find out just how much worse the weather could get than she had already seen.
At the rear garden of the house there was a sweeping path that led down through an open field, and emerging through the sand dunes topped with whispering grass and out onto the beach. The wind flung grains of sand hard through the air and she had to raise a hand to protect her eyes as she walked into the stiff breeze. She pulled her collar up high and took a thermal woolly hat from the coat pocket. As she walked she let her mind drift and allowed her worries and concerns to fly away on the wind. It was always here that she had become to feel most peaceful. The wild weather felt like an extension of her troubled mind, but the external winds were stronger than the internal ones.
The waves crashed hard as she approached the water’s edge. Vast tides of frothy spume had been hurled landwards by the powerful ocean, churned by the high winds of winter. Brittany always felt dwarfed by the sheer scope and supremacy of the sea, as the blue waves reached as far as the horizon. She held a hand up to protect her face against the coarse salt sea air. Suddenly she felt that she had seen something against the blue water; a dark shape that looked out of place. She craned her eyes into the stiff wind; there was something out in the middle of the churning waters. She strained her eyes further; at first she thought that it was a barrel or maybe a large piece of driftwood. Suddenly she realised that the object was moving. She wondered if it was a seal or a dolphin caught too close to the beach.