9 Tales Told in the Dark 20

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  It’s the body beginning to molder into the undergrowth. The first of the three dead girls.

  All at once, I’m fully aware again. No more mad smells and sounds of songs from my childhood. No more being a little kid and walking to the field with my friends. I’m here and here is the middle of an abandoned piece of land, Christ knows how far from the road and my dog and my family beyond. I’m right here in this dead place.

  And oh Jesus Christ, the white beam cast by my phone shines on the soft wall of leaves right in front and that wall opens from the other side.

  There’s a glimpse of stone and something skinny and slight advancing from an open space and I’m nothing but running legs, pounding back the way I came. The light from my phone darts all over the place, sending shadows into the thick black, and I jump when instinct tells me I’m coming to one of the dead roots. Ahead, Bob barks his head off and I shout my dog’s name over and over as if he can help me. Leaves whip at my face; twigs crunch and snap and there’s the wall directly ahead.

  My stomach crashes against the old stone and there’s a terrible second when my phone’s about to drop but I manage to keep hold, boost myself on to the wall and roll right over it.

  I miss Bob by about an inch; the dog’s going crazy but all I can think about is the detonation that’s blown my body apart. I hit the pavement close to fully flat, only a last second shift saving the back of my head from striking solid ground. I feel like I’ve been struck with a hundred hammers at the same moment.

  Bob licks my face and barks in my ear. In the tiny gap between each bark, dozens of old leaves rustle.

  Whatever shifted the green aside is coming.

  Moving is agony, but I do it. I think I’m crying. I’m definitely seconds from screaming, and Bob races around the lamppost, barking all the while and squirting a stream of piss on my shoe.

  “Bob,” I try to say and can only whisper. His noise is a mad mix of barking, growling and high-pitched whining. Somehow Bob’s lead comes free and the dog races from the wall and lamppost, pulling me. Staggering, crying now, I lunge after Bob. I have to hold my ribs; they feel like they’re about to snap in half just like all the skinny branches and green that’ll now be parted because something peers over the edge of the wall at my retreating back.

  Something humming Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel.

  I wake in total darkness with a scream just kept inside.

  Char makes no move and that’s about all I can be grateful for. That and her acceptance of my lies earlier. I told her Bob went for a cat, taking me by surprise. I fell into damp grass and winded myself. She seemed to believe it and was fine when I said we should turn in minutes after Beth came home.

  Now I’m a curled up ball, staring at a wall I can barely see, cold all over despite the late hour still being warm. On the floor at the foot of the bed, Bob snuffles and rolls over. A distant piece of my mind (that feels more distant with every passing second) wishes I could do the same as my dog: let go of those horrible minutes in the dark.

  They won’t leave me alone. Not even a little bit. I see the suggestion of stone in a clear area, and the wavering movement of a skinny outline. A song from forty years ago drifts out of radios, and something hums it as I stagger away. All this plays in a loop and there’s nothing more than that and my terror.

  I close my eyes, but staring into nothing is worse than the gloom. Open again, I let a few hot tears fall to the pillow and I wish I had woken Char because facing this has got to be worse than sharing it with my wife.

  Leave it, Colin says while the sun shines on us and the long, scorching days of 1976 are four decades gone. Leave it. It’s a sad, dead place.

  And in the quiet of my sleeping house with everything that matters to me in the world kept safe inside it, I think of something.

  I think of how warm recent weeks have been and I wonder if that heat will grow into a baking summer as it did in 1976.

  Weeks pass.

  My plan grows from a small idea to a nagging, non-stop voice. And while the sun cooks the country just as it did forty years ago, I make everything ready.

  It’s the eighteenth. The end of the school year—a big deal for my wife and daughter.

  Getting out of going for a drink with Char and all her colleagues wasn’t too difficult when she mentioned it last Friday. Her job is very much her thing and I’m happy to hear about it at the end of each day, but socializing with a load of teachers for an end of year piss up isn’t for me and she knows that. I kiss her goodbye when her taxi arrives at seven thirty, and Beth lets me give her a quick kiss on the cheek before she heads out to her scooter. I stand in the driveway, Bob at my feet, and I watch the bright light of the red sky fall on this little city we now call home. Summer scents fill the air: grass and flowers together and there’s no aroma of old weeds or decaying twigs. All I have is heat.

  “You okay, Dad?” Beth calls from beside her scooter. I’m close to crying for some reason.

  “Yeah. Course.” I wave at her. “Text me when you get to Repton. And remember—”

  My daughter cuts me off. “No riding this after the pub. Yes, I know, Dad.”

  I have to believe she’ll do as I say and stay off the bike after she gets to Repton. She and her old friends are going to the pub and while I don’t like to think about her requests to let Tim sleep over, I know it’ll happen eventually. All I can do is hope my beautiful, clever daughter will be clever enough to keep herself safe in all respects.

  She cocks a leg over the bike, tall, pretty, and smiling at me while the evening sun makes the red tints in her hair glow. With another wave, she’s gone. The growl of her scooter lives in the air for a few moments and then there’s just me and Bob, facing the quiet street and the deepening red of the sunset.

  I close the door and wait for full dark.

  Here it is. Again.

  The wasteland full of greenery. The forgotten triangle of disused land that’s straight out of my childhood when binmen went on strike, the IRA were the bad guys and all a little boy needed to be happy was his football and his mates.

  I’m round the back of it a few moments later, parking in the shadows cast by its tall trees and huge swathes of overgrown branches. The wall is close to invisible. Those branches swallow it. Only a little of the moon manages to break through and show me the broken section I climbed over a month ago. That section where a skinny shape watched me sprint away.

  “Okay.”

  Again, blocking all thought of my actions and what will happen if someone sees me, I jog to the boot, grab two canisters and upend them over the wall. The stink is huge; the hissing and splashing of the liquid is worse. It seems to take hours before they’re empty. Dropping them, I take another two, repeat, then another two, then the final two. Alternating between pouring the petrol over the edge of the wall to soak the undergrowth and throwing it at chest level into the motionless leaves and bushes means I’ve managed to spread it around a fair bit. Even so, the reach could be further but there was no way of doing that unless I actually entered the green and that was never going to happen. I’ll have to hope the weeks of dry days and hot sun will help me. Even if the roots and shrubs low to the ground are permanently damp, everything a few feet up will be ideal for burning.

  The lit match is a tiny flame in my hand; the reek of petrol clings to my nose, skin, and clothes. I come back to everything just as I did minutes or hours after walking into the green weeks ago.

  What the hell are you doing? Burning it? Are you insane?

  “No. I’m… clearing it,” I say to the air and flick the match over the wall.

  It’s as if the ground and air have coughed. A second later, a huge sheet of flame roars upwards. I fall backwards, shielding my eyes and face and sure I’m about to burn because of the fumes stuck to me. Untouched, I back away. The fire spreads in seconds, racing to both sides and further into the green. The swirling red and orange claims the higher sections of the bushes and trees. It’s all going up exactly as I
hoped. Faster than that. The recent hot days and no rain have turned the old wood on the other side of the wall into kindling. Within seconds, it’s more fire than undergrowth, and that fire races deeper into the green, cooking and eating leaves and twigs.

  Laughing and close to screaming, I dash back to the car, jump inside and slam the door. At the same time, my phone rings.

  Beth’s name is on the screen. Hoping she won’t hear any of the bellow of the fire or ask why I’m driving, I answer it and my daughter screams in my ear.

  “Dad. Oh Christ. There’s a fire. There’s a fire, Dad.”

  There’s a second, maybe two, of nothing. Not even Beth shrieking down the phone. Then I’m out the car and running back to the wall. Although no more than a moment has passed, the fire’s already grown hugely. It’ll be totally out of control in the next thirty seconds.

  “Beth?” I yell at the phone. “Where are you?”

  She’s not here. She’s ten miles away and this is a trick.

  A massive crack comes from just in front, drowning out most of her reply but I hear enough.

  “...Dalry Road… kind of... triangle—”

  Fire crashes on the other end of the line, and Beth’s weak scream barely makes it through.

  “Dad.”

  It’s a trick. Why is she calling you and not the fire brigade?

  The answer’s obvious even though I don’t want it to be. I’m closer.

  “Beth? Are you there?”

  Ducking, I run alongside the wall, shouting my daughter’s name while she screams back at me and the fire parts just as the leaves and branches began to do so weeks ago. Impossibly, flames shift aside and the moon chooses that second to come out from behind clouds. Its light falls squarely on two scooters, both placed carefully against a few old trees and leaning low so they’re not visible from the road. One belongs to Beth’s boyfriend Tim. The other is hers.

  I scream once and then babble into my mobile.

  “Beth, run, okay? Just run to the other side. It comes out on Dalry Road. I’ll meet you there. I’ll—”

  “I can’t. It’s too thick. Jesus Christ, I can’t get through.”

  “Beth—”

  “He’s burning. Oh, God. Tim’s on fire.”

  Now I hear new screaming and it comes from the centre of the wasteland, not from my phone.

  All thought stops. Again, I’m a running animal. I jump the wall and sprint through smoke and flames that lick at my feet. Breathing is impossible; sight is close to nothing. Sound is the non-stop crackle of burning twigs and cooking leaves, and I pound on and on. Someone screams Beth’s name and no way is it me because I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe and fucking god Jesus Christ he’s on fire it’s Tim and he’s flame he’s burning he’s melting his face is melting Jesus Christ he’s like oil he’s got no eyes left

  back to me, back to choking on smoke and trying to scream at the sight of my daughter’s boyfriend turned into fire and still running across the clearing I didn’t realise I’d reached, the boy dropping before he reaches the far side and the stink of his cooking flesh is in my mouth along with all the smoke in the world.

  I can’t breathe, not because of that stench or the smoke but because of the house. It’s more a cottage than a house. It stands in a clearing, small and squat. Black and ugly. Decades of snow, wind and rain have eaten the bricks and window. It’s a shell of a building, a hundred years old and looking like a thousand but it’s all right because my fire is coming for it.

  Howling, Beth throws herself at the impassable vines and branches blocking the way to Dalry Road and they rend her arms and face, tasting blood.

  It rises from the burning land straight ahead, blocking all other sights and sounds for a moment—a horrible gift of vision given to me from the countless leaves and branches.

  My daughter and her boyfriend come to the edge of this place on their bikes, pulling up in the dark; two teenagers hungry for each other, eager to share themselves on this big night for them and with nowhere to go but this miserable, lifeless place. This place I wouldn’t leave alone.

  The vision drops into nothing. Flame and smoke return.

  A darting movement in the air; a shadow staining the light of the fire. Flesh from three bodies merged into one nightmare.

  It’s female. I think.

  It looks at me when I scream Beth’s name. There’s nothing human here, nothing in the too many eyes that understands life and love.

  The hunched, skinny thing rises and part of its sides ripple to reveal six arms, all bent and broken by the kicks of heavy boots. It streaks over the tatty grass, a black cloud bearing down on Beth as she sees it and shrieks. Even as she turns to run, the dead girls are on her.

  I run for Beth and it’s only when my voice comes out as a croak that I realise I am burning. My own fire is all over me.

  The thing with the arms embraces Beth’s body, feeling every inch of her life before six hands shred her throat into flaps of skin and spurting gallons of blood turned black in the light of the fire. And while I run, while my skin bubbles and slides free from bone, the dead girls—the sisters—streak back to the cottage.

  The world burns. I burn.

  I’m with Beth at the door to the cottage. It slammed shut a moment ago; I pound my fists on it, leaving pieces of scorched skin on the old wood while Beth is a lump at my melted feet and I scream her name at the door, scream for the dead sisters to let her go because it’s my fault they were woken. I’m to blame.

  While the fire closes in towards the wreck of the tiny cottage, shuffling steps approach the door on the other side and I howl Beth’s name one last time. And I as sink into a pile of cooked flesh and scorched bones, I have chance to wonder if the dead girls will answer me or if they will send their new sister to her old father.

  I have chance to hope the fire reaches what’s left of my body and the cottage before the door is opened.

  THE END.

  THE PARANOID OWNER by Sara Ahmed

  Crackling fills the house as claws go in and out of the leather couch

  Nancy presses her palms into the side of the table. The sharp edges of the paper she had been reading dig into the tips of her fingers. She pushes against the table. Her chair scrapes against the wooden floor. She stands up and steps to the side. She pivots on her feet. Hunching over slightly, she makes her way to the living room. The sides of her hands brush against her skirt. Her breath catches in her throat.

  She stops and brings her hands to her face. She scans her eyes over them and realizes it was just her skirt. She claps her hands and looks at the ground, searching for signs of her cat.

  Claws scrape against the floorboard. Nancy turns her head to the left and sees Lily, a gray tabby cat that always seems to have a murderous look in her green eyes, coming towards her.

  Lily stops next to Nancy. She reaches up with her tiny paws and pushes her claws into Nancy’s leg. Pain spreads through Nancy’s calf. Warm, wet blood trickles down her leg.

  The claws are tugged away, leaving only itchy wounds. Her fingers twitch at her side. They ache to reach down and rub the cuts.

  Instead, she looks down at Lily. “Nice kitty.” She backs up a step. “Good kitty.”

  Lily, with her paws crossed in front of her, opens her mouth wide and hisses.

  Nancy turns around and scampers into the bathroom. She hears claws sliding against the floor as Lily tries to catch up.

  She grabs the door and pulls it shut. The noise drowns out the sound of the claws for a moment.

  Nancy sees a flash of gray just as the door hits the frame. Her heart is pounding as she leans against the porcelain sink.

  The cold seeps through the back of her blouse. She feels more grounded. She becomes more aware of a grating sound echoing from the door. She becomes more aware of how her breathing increases. It’s harsh and hot as it floats across her tongue and into the air.

  Suddenly, it is quiet outside the door. Nancy’s breathing slo
ws. She steps one foot close to the door. Sweat causes it to stick to the ground. When the silence continues, she steps her other foot closer to the door.

  A bell jingles outside. Nancy stops and leans against the door. She hears the jingling gets closer along with the sound of a plastic ball rolling on the floor.

  The ball slams into the door. Nancy jumps into the air. She places a hand over her heart and grips her blouse. She grips so hard that she feels her nails pressing against her palm.

  Her hand begins to ache. Her palm begins to sting. She lets the material slip away. She turns towards the door and presses her shoulders and her nose against it. The lemony scent of cleaning supplies stings her nostrils.

  Her breath forms a wall of humid air around her mouth and nose.

  Adrenaline pulses through Nancy as the doorbell rings. She reaches out and presses her nails into the crack of the door. She pulls it just enough so she can slip her fingers in. For a moment, she feels safe. The pressure the door provides and the guarantee that it is there to protect her floods her with relief. At least until the ball rolls past the crack of the door. A paw works its way into the space between the door and the frame.

  The paw scrabbles around the edge, claws continuing to rasp against everything they touch.

  Nancy takes a step back from the door. Her hands fall to her sides.

  Meow.

  She blinks. She realizes she is hiding from a cat as if it is actually a murder. Nancy reassures herself that most cats look murderous. Most cats claw their owners from time to time. Most cats chase little jingly balls around.

  Yes, most cats do those things. So what is there to be afraid of?

  Nancy reaches out again and pulls the door open without another thought.

  She doesn’t spare a glance towards Lily as she walks to her front door. She grips the handle and pulls the door open. Sunlight streams into the house, leaving a single strip along the floor. She looks down and sees a single piece of paper lying on the stone step.