Horror For Good - A Charitable Anthology
Page 32
"There's nothing there no more—just rubble."
"That's okay. Just for old-times' sake. A final goodbye."
Gary eyes me strangely, as if he's just realised I've lost my mind. He's probably thinking about the woman that was killed there in the early 80s; those stories about how her body was mutilated and defiled.
"Please, Gaz. I won't cause a problem." I try to compose my best trustworthy, old school-friend face. I think I succeed.
He takes a drink of his Coke. I can hear the ice clinking against the glass. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "I can give you twenty minutes."
***
His council van smells of stale sweat, hamburgers, and engine oil. The dashboard is littered with old newspapers and Post-it notes with addresses scrawled on them. As he drives, I can hear his toolboxes rattling in the back. He asks me what I'm doing back in town.
I explain about how my parents have just moved out of the family home into a smaller bungalow in Beeston, and how I've been helping them with the process. I mention how I've been sorting through some storage boxes from my old bedroom in an effort to thin out their belongings. I tell him it stirred up old memories from my childhood. This is all true. Needless to say, I don't tell him the entire truth.
I finger the plastic walkie-talkie in my pocket. Its rubber aerial pokes against my chest like a knife.
Soon we enter the industrial estate. Business offices and flimsy-looking warehouses stand conspicuously in the centre of deserted car-parks. All the company logos affixed to the buildings' walls look identical. Ahead, the road is barricaded by a framework of red and white plastic cordons. Behind it, a solid eight-foot wooden fence encircles the perimeter of the building site.
Gary pulls over and yanks on the handbrake. "Right." He unclips a Yale-key from the fob dangling from his ignition and passes it to me. "The entrance is over there. This is for the padlock." He looks at me strangely again. "I'll have to get back once I've had my dinner. That give you long enough?"
I nod and smile, climbing out of the car. The walkie-talkie in my pocket seems suddenly fragile and I cup it as I hurry over to the door that's cut into the roughly-erected fence. The metal of the padlock feels icy-cold and I'm relieved once it gives and I gain entry. I step through the door and close it behind me, pushing the swollen wood together with some effort.
It's difficult at first for me to reconcile what I'm seeing. The flat expanse of ground is broken up by piles of rubble—mainly heaped house-bricks, but also twisted metal struts, faded UPVC window frames and smashed paving slabs. Jewels of broken glass glisten in the afternoon sunlight. It resembles nothing of the place it was the last time I was here.
***
There was something about the empty houses that made them look sinister. It may have been the way their doors and windows had been barricaded up; as if the authorities were trying to prevent some obscene force from escaping. Perhaps local legends added to the sense of despair that attached itself to the deserted streets. Swinston estate had been left to rot many years ago; Leeds city council, it seemed, had thrown in the towel.
The boys were well aware of the stories. Everybody was. The depravity that once went on in Sebastian Street was discussed in hushed tones, but still the kids heard about it. Lurid schoolyard stories kept the tale alive, passing it through generations as if it was part of the community, a fabric of local colour.
In 1982 a woman's mutilated corpse had been discovered inside one of the rows of terraced houses. Six different types of semen were found within her battered and abused body, as well as a length of bubble-wrap. Someone had slashed arcane symbols into her flesh. There was even a rumour that one sample of the semen had been equine.
The three boys stood on Sebastian Street and regarded the final row of terraced houses with something approaching reverence. Metal security shutters enclosed the doors; wooden boards were nailed across the windows. It symbolised all that was forbidden. Years before, heroin-addicts had frequented the houses. Ironically the only street to survive the estate's demolition had been the one with such notoriety.
"Why didn't they knock these ones down?" murmured Sam. Absently he fished out his asthma inhaler and took a blast.
Mal shrugged. "Which one was where it happened?"
Cameron poked the ground with a wooden stick. He glanced up and studied the row.
Sam tried to detect fear in the boy's expressionless face, but saw nothing. He glanced at the row himself. The security covers made the houses look like impassive faces staring back at them. Almost challenging.
"Not sure which one." Cameron's voice was indifferent. "They all look the same."
Several tiles were missing off the roof, which extended the length of the terrace. Only the individual chimney pots gave any indication of which house was which.
Sam took out the Spider Man walkie-talkies, handing one to Cameron. He accepted it silently.
"My brother told me that men sometimes bum other men inside there." Cameron blinked. "For money."
Mal grimaced, but said nothing. He knelt on the kerb. "You still up for this?"
Cameron nodded. "No problem."
Despite the younger kid's bravado, Sam noticed the damp patches under his arms. He considered again whether they were being fair—Cameron Glover was the school's misfit, seemingly friends with no one, a withdrawn introvert who took the butt of most of the pranks. Mal and Sam had offered him the opportunity to join their small circle of friends...at a price; first he'd need to prove his worthiness.
The sense of desolation that permeated the Swinston estate seemed a stern enough challenge. Its abandoned streets and silent, debris-stricken plots appeared to harbour darkness. Shadows gathered on the corners. Discarded rubbish thrived amongst the ruins, and overgrown weeds sprouted from the cracked tarmac. Parents warned their children not to venture onto the estate in the daylight, let alone during the hours of darkness. The place was synonymous with death and depravity.
Cameron studied the row of terraced houses and swallowed. He gripped the wooden stick tightly, almost brandishing it. Somewhere nearby, a plastic bag, half-buried by soil and bricks, flapped in the breeze like a frantic bird.
"How does this thing work?" The younger kid licked his lips and peered at the walkie-talkie.
"Just press the button and speak into the top. We'll hear you."
Cameron nodded slowly. Sam watched the younger boy walk towards the row of houses, clambering over the remnants of a fallen wall. Overgrown grass reached through the rubble like spindly fingers. Sam's eyes followed Cameron's progress until he disappeared round the back. He crouched on the kerb next to Mal. For a moment they listened.
Sam finally spoke into the walkie-talkie. "Can you see the hole in the board?"
There was a pause and then a short burst of static. "I'm in the kitchen already."
Mal pursed his lips and nodded approvingly.
"What can you see?" asked Sam.
"It's just a kitchen. It's dark, though. God, it stinks."
Sam smiled, detecting the faintest trace of fear in the younger lad's voice. "Go on."
"Nothing much. It's dusty. All the worktops are filthy."
"Go into some of the rooms."
There was silence for a few minutes. Then, "Right. I'm at the bottom of the stairs."
"What's it like?"
A tinny laugh. "Just stairs."
"I mean, is it dark?" Sam stared at the entranced Mal. "And scary?"
"No." But Cameron's voice sounded slender and taut.
"See what's upstairs."
"Okay."
For a few minutes there was just silence. Mal scratched his head. He said to Sam in a low voice, "Don't you think he's a weirdo? I'm not sure if we want him hanging around with us, anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"Seen his arms? He's got cuts all over them. He always wears that long-sleeved vest for PE but I saw it when he was washing his hands. I think he's into that cutting-yourself shit."
Mal nodded. "That's it."
Sam shrugged and stared at the row of houses. He didn't speak. His eyes tried to picture the kid inside, wandering around in the darkness.
A plaintive caw broke the silence. Sam watched a huge black crow land on the roof. It unfurled its wings slowly as if to catch the sun, making it look like it was wearing a cloak. Mal stood and threw a stone. It missed by a mile, striking the sagged guttering with a crack that echoed across the estate like a gunshot. The crow flapped into the air and flew languidly away.
There was a burst of static and the walkie-talkie crackled into life. "There's nothing up here. Just empty rooms."
Mal grabbed the handset from Sam. "Watch out for the ghost of the dead woman." He laughed exaggeratedly, maniacally.
Cameron's next words halted the laughter. "Hey—there's a hole in the wall. I can see something moving."
Sam stared at Mal's stunned face, listening intently. He reclaimed the walkie-talkie.
There was the sound of movement in the speaker. Bricks falling.
"Are you okay?" Sam cleared his throat and pressed the walkie-talkie.
"Just opening up a bigger gap."
Sam could hear him scrabbling around. When Cameron's voice returned, it was made gruff by his panting breath. "I can see into the bedroom. Looks like the house next door. There's something on the floor."
"What is it?"
"Hang on." Sounds of effort, a succession of knocks.
"Eugh. There's black stains on the floorboards. It looks like...dried blood."
"Shit, that must be where—"
"Hang on, what's that?"
The silence was unbearable. Mal stared at Sam expectantly, open-mouthed.
"What is it?" Mal prompted eventually. His breath was shallow.
"Stone steps. Going down."
Mal frowned.
Silence again for several moments. Then Cameron's voice returned: "God, they go on forever. I'm walking down them." He sounded breathless. "I'm on some kind of landing."
Sam continued to listen. He was aware that Mal was also holding his breath. "Is it still dark?"
No reply. When Cameron spoke again, his words chilled Sam to the bone: "I'm at the bottom. I can see something. It looks like...a lake."
Sam turned sharply, frowning at his companion. "I thought he said lake."
Mal's eyes were huge. "He did."
"Wow, it's lovely. There's...there's trees and a cornfield and...some massive dragonflies." He sounded awestruck.
Sam spoke slowly. "Cameron, are you okay? You sound a bit funny." He took a puff of his inhaler.
"Ah, they're not dragonflies. They're...what're they called?—hummingbirds?" His voice had taken on a dreamlike quality.
Sam yelled at him to stop being stupid, pleading with him to return. Mal's face was aghast. Pale. He stared dumbstruck as Sam shouted into the walkie-talkie, urging the younger boy to come back out. Cameron ignored him, instead continuing to describe impossible sights.
Sam stood with his head pressed against Mal's, listening to the younger boy speak. He was becoming detached from reality, carried away by Cameron's warped madness, the narration fuelling his fear and transporting his imagination. Sanity was being abandoned. Certainty was unravelling.
Eventually the walkie-talkie fell silent and Sam stared miserably at the row of houses, numb and broken. Nearby, Mal shivered, his hands laced together as if in silent prayer.
Sam's chest felt constricted and wheezy. Fear deterred any notion of rescue; Cameron's words were lodged like barbs in his mind.
They turned to go, stunned and terrified. Their abandoned bikes seemed like they'd lain there for years, the frames coated with dust and grit. It was impossible to ride them because they had Cameron's spare bike to accommodate now. They hurried as best they could. Mal lived on the far side of town, so they separated at the boundary of the park, exchanging hushed farewells. Sam resisted the urge to ditch the bikes, instead negotiating the journey by clumsily pushing one on either side. By the time he arrived home and alerted his parents, he was aching and shivering.
Sam knew they'd never see Cameron again.
***
Much later—several weeks after the police had scoured the estate with forensic teams and assistance from a nearby force, weeks after Cameron's brother—whose arms also sported similar cuts and cigarette burns—was taken into care by social services, ages after Cameron's dad was arrested and the local press had reported the sickening catalogue of abuse—Sam returned to Sebastian Street and stared at the row of houses with eyes that had lost their innocence.
He'd learned things about the world that could never be unlearnt; ugly truths that soured his trust and crumbled the foundations of his belief system. It had only been three weeks since Cameron's disappearance, yet it felt as if the world had changed; things had advanced.
It was early evening and the sun was descending beyond the rubble-strewn site, creating a black silhouette of the houses, rendering them flat and unreal. Sam had no idea why he'd brought the walkie-talkie. Maybe it felt like the single remaining link to Cameron; a fragile thread of contact. Perhaps it symbolised the final vestige of his own childhood.
He clicked on the button of the walkie-talkie and pressed it to his ear.
***
I take the walkie-talkie out with trembling hands and hold it for a moment, staring at the mountain of rubble that now approximates Sebastian Street. The silence is eerie. A breeze sweeps the site, combing through the overgrown weeds and sending dust rattling across the debris. Clouds race overhead. The sky presses me to the ground. I close my eyes.
I can remember how it felt to lie in bed at night, listening to the static's howl as I held the walkie-talkie to my ear. At first Cameron sounded frightened, his voice high-pitched and frantic, distorted by the swirls of interference. Sometimes I tried to answer him, but there was never any sign that he could hear, just the tortured warbles of sound. Eventually the noises faded and there was nothing but static; cold, black static. The batteries ran down and I never replaced them.
I examine the gaudy red and black plastic now, testing the weight in my hand. The new batteries seem to make it heavier than it once felt, even though I know that's impossible. I hold it up and carefully press the receive button.
It feels like I stand there forever holding my breath, listening to the crackling, whooshing white-noise. My imagination conjures swirls of vocals in the static but I dismiss that as lost hope. A cloud passes in front of the sun and it suddenly grows cold. Somewhere in the distance, a dog begins to bark. And then at once I hear a faint snatch of Cameron's voice—not words as such, just the murmur of his conversation. He's still a little boy, his pitch high and unbroken, but this time not by fear. He sounds excited and...settled. Comfortable. There is a squeal of interference and it all goes silent, but not before I make out a final, brief snatch of dialogue. I'm okay.
Satisfied, I return the walkie-talkie to my pocket and shuffle back to the door, sensing countless eyes watching my progress. I throw a final glance back to the rubble-strewn site before I step through the fence and padlock it behind me.
Gary looks relieved as he sees my approach. Across the city, I hear the low squeal of a police siren. Nothing much changes.
***
Somewhere on Sebastian Street lies a portal between two worlds; a place where salvation exists for those that seek it, an escape from the stark brutalities of life. Somewhere on Sebastian Street lurks a darkness that seems forbidding and threatening to some, yet welcoming and hospitable to others. This lost district provides refuge to those individuals whose despair is sufficient to enable passage into this realm of solitude. Somewhere on Sebastian Street, a boy chooses to remain young forever, electing to spend eternity alone rather than endure a tortured mortality. He inhabits the darkness alone...but he's never lonely.
Somewhere on Sebastian Street, that boy dreams of a life less real. Once his dr
eams were filled with love and hope and goodwill, but he always knew in his heart that these things would be denied him.
Somewhere on Sebastian Street lies a sanctuary for the forlorn, a haven for those beyond hope, and whatever dwells within its imaginary walls will never dwell alone.
For Gary McMahon
—Danica Green
Danica Green is a UK-based writer whose work has been featured in over 50 literary journals and anthologies, including flash fiction, articles and short stories in Smokelong Quarterly, Eclectic Flash, Neon Magazine, PANK, and The Stone Hobo, as well as anthologies by Cinnamon Press, Rainstorm Press, Silver Bow Publishing and others. She is currently working on her first novel and you can read more about her work on her Facebook author page: www.facebook.com/Danica.Green.Author
—June Decay
By Danica Green
Lola flicked through a magazine, trying to ignore the smashed glass and decay that surrounded her, trying to draw her mind away from the rhythmic thumping that was resonating through the door behind her. Her eyes wandered to the broken window as a shadow walked past on the street, a red sash across its body and a flashlight shining into every home on the way. Lola went still. As the shadow left her sight, she breathed a sigh of relief and turned to look at the door from which the noise was emanating. She always feared the Watchers would hear, see the worry on her face, bust their way in and descend with their pistols to the basement, but as of yet she had managed to avoid suspicion. She stood, walking to the kitchen and taking the thawed raw chicken that she had left defrosting on the side. She had fifteen minutes until another Watcher would walk past and she liked to be there, sitting in the family room, making a show of normality and getting on with her life. She tucked the chicken under her arm and pulled a key from a chain around her neck, unlocking the door and going down into the darkness. The thumping stopped, the sound replaced with a low snarl coming from the back of the room, and Lola flicked on the light switch. The basement was small and gnawed bones surrounded her in piles, the occasional blood splash and piles of excrement in various places on the floor.