Horror Stories to Tell in the Dark

by Anthony Masters

  ‘No.’ A cold chill seized Marie-Denise, making her squirm with rage and fear.

  ‘Said I’d be pleased to take them.’ Terry made the dreadful idea sound like a visit to the movies.

  ‘You can’t —’

  ‘Try and stop me.’

  ‘Please —’ At the fatal word Terry’s smile became even broader, and Marie-Denise cursed herself for weakening. Now he truly had her in his power, but she was determined that she would still challenge him. ‘If you do – I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’ll have you nicked.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’ll –’ Marie-Denise ran out of words and the tears glistened in her eyes.

  ‘If they want a ride, they can have it.’ Dale, Terry’s younger brother, was equally unpleasant and had a foxiness that was an additional threat. ‘I know they’d enjoy it. Oi – Jean-Luc, Duval.’

  They came over at once, curious and delighted to be singled out by the superheroes.

  ‘Want to take a ride sometime?’

  Their faces shone. ‘You bet.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘You’ll never go with them,’ yelled Marie-Denise. ‘If you do – you’ll get the hiding of your lives.’

  But Jean-Luc and Duval ignored her, and ran back laughing into the swelling crowd.

  ‘Doesn’t look as if big sister has too much influence,’ purred Terry delightedly. ‘So you’re long on being mouthy, short on getting them to do what you want – right?’

  ‘Right,’ added Dale.

  Marie-Denise walked away.

  ‘You’re not to go.’

  ‘We’ll do what we like,’ yelled Jean-Luc.

  ‘You’ll be killed.’

  ‘He’s an ace driver,’ shouted Duval.

  The argument between Marie-Denise and her brothers continued with neither side giving an inch. Eventually the boys went out to play. It was Saturday and Marie-Denise had to clean the flat while her gran went shopping. When she returned she found her granddaughter in tears.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked philosophically, used to trouble and continually bearing a load of worry. But when Marie-Denise told her the full story, she was horrified. ‘They can’t do that.’

  ‘They might,’ said Marie-Denise hopelessly. Usually such a confident person, she really felt she had lost her grip this time.

  ‘I’ll call the police.’

  ‘What can they do? This is a no-go area.’

  ‘It most certainly is not.’ Gran was always determined to believe the estate was respectable.

  ‘It is. And anyway, what can the police do? Nothing’s happened yet. But it will. The twins are out of control and Terry’s determined to get even with me for slapping him. Next thing we know – the twins will be dead. I can see it all.’ Marie-Denise lost what little control she had left and burst into desperate sobs while Gran put her arms round her and held her close. ‘What can we do?’ Marie-Denise cried. ‘What can we do to save them?’

  ‘There’s always Madame Simone,’ Gran said slowly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Madame Simone. You know – top of Marshall House.’

  ‘Her! She’s mental.’

  ‘Is she? She’s Haitian, like us.’ Gran’s voice shook.

  ‘What could she do? Put a spell on them?’

  ‘She’s a wise woman.’

  Marie-Denise looked up into her grandmother’s dark eyes, seeing centuries of old ways, old superstitions that she had never really left behind in Haiti. They had travelled with her and were still important, even though buried under years of living in Britain.

  ‘What could she do?’ insisted Marie-Denise.

  ‘I don’t know. Go and see her.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to her since I was little. She won’t recognize me.’

  ‘Yes she will. And if she doesn’t – tell her I sent you.’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘Go now, child. You’ll only get yourself in such a state that you won’t be able to cope. Besides, I’m afraid too. That boy is trouble.’

  Madame Simone lived on the top, tenth floor of an old block at the back of the estate. She was very old and to Marie-Denise’s knowledge hadn’t been out for years. She was generally thought to be a weirdo, so Marie-Denise was both anxious and afraid as she finally knocked at the battered door. For a while no one replied, and she was just about to knock again when a gravelly voice came through the intercom.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Marie-Denise. You know my gran, Jacqueline.’

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘Your advice.’

  ‘I got no advice to give anyone.’

  ‘Please –’

  There was a long pause, after which the chain was taken off and so many security devices clicked and rattled that minutes passed as Madame Simone unlocked the gates to her fortress. Finally, the door opened and she stood on the threshold, a mountain of a woman, with a shock of black frizzy hair and pale eyes.

  ‘You better come in.’

  Madame Simone very slowly led Marie-Denise to an inner chamber that had once been the living-room of the flat and was now a bizarre cross between a witch’s cavern, a chemist’s and a laboratory. There was a grimness to the place that spoke of ancient alchemy, which terrified Marie-Denise. She had never been here before, and fervently wished she had never come. She must be mad expecting this crazy old lady to help her. Again Marie-Denise saw Terry’s grinning face, and in her mind she heard him say, ‘Now she believes in witchcraft – poor little mummy.’

  ‘Well?’

  The paraphernalia around them included glass jars with stuffed owls and crows, bottles of unidentifiable substances, dead bats, musical instruments, a row of teeth and, worse still, what appeared to be paws on a string and beetles scuttling in a cage.

  There was also a scuffling sound that came from a closed door near the bookcase, which was stacked with dusty volumes displaying the signs of the zodiac.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ asked Marie-Denise, startled.

  ‘My cats,’ said Madame Simone a little too quickly and defensively, or was it just Marie-Denise’s imagination? ‘Come on, you’d better tell me what you want.’ Her voice was commanding and Marie-Denise hesitantly began to explain her problem.

  When she had finished, the mountainous lady was silent. Then she said slowly, ‘You hate him – this Terry?’

  ‘Very much – and if he harms the twins –’

  ‘You know how powerful hatred is?’ The gravelly voice was soft and questioning.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hatred can be far more dangerous than your Terry’s cars.’

  ‘He’s not my Terry.’ Marie-Denise was deeply frustrated.

  ‘But you are worried about your twins.’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  Sighing, Madame Simone moved heavily to a shelf and took down a large bottle of dark liquid with a screw cap. ‘You have to throw this in your Terry’s face.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have to throw this in his face,’ she replied patiently.

  ‘What will it do to him?’

  ‘It will stop him.’

  ‘You mean hurt him? I’ll get nicked – ‘What’ So the old lady was crazy after all. What was in the bottle, wondered Marie-Denise. Acid?

  ‘It won’t hurt.’

  ‘How can I be sure?’

  She unscrewed the bottle and poured a little of the dark liquid on to the dusty table in front of her. Nothing happened.

  ‘Now if that was acid –’

  ‘Yes – I know. It would burn the table.’ But Marie-Denise still looked down at the liquid doubtfully.

  ‘He’ll certainly forget about driving cars.’ The old lady gave a low growl of amusement.

  ‘And you’re sure it won’t hurt him?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘OK.’ Marie-Denise took the bottle despondently. It’s probably harmless, she thought. What a waste of time the visit had turned
out to be. Gran was going senile. ‘I must go. Thank you,’ she said automatically.

  ‘Remember about that hatred.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s very powerful. Can you not be friends with your Terry?’

  ‘Never – and he’s not mine,’ Marie-Denise repeated fiercely.

  ‘You really do hate him, don’t you?’ said the old lady sadly.

  ‘Look what he might do to the twins.’

  Madame Simone nodded and then began to move towards the door. She took Marie-Denise’s hand and her grip was hot and moist, as if she had a fever.

  ‘You’ll try to love him —’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘And only use the bottle if there’s an emergency – an emergency that might mean death.’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’ Marie-Denise suddenly wanted to get out of the claustrophobic confines of the flat as quickly as possible. She could hear a kind of bumping, shuffling sound behind that closed door; Madame Simone must have absolutely hundreds of cats in there, she thought, and suddenly felt sick as she imagined the dusty, fur-ridden atmosphere in the little room. ‘Thank you – I’ll – I’ll be in touch,’ she said, meaning never to see the old woman again.

  ‘You know where I am if you need me. Only open the bottle in the greatest emergency.’ Her voice was forbidding.

  *

  For some days nothing happened. Marie-Denise didn’t see Terry and the twins were comparatively well-behaved. But the next Friday night he returned with yet another stolen car. As she stared out of the window, Marie-Denise’s heart sank. But at least the twins were safe this time, she thought, for they had gone to bed hours ago.

  She was just about to go herself, when Gran came stumbling into the living room, looking distraught.

  ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The twins – they must have slipped out when we were watching TV. The little devils —’

  Suddenly the screaming of tyres and grinding of gears seemed much louder – almost in the flat itself. The cold feeling swept back inside Marie-Denise and she started to shake all over, partly in fear, but also in hatred. ‘They’ve gone to Terry.’

  ‘No –’

  ‘Yes they have, Gran. They’re down there now.’ The hatred grew in her, outweighing the fear, and she ran into the bedroom, grabbing at Madame Simone’s bottle of liquid and pulling on her coat. She had only told Gran that the old woman had been kind and full of advice, so she stuffed the weapon deep into her pocket.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ asked Gran feebly.

  ‘Where do you think?’

  ‘You be careful.’

  ‘OK.’ Marie-Denise slammed the door behind her.

  ‘It’s not right,’ said a girl about her own age, as Marie-Denise tried to struggle through the excited crowd.

  ‘What isn’t?’ she asked, but she knew what she was going to hear.

  ‘He’s got a couple of little kids strapped in the back – as well as his brother in the front. That guy’s going to kill someone.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ yelled Marie-Denise, finally worming her way through the tightly pressed throng, to see Terry doing a handbrake turn in a stolen Rover. Directly he saw her he came to a squealing halt.

  ‘Hello, little mummy.’

  ‘Let them out.’

  ‘I don’t think they want to come.’

  Sure enough the twins, excited and completely unafraid, screamed abuse at her from the back of the Rover.

  Marie-Denise looked round desperately, but there were no adults in the crowd at all —just a bunch of goggling kids.

  Marie-Denise’s hatred for him was now so great that she felt consumed by it; dragging Madame Simone’s bottle out of her coat pocket she unscrewed the top – and hurled the contents over him.

  ‘Acid!’ he yelled, and reaching out an arm to ward her off hit the bottle with such force that some of the liquid splashed back over Marie-Denise’s face.

  ‘No!’ she yelled.

  Wrenching open the door of the Rover, she undid the twins’ seatbelts and yanked them both out while they shouted and kicked, eventually beginning to cry. Some of the older girls came to her aid, turning on Terry, who was still wiping away the liquid, belatedly accusing him of being a potential killer.

  Marie-Denise paused for a second, staring at him, and he met her eyes, more puzzled than angry.

  ‘What is this stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  Marie-Denise didn’t reply; she just stood there, staring at him, a struggling twin in each hand.

  ‘It’s sticky,’ Terry muttered.

  She clawed some of it away from her own face and almost lost Jean-Luc, but someone grabbed him and she was in control again, dragging them back to the flat and away from the crowd.

  ‘Fancy taking those little kids.’

  ‘He could have killed them.’

  ‘Mindless idiot.’

  ‘Poor little mites!’

  ‘Let’s get out of here, Tel,’ muttered Dale, and the Rover roared into life again, taking the bend too sharply, sending a dustbin flying, and speeding off down the main road, full-beam headlights relentlessly probing the darkness.

  ‘We were having fun – till you turned up.’

  ‘You always wreck everything.’

  ‘Shut up, you two,’ snapped Marie-Denise, her grip hardening on their wrists. ‘Unless you want a good hiding.’

  Somehow, she dragged Jean-Luc and Duval up the long flight of stairs, while they still howled and raged at her. Her head felt strange – as if she was swimming underwater in slow-motion – and there was a buzzing in her ears.

  Once she had handed over the protesting pair to Gran, Marie-Denise went to bed exhausted and slept almost at once. She felt as if she was in some great, echoing cavern, where inexplicable sounds assailed her ears and weird visions, disconnected and fragmented, kept coming and going in her mind’s eye. Slowly they became more distinct and she saw – or thought she saw – a series of strange animals, almost human, that shambled round a small space. They were covered in lank fur and made a low grunting sound.

  Slowly Marie-Denise woke, stiflingly hot, throwing off the bedclothes and lying on her back. She brushed a hand across her face, and gave a startled grunt. Staggering to her feet, she went to the mirror and pushed the lank hair away from her face. Part girl, part ape, part something much earlier – a horrifying mixture of all three – Marie-Denise looked like some atavistic throwback to the dawn of time. What was more, standing upright seemed painful and unnatural. She had to settle on all fours. She knew where she had to go, knew where the only possible hope lay: Madame Simone had to have the antidote.

  Bounding on her paws, Marie-Denise managed to open the door and scuttle down the stairs. Her mind, at least, seemed to retain human thought, but blind panic consumed her. Scurrying across the worn grass outside with a jaundiced moon above her, she remembered what Madame Simone had said about hatred and then paused. Another creature was slowly moving towards her on all fours, grunting plaintively, hunched into itself. Terry was just a mass of long, lank hair. They met, staring, not wanting to touch each other, yet nevertheless tentatively pawing. Then she turned away and he followed.

  Madame Simone stood in the hallway, accepting, resigned. It was the strength of hatred that determined how strongly the liquid acted, thought Marie-Denise. After all – she had been warned.

  Madame Simone led them through the cluttered sitting-room and paused before the closed door. ‘You managed to splash it on yourself too,’ she said.

  Marie-Denise hung her shaggy head and Terry’s grunting became desperate.

  ‘I don’t have the antidote,’ Madame Simone said. She shook her head, flinging open the inner door. Marie-Denise saw the crouched shadows, stilled and wary.

  ‘They all came to me,’ said Madame Simone, ‘after they had used up their hatred. All I can do is feed them, to understand.’

  M
arie-Denise and Terry slowly padded into the room.

  ‘Are they still there?’ asked Jamie, but he didn’t want an answer. They all stared into the flames.

  ‘I’ve got a Mexican pen-friend,’ said Will, determined to change the subject. ‘And he told me about someone who collected dogs.’

  7

  The Day of the Dead

  Carlos had first noticed the stranger a few minutes before because he seemed to be carefully inspecting each headstone and mausoleum. He was particularly distinctive: tall, pale and wearing black clothes, almost like a priest. There was a large white carnation in his buttonhole and he pushed in front of him a handcart which bore the words:

  TIJUANA DOG SANCTUARY

  It was the Mexican festival of the day of the dead – a joyous occasion, with parties in the graveyards, bands playing and tables groaning with food and drinks. Soon sweets would be on sale in the form of sugar skulls and skeletons, the rackety border town of Tijuana would come raucously alive, and for a few hours Carlos would know that the spirit of his father was near him.

  Carlos’s family possessed a mausoleum, but because they were poor it was very small and the burial chamber was now so full that the undertakers could only squeeze in his father’s coffin by placing it on the floor. Outside, in steel frames and behind weatherproof glass, were the photographs of his family’s dead – some sepia-coloured and faded, others much fresher. Carlos’s father had died only a few days ago and his photograph was the freshest of all; his smiling face looked down in gentle dignity, without a trace of the pain in which he had died.

  The stranger was coming nearer, pushing his handcart in front of him. Slowly he scrutinized each name on the gravestones until he finally came upon the mausoleum and, completely ignoring Carlos, suddenly snapped his fingers together in triumph. The snapping sound was very unpleasant to hear, as if someone had broken a dead twig in half.

  ‘Do you want something, señor?’ asked Carlos.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you – do you know my family?’

  ‘Not personally.’ He looked closely at Carlos for the first time. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said abruptly and began to push his handcart away.

  Carlos went back to his small, overcrowded apartment and helped his mother and younger brothers and sisters prepare for the carnival. But he could hardly concentrate on what he was doing and a curious sense of urgency overcame him as he began to worry about the stranger. Tijuana Dog Sanctuary? Wasn’t that one of the places his father had once told him about? The thought began to obsess him and he looked at his watch. Nine, and twilight was already giving way to darkness. He felt an overpowering urge to return to the cemetery, to check that the mausoleum was safe and all was well. The fiesta would not begin until eleven at least, so Carlos knew he could slip out of the apartment, make his check and then return home in time to help load the food, the trestle-tables and the effigies of the saints into his uncle’s truck.