Horror Stories to Tell in the Dark

by Anthony Masters

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Er –’

  The man was large and florid, dressed in heavy pinstripes, and wearing a tie that had pretensions to being old school but wasn’t. He looked like a plain-clothes policeman. Perhaps he is, thought Sam hopefully. Maybe someone else had seen Jocelyn Onions in the kitchen.

  ‘I want to see Lady Poynton.’

  ‘Which one?’ blurted out Sam.

  ‘The lady who runs these tearooms.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Is she available?’

  ‘Er – yes. You from the police?’

  ‘No – my name is Dangerfield – George Dangerfield. I’m a Health and Safety Officer and these tearooms are on my rota for this morning.’ There was a short silence. ‘I need to inspect the kitchens.’ Mr Dangerfield spoke slowly and loudly as if he thought Sam was an idiot.

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t go down there now,’ said Sam.

  ‘But I must, you silly little boy. It’s the law of the land. I must be admitted.’ He began to look apoplectic, his Adam’s apple protruding and swelling under his shirt collar as if it was a time bomb.

  ‘I’ll have to speak to Lady Poynton.’

  ‘Please do – and hurry.’

  But Sam didn’t have to hurry. Lady Poynton was advancing on them both, a withered smile on her face.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Her voice was slightly shrill and her unfocused eyes stared straight ahead.

  Mr Dangerfield explained, with great pomp and circumstance, but Lady Poynton didn’t seem in the least put out. ‘May I ask you to give me five minutes – just so my assistant can finish baking?’

  ‘I can quite easily view –’

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ Lady Poynton replied very smoothly, ‘but she’s the nervous type and anyway she’s just coming off duty.’

  ‘Very well – I must say, a cup of tea would be most welcome.’ Mr Dangerfield sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘Something smells delicious.’

  ‘That’ll be our apple and cinnamon cakes. Will you try one? Or even two?’

  ‘That would be delicious.’ Mr Dangerfield edged his large frame towards a corner table. Meanwhile, Sam wondered what to do. Should he tell Mr Dangerfield about Lady Poynton’s grisly secret, or should he still make for the phone-box?

  ‘Come on, Sam,’ said Lady Poynton briskly. ‘Don’t hover.’ She turned to Mr Dangerfield. ‘He’s a good boy, but he hasn’t been very well.’ She gave him a big, wide, friendly smile. ‘Let’s make sure our guest is happy and settled,’ she shouted above the chatter in the tearooms. ‘We’ll be serving lunches soon.’ She turned to Sam, her smile widening at his look of surprise. ‘This is an innovation; we only used to have damp quiche, as Sam called it – but now, just wait till you smell it.’

  In fact, after Mr Dangerfield had been served tea and cakes at the small corner table, Lady Poynton kept him waiting for quite a long time. When Sam tried to return to the kitchen he found the door locked and when he knocked on the frosted glass, Lady Poynton shouted out, ‘Not now, Sam – I’m busy.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Go and take some more cakes to Mr Dangerfield – I put some out on the side for you.’

  ‘But –’ Sam began again.

  ‘Collect the bills, give the change and start taking luncheon orders.’

  ‘There’s no menu.’

  ‘That’s because there’s only one dish. A roast.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Dangerfield. ‘Those cakes were truly delicious. I’m afraid I’ve been a little – self-indulgent.’

  ‘How many did you have?’ asked Sam, his voice shaking nervously as he picked up the bill.

  ‘Six – I’m afraid.’ He looked embarrassed as he paid up. Then Mr Dangerfield rose stiffly to his feet and looked at his watch. ‘I really must make my inspection now or I’ll be late for my next appointment.’

  ‘I’ll see if Lady Poynton’s ready,’ said Sam.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  They both walked over to the kitchen door and Sam knocked again on the frosted glass.

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice was light and sunny.

  ‘Mr Dangerfield’s here.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Are you ready?’ Sam’s voice wobbled and he cleared his throat.

  ‘Quite ready, thank you.’ Lady Poynton unlocked the kitchen door and stood back. Her face was slightly flushed and there were little beads of perspiration on her forehead.

  The smell of roasting meat was very intense now and Mr Dangerfield’s nose began to twitch with pleasure again.

  ‘That’s a very – pleasant aroma,’ he announced, and despite the cakes he looked even hungrier than he had before.

  ‘Why don’t you stay to lunch?’ asked Lady Poynton very sweetly.

  ‘But I’ve got an appointment —’

  ‘You can use the phone. Say you’ve been delayed.’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘Lamb’s on the menu. With mint sauce and new potatoes –’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘A special gravy. Buttered carrots –’

  ‘Yes –’

  ‘And a beautiful treacle tart to follow. Now, what do you say, Mr Dangerfield? It’ll be on the house, of course – and served just after your inspection. All I ask is that you don’t open the big oven – the flavour of the lamb’s ruined if any air gets in. I have to get it just right. I mean – lamb’s so delicate, isn’t it?’

  Mr Dangerfield looked round the small but scrupulously clean room with pleasure. ‘This really is a delightful kitchen.’ He began to poke around. ‘So small yet so clean.’

  And Lady Poynton simply smiled.

  There was a long silence after Tom’s story. The group by the lake were completely motionless.

  Jamie looked at his watch. It was getting late.

  ‘We’ve time for one last story,’ Hannah said uneasily. ‘Whose turn is it?’

  ‘Mine.’ Grant looked shifty. ‘Based on someone I know.’

  ‘Who?’ asked April curiously.

  ‘Teacher at school we used to send up a bit.’

  9

  Baiting Mr Benson

  Mr Benson, one of the English teachers at Garwood Comprehensive, had a problem, and it was a problem that wouldn’t go away. However much he tried, he couldn’t keep control, and as the years rolled away, somehow it got worse. Unfortunately he also looked as if he couldn’t keep control. He had a small, round, hesitant-looking face, with big eyes that always seemed to be wide open in mute appeal – and a lower lip that trembled. His voice was low-key, rather flat and definitely unassertive, and his clothes were downbeat – sports jackets with leather elbows and cuffs, frayed collars and dull ties, grey trousers, grey socks and brogues. He had no children of his own, but was married to a maths teacher at the same school – a stringy woman who looked like a question mark.

  When Grant – I’ll use my own name – and his ferret-like friend Nathan first came to Garwood from their primary school, they were well-briefed on Mr Benson. ‘Good for a laugh’, ‘Nice wind-up’, ‘Total prat’ were just some of the phrases that had been passed down to them by older brothers and friends, so when they arrived for their first lesson, there was a good deal of competition as to who was going to kick off the persecution first. Grant already had a macho reputation to live up to and was determined to get off to a good start, so when Mr Benson took the roll-call Grant tried to shine straight away.

  ‘Jackson.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jackson.’ Mr Benson’s voice was weary.

  ‘Snackson,’ Grant readily improvised, to the odd titter.

  ‘Who?’ asked Mr Benson in bewilderment, while the titters increased.

  ‘Snackson.’

  ‘I thought your name was Jackson.’

  ‘Well, it ain’t. It’s Snackson.’

  ‘It’s down here as Jackson.’ Mr Benson sounded worried.

  ‘That’s wrong.’

/>   ‘And your first name is – is Grant?’

  ‘Snarnt.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Snarnt Snackson.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ve got a cold, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘That’s why I’m Snackson.’

  There was wild laughter now. ‘I thought you – er – said your – er – name was Snackson.’

  ‘It is.’

  The confusion lasted a little longer, the laughter increased, and Mr Benson was discomforted. He grew even more discomforted as the term progressed and Grant, backed by Nathan, asserted himself as class clown. He thoroughly enjoyed the role. Baiting Mr Benson became the central focus of Grant’s world, and each day he hit a little harder and scored more effectively. Then at the beginning of the next term, Mr Benson went sick and a supply teacher arrived – and stayed. She was tough–unable to be goaded – and dealt effectively with Grant, Nathan and other troublemakers by placing them in detention.

  After a couple of weeks of this unpleasant regime the headmaster made an announcement in assembly – and Grant’s heart sank. ‘Mr Benson sadly has had a nervous breakdown and won’t be returning this term. We shall be sending a card and flowers and, of course, anyone who wishes to send him a greeting should ask the secretary for his address.’

  Grant cheered up, but only a little, for the sudden idea that came into his head was scant compensation for not being able to persecute Mr Benson every day in class.

  ‘I’m going to send a card,’ Grant told Nathan later in the playground. ‘It’ll be quite a surprise.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’ asked Nathan uneasily. He was already feeling guilty about Mr Benson’s breakdown, all too aware how much he must have contributed personally.

  ‘I just want to remind him I’m still around,’ said Grant. ‘So I wrote him this.’ He produced a scruffy hand-drawn card which read: GREETINGS. I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN YOU. GET BETTER SOON. I’M WAITING FOR YOU BACK AT SCHOOL. Underneath the words was a crude drawing of the class, Grant standing up and Mr Benson banging his own head against the blackboard.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll like that,’ said Nathan, his unease growing.

  ‘I don’t want him to,’ replied Grant.

  Two days later, the headmaster made another announcement in assembly. ‘I’m sure you will all be very sorry to hear that Mr Benson fell off Highwater Bridge into the river last night. Fortunately he was seen and rescued by a passer-by and I’m happy to say that he’s expected to make a full recovery. However, he will naturally be away rather longer than we originally anticipated.’

  ‘Fall?’ said Nathan later. ‘I reckon he jumped, don’t you?’

  ‘He even made a mess of trying to top himself,’ said Grant unmoved. ‘Maybe I should send him another card.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ Nathan was very agitated now.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because – maybe that’s why he jumped. The other card —’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Grant was adamant. ‘He’s just an old woman.’

  Nathan said nothing.

  ‘Look at this.’ Grant passed Nathan the second card on his way home from school. It showed Mr Benson jumping off the bridge and plunging into the water. The caption read: LEARN TO DIVE. I’M STILL WAITING.

  For once, Nathan was insistent. ‘You can’t send that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s sick – and so are you.’ He tried to grab the card, but Grant held it aloft, running down the road towards the postbox, pushing it into an envelope and shoving it through the slit with a cry of triumph.

  ‘You’ll kill him,’ yelled Nathan.

  ‘He hasn’t got the bottle,’ replied Grant.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Grant? Why are you so weird? So unhappy?’ Nathan asked.

  Grant scowled. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not. It’s your folks again, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  Nothing happened for the next few weeks. There were no more announcements from the head, and to Nathan’s relief Grant showed no sign of posting anything either. Time passed and there was still no news of Mr Benson. Meanwhile, Grant seemed to have been distracted by an interest in the climbing-wall of the gym, which had just been built and which simulated a hard rock climb. Both Grant and Nathan had first become interested in this kind of challenge when they had been at a school camp last year. They had even gone to the extent of buying some equipment and practising several times at a sandstone rock face a few miles out of town, but baiting Mr Benson had become such a major preoccupation to Grant that he had lost all interest in climbing, so Nathan was glad to see that this was being revived – even if as obsessively as he had persecuted his teacher.

  He would throw himself at the simulation, inching his way up limpet-like on the surface, somehow managing to jam his hands and feet into the smallest and most unlikely crannies. After a couple of months he succeeded in climbing higher than any other pupil in the class and, walking home, Nathan congratulated him, hoping this new passion would make him forget Mr Benson.

  ‘Dad’s walked,’ he admitted unexpectedly. ‘And Mum’s drunk most nights.’

  ‘Do you want to come over to my place?’ asked Nathan.

  ‘No. Got to look after the old girl, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yeah. But the climbing’s good —’

  ‘I think of Dad when I do it. I can see him a bit further up the simulation – always above me.’

  ‘You trying to get to him?’

  ‘I’m trying to pull him off,’ snapped Grant. ‘He’s right out of order. You ought to see what he did to Mum before he left. Beat her up, didn’t he?’ He paused, and Nathan waited, suddenly feeling much older. ‘It’s funny –’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I don’t want to wind up Benson any more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Not since Dad left. He used to remind me of him.’

  ‘Benson?’

  ‘Not to look at really, but Dad was like a wimp when he was sober although he was a real tiger when he was drunk. Funny thing is – I could never get a reaction out of Dad like I did with Benson. Do you get me?’

  Nathan wasn’t quite sure that he did. Suddenly, he froze.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Grant.

  ‘That was him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Benson.’

  ‘But he’s in the nut-house.’

  ‘Wasn’t he a voluntary patient?’ Nathan said, looking deeply shocked. ‘I saw him over there – on the other side of the road.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘I did.’

  They both craned their necks so that they could see into the crowd in the busy teatime high street.

  ‘Can’t see him,’ Grant scoffed.

  ‘He’s disappeared.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I told you.’ Nathan was insistent. ‘I saw Benson. It was definitely him.’

  ‘You must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Nathan’s air of conviction suddenly evaporated.

  Grant and Nathan lived on the same estate – a huge grey area of concrete, smeared by dogs and graffiti. A big adventure playground had been built on the central square, and it was packed with kids just out of school, running up and down the catwalks, swinging from ropes and frames. Normally Grant and Nathan used the playground for climbing practice.

  ‘Want a go on the big net?’ asked Grant.

  ‘I’ll have to put on my jeans,’ Nathan began. ‘Mum said I mustn’t – wait —’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘He’s in there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Benson.’

  ‘You going crazy?’

  ‘Look for yourself.’

  But Grant didn’t have to. Mr Benson, looking far more confident than they had ever seen him, walked briskly out of the playground. He gave them a cheerful, confident wave, got into a rather fast-look
ing Renault, and drove off.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Grant.

  ‘It’s weird.’ Nathan stared after the speeding car. ‘I mean – he looks different. Less of a wimp. More confident – and he was wearing jeans. He looked like – like a —’

  ‘He looked like my dad,’ muttered Grant.

  They saw Mr Benson again and again that evening, and each time they did so, Grant and Nathan felt a bemused sense of shock gradually turning into fear. They saw him while they were on their bikes outside the supermarket, in a queue at the cinema, sauntering along a back lane, and later jogging past Nathan’s house in a track suit.

  ‘He doesn’t even live round here,’ said Grant wonder-ingly. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Watching us?’

  ‘Why should he do that?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’ Nathan tried to sound casual but failed. ‘Why don’t you speak to him?’

  ‘Me?’ Grant was outraged.

  ‘Yeah. Ask him what he’s doing. Ask him if he’s watching us.’ Nathan’s voice was shrill.

  ‘No way.’

  ‘You’ve got to!’

  ‘I’m going home,’ said Grant firmly. ‘I’ve got Mum to look after.’

  But looking after Mum was impossible. When he got home he found her crying fit to burst, and then she went off to the pub. Grant went to bed and then woke up halfway through the night, convinced that he had heard something rattling against the window. The sound came again and he recognized it as a pebble. Nathan must be outside.

  He pulled up the window sharply. ‘Oi!’

  ‘Yes, Grant?’

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, seeing Mr Benson.

  ‘Taking a walk.’

  ‘You don’t live round here.’

  ‘No – but I find my steps keep dragging me in this direction.’ Mr Benson was leaning up against a lamppost, wearing a trendy anorak. ‘We won’t talk long – I don’t want to wake everyone up.’