The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror

by Vargo, Joseph

  The bones of possums and rats littered the floor. I could hear the sound of heavy chains grinding against stone, and then a hulking shape rose up from the shadows. My eyes widened, trying to see better in the dark, and my throat constricted with terror. The thing lunged forward into the meager light, but stopped short of reaching us, restrained by a collar and thick shackles that secured it to the wall. The creature clawed and snapped at us, growling and frothing at the mouth. Its skin was grayish-yellow and drawn tight over his skeletal frame. His eyes were glazed over with cataracts and sunken deep into the sockets of his cadaverous face. His lips were drawn back in a deathly grimace and the top of his skull was missing, as if it had been blown off by a violent blast to the head. The creature emitted a sickening stench of rot and decay, and even though half of his head was gone and his rotting brains were exposed, the thing was alive and standing there before us.

  "I've been searching for years," the girl said. "You're the first person I've told the entire story to. Well, not the entire story, I haven't finished it yet. You see, after Eric set that creature on fire, I heard a loud blast, then I saw Eric fall to the ground. The old hag was standing over his body with a shotgun, smoke rising from the barrel. That was the last I saw of him. I ran and never looked back. Eventually I made it out of the swamp, but Eric never returned. I never told the police the entire story, only the part about the old woman and her shack. They searched the area and found the house, but it was deserted. They never found any traces of the hag or her walking corpse. After months of searching on my own, I tracked them down to this God-forsaken place." She shone her flashlight onto the creature's chest. A jagged scar was sealed closed by crude stitches, right beneath a tattoo that read "Nicole."

  "Oh my God," I whispered.

  The girl's eyes glittered. "It was easy to kill the old woman while she slept. Then I found the jar with the zombie's heart, and I smashed it. The creature seemed to cave in on itself, as if it were made of rotting paper. I knew the corpses of the hag's victims would be buried near the house, and it wasn't long before I unearthed Eric's remains. He was the love of my life. You have to understand that. I couldn't bear to live without him, no matter what."

  I tried to speak but I could not. My heart raced, making me dizzy and breathless.

  The abomination in chains mewled and hissed. The girl's pale hand clutched my arm with surprising strength, inching me closer to the creature. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Morgan, but Eric gets so hungry... and after all, you wanted proof."

  Mr. Stitch

  by Joseph Iorillo and Joseph Vargo

  Detective Vaughn pulled up in front of the large white Colonial home on Ford Avenue a few seconds after the ambulance had sped away to Crawford Memorial Hospital. The piercing wail of the siren could still be heard in the distance. It was just after 3 a.m. and several neighbors stood on their porches in bathrobes and pajamas, staring at the proceedings.

  Vaughn got out of his car and motioned to Sergeant McCafferty, who stood with two other uniformed officers on the perfectly manicured lawn. "How bad is it?" Vaughn asked.

  "Bad," McCafferty said, "I've never seen anything like it."

  "What do we have?"

  "Two victims, both female, both fifteen years old, assaulted by some unknown intruder."

  The detective clenched his jaw, then asked "What happened to them?"

  McCafferty consulted a small, hand-held notebook then said "The first girl, Beth Davis, had her mouth sewn shut. The second one, the Stefano girl, had her eyes sewn shut."

  "Angela Stefano?"

  "Yeah," McCafferty whispered.

  Vaughn's heart sank. Everyone in their small town knew Angela Stefano had been dealt more than her share of tragedy. Her father and mother had died in a car crash when she was eight, leaving her in the custody of an uncle with a drug problem. Last year, that uncle died of a morphine overdose, leaving her an orphan for the second time. The uncle's second wife was now her guardian.

  It was a warm spring night, but Vaughn felt a deep chill. He glanced at the house. "Whose house is it?"

  "Another girl lives here, Carrie Childress. Her parents are out of town for the weekend. She's still inside with two of her other friends. They were all having a slumber party."

  "Any alcohol?"

  McCafferty nodded. "Two empty bottles of wine. You can smell it on them."

  Vaughn sighed and headed for the front door, but the old sergeant touched his elbow. "They were drinking, but I don't think any of them could have been responsible for something like this," McCafferty said. "They're really shaken up."

  Inside, the three remaining teenage girls huddled on the couch in the living room with a female uniformed officer standing behind them.

  "Which one of you is Carrie Childress?" Vaughn asked softly.

  A small red-haired girl looked up at him fearfully, then looked away again.

  Vaughn focused on the girl. "Carrie? Do you want to tell me what happened?"

  "I already told her," Carrie murmured, glancing at the female officer.

  "I want you to tell me," Vaughn said.

  "I woke up about an hour ago," Carrie said, looking at her two friends. "I had to go to the bathroom. We were all in my room. The night-light was on, and I saw… I saw them in their sleeping bags. Angela was gasping and crying, and Beth was unconscious. She was covered in blood. Her mouth…." Carrie began to tremble. One of her friends put her arm around Carrie's twitching shoulders. "That's all I remember."

  "Who did this to them?"

  "I don't know," Carrie said,

  Vaughn looked at the hands and clothing of the girls. No blood was evident. "You didn't see anyone else in the house but you girls?"

  "I didn't see anyone," Carrie said softly, "and all the doors were locked." The other two girls said the same thing when Vaughn posed the question to them.

  The detective sighed and took the female officer aside. "You questioned them separately?" Vaughn asked.

  "Yes. For what it's worth, their stories are the same."

  Snapping on a pair of latex gloves so he wouldn't contaminate the crime scene, Vaughn climbed the stairs with the female police officer and looked around Carrie's bedroom. He crouched and looked over the sleeping bags, studying the spatter of blood on two of the bags.

  "That's Beth's sleeping bag," the officer said, pointing at the bag with the heaviest blood stains. Vaughn, however, was studying Angela's bag. Hidden within the folds of the fabric, he discovered a length of thick black sewing thread attached to a long curved needle that was stained with blood. He placed the needle and thread into a clear evidence bag and sealed it shut, then slid it into his overcoat pocket.

  Next to Angela's sleeping bag, several droplets of blood seemed to trail off toward the door. He followed the trail across the carpet and down the hallway to a door that he found locked. At the end of the hall, an ornate wall mirror reflected back his tired, grim face, an expression of perplexity lining his features. "Whose room is this?" Vaughn asked the female cop, but to his surprise, Carrie answered, standing at the top of the stairs.

  "My brother, Davey. He's away at college. He likes to keep his room locked when he's gone."

  Davey Childress. The name was vaguely familiar to Vaughn. The kid had had his share of run-ins with the cops over the years. Underage drinking, fighting, even threatening the life of a former girlfriend.

  Vaughn deftly popped open the door's flimsy lock using a flat, credit card-sized slip of metal he kept in his wallet for just such occasions, but there was nothing of interest in Davey's room. The bed had been stripped of its sheets, and the closet had been emptied of clothes. A subtle layer of dust lay over everything.

  Out on the porch, Vaughn told Sergeant McCafferty to phone the hospital and tell the doctors that he would need to talk to Angela and Beth tonight, as soon as possible.

  The Beth Davis who lay in a semi-private room in the pediatric wing of Crawford Memorial bore little resemblance to the pretty, vivacious Beth Davis pictured
in the high school yearbook that had been sitting in the Childress living room. After sending Beth's distraught parents out of the room, Vaughn pulled up a chair to her bedside, trying not to betray the shock he felt at seeing the ruined lower half of her face. The heavy black thread that her demented assailant had used to stitch up her mouth had been removed and the ragged holes had been more carefully repaired with fine white sutures. Her lips were swollen and droplets of blood still oozed from her wounds onto the swath of gauze wound around her face.

  "How do you feel?"

  "Sleepy," she whispered, trying her best not to move her mouth. "Numb."

  "I know it probably hurts to talk, but I need you to tell me who did this to you. Was it one of the other girls?"

  "No. I was passed out. Don't remember much. Woke up… and I was like this." Fresh tears spilled from her eyes.

  "How much did you have to drink, Beth?"

  She shrugged. "Three glasses. Maybe four."

  Vaughn sat back in his chair. She was a slight girl. That was more than enough alcohol to knock her out for a while. "What were you girls doing just before you went to bed?"

  "Telling ghost stories. Trying to scare each other. We talked about boys. About who we liked."

  "Which boys in particular did you talk about?"

  Beth looked alarmed. She shut her eyes, shaking her head. "I don't want to talk anymore. Please."

  Vaughn patted her hand. "It's all right. Get some sleep."

  Angela Stefano sat in a chair by the window as dawn bled into the turbulent indigo sky. Although she seemed to be studying the horizon, heavy bandages were wrapped around her eyes.

  "You should be in bed," Vaughn said.

  "Are you with the police?"

  "I'm Detective Mike Vaughn. Your aunt is getting some coffee. She said I could speak with you about what happened."

  "Did you ask Beth?"

  "Yes," Vaughn said, sitting on the edge of her bed. "But I'd like to hear it from you."

  "I don't remember much." Angela's voice sounded flat, drugged.

  "That implies you remember something. What is it?"

  Angela turned her head in his direction, and Vaughn nearly winced at the sight of the blood smears on the bandages in the vicinity of her eyes. "Do you know the legend of Mr. Stitch?" Her voice quivered as she mentioned the name.

  "No. Who is that?"

  "Long ago, when two people wanted to make sure that a secret or a promise would be kept, they made a pact over a sewing needle and thread. Once they shared their secret, or swore their promise, they would recite this poem...

  This secret promise, I swear to keep,

  Shared in trust, then buried deep —

  Cross my heart and hope to die,

  Stick a needle in my eye —

  If I should tell a living soul,

  May Mr. Stitch come take his toll —

  And while I lie asleep in bed,

  Seal my lips with sewing thread."

  Vaughn said nothing. The poem's chilling lines and Angela's singsong lilt made him uneasy.

  "After reciting the poem," Angela said, "the two would bury the needle and thread in a graveyard. If either of the people broke their vow or told the secret, Mr. Stitch would pay them a visit at night. With needle and thread in hand, he would creep into their bedrooms to sew their mouths closed while they slept. If his victims awoke, Mr. Stitch would sew their eyes shut to keep them from seeing him."

  "Did you and the other girls recite the poem earlier tonight?"

  Angela nodded.

  "Beth said you had been talking about boys. About the boys you liked. I'm guessing you each swore an oath of secrecy. Did Beth break her promise?"

  Angela said nothing.

  "Did you break the oath, too?"

  "No," Angela said after a moment. "But I saw him. That's why he hurt me."

  Vaughn leaned forward. "Who did you see, Angela? What did he look like?"

  She swallowed, trying to maintain her composure and her wounded eyes strained to fight back painful tears. "I saw his face. I'll never be able to forget it—those cruel eyes squinting at me, that evil smile and the thick black strands of thread dangling from the curved needle in his hand."

  "Who?" Vaughn asked, "Who did you see?"

  Angela's lips trembled as she whispered "It was Mr. Stitch."

  Vaughn's brow furled. "The man from your story?"

  "Yes," she said quietly.

  Unable to make sense of her response, he tried to redirect his line of questioning. "How did he get inside the house?"

  "He came out of our nightmares," Angela's voice quivered. "He crept beside her and climbed on top of her. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't stop him."

  As gently but as persistently as he dared, he peppered her with further questions—how tall was this assailant, how old, what color hair, what type of clothing. But Angela kept shaking her head, finally turning back to the window. The sound of soft sniffling indicated that she was weeping.

  The next day, Vaughn sat at his desk in the squadroom, files and notes spread out before him like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. In fact, they seemed to be pieces of separate jigsaw puzzles. He tried to organize the fragments into a coherent picture of the mysterious and sinister Mr. Stitch.

  Sergeant McCafferty dropped a sheaf of papers on top of Vaughn's already cluttered blotter. "From the doctors. The results of blood tests on the two girls. No hallucinogenic drugs in their systems, just alcohol. You making any progress?"

  "Not much. I thought Davey Childress was a solid lead but I called the university and got a handful of people who can alibi him for that night." The detective hesitated then asked "Have you ever heard an urban legend about a character named Mr. Stitch?"

  McCafferty looked at him with a puzzled expression. "What's he supposed to be, like the bogey man or something?"

  "Yeah. Something like that. Have you ever heard the name before?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Just a story one of the girl's mentioned. I haven't pieced it all together yet, but something really shook them up."

  "So what do you think happened in that house last night, Mike?"

  Vaughn sat back in his swivel chair. "Tipsy girls telling scary stories, revealing secret crushes. I checked the cell phone records of the girls. Around one a.m., Beth called a boy named Kevin Leonetti and told him that Carrie Childress liked him. Kevin told me it was a short phone call, and he could hear a couple other girls giggling in the background before she hung up."

  "Sounds like the secret crushes weren't that secret."

  Vaughn's thoughts returned to the enigmatic Mr. Stitch and his grisly duty to ensure that secrets were kept, whatever the cost.

  Beth Davis seemed to be in better shape the following day when Inspector Vaughn visited her at home. They sat outside on the patio, and Beth had a difficult time meeting the detective's eyes. She kept fidgeting with the small crucifix hanging around her neck.

  "I told you I don't remember much about that night. I was drunk."

  "You don't remember calling Kevin Leonetti while Carrie was out of the room and telling him that Carrie had a crush on him?"

  Beth shook her head. "What difference does it make, anyway?"

  Vaughn shrugged. "You broke your promise." He did not have to add the unspoken consequence of breaking her promise: the wrath of Mr. Stitch. He could see the fear in Beth's eyes. Her fingers clutched at the crucifix and she appeared even more annoyed and agitated than before.

  "I don't want to talk about this anymore!" she cried. "Why don't you leave me alone?"

  "Don't you want me to catch whoever did this to you?"

  "You can't," she said suddenly. Her eyes welled with tears.

  "Beth, Mr. Stitch isn't real."

  She stood up and was about to run back in the house, but Vaughn touched her on the arm. "Beth, please. Let's talk about what happened that night —"

  "No! You're not going to make me break my promise! It's been more than a year and I'm still not g
oing to tell!" She stormed back inside the house, nearly running into her mother, Denise, who was standing by the patio door.

  Vaughn's brow furrowed. What was she talking about? Beth had already broken her promise regarding Carrie's affection for Kevin. It's been a year…. What other secret was she referring to?

  Denise stepped out onto the patio, clutching her sweater around her as a cool breeze stirred the leaves on the trees. "I'm sorry," she said. "She's still traumatized."

  "It's understandable."

  "She's had a lot to deal with lately. She's struggling in school, her brother's been dealing with diabetes, her father's lawn care business isn't doing so well… now this." Denise glanced worriedly back into the house. She cleared her throat. She looked strained and tired. "Detective, do you think a person is responsible for what happened? I mean, what kind of person could do something like this to another human being?"

  "A very sick person," he answered solemnly.

  "Beth is afraid to go to sleep. She's afraid that her nightmares will come to life."

  "Mrs. Davis, Mr. Stitch is just a story. He's not real."

  "Well, my daughter's injuries are very real." She tried to keep the anger from her voice. She shook her head. "You know, as bad as I feel for what happened to Beth, I feel even worse for poor Angela. She's had a terrible year. First that terrible uncle of hers dies, now this."

  "Did you know her uncle?" Vaughn asked.

  "I knew that I didn't care for him."

  "Why?"

  "It wasn't just the drugs. He just seemed… evil. He would get a little too friendly with Beth when she went over there. It made her uncomfortable. And sometimes he would look at Angela like…." She lowered her eyes as if embarrassed. "I don't know if he ever touched her. But he seemed like the type."

  Vaughn said nothing.

  Denise looked off at the swaying trees as the sun slipped behind a cloud. "I know it sounds silly, I know he's dead, but I get the feeling that he's responsible for this."