The Bad Game

by Adam Millard

  Pat was refilling her glass for the umpteenth time since the police left when the lights failed once again. “Dammit, Dick!” she said, steadying herself on the counter. “What the hell are you playing out down there? I shoulda done it myself.”

  Making her way slowly across the living-room, Pat listened to the rain outside. It was torrential; perhaps that was why the lights had failed. Maybe this was a power cut, and not just a tripped switch.

  After a few seconds, Pat’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom and she could make out various shapes which she recognised.

  And one that she didn’t.

  “Dick?” she whispered. “Is that you?”

  The figure was standing in the doorway; Pat could just about make out the shape of a head and a pair of shoulders, though Dick wasn’t a small man. Whoever that was they were no more than five-feet tall, and thin-framed, almost like a shop mannequin in the children’s section of a department store.

  Fear rippled through Pat Gurley like she had never experienced before, and she had found a corpse earlier that day. She considered screaming, but the idea didn’t last as all thoughts turned to her husband. Where was Dick? What had happened to her beloved husband of four decades?

  “What have you done with my Dick!?” Pat screeched at the motionless figure in the doorway.

  And then the figure wasn’t motionless anymore, but hurtling through the darkness toward Pat. Meeeeaaaaaaaarrrrrrrggggghhhhh! It thumped into her chest, knocking her back into her armchair—the one only she was allowed to sit upon. Talons tore at her chest, ripping her apart, savaging her as she tried to fight back, to no avail.

  A child, that’s all it was. Pat could see its face through the murk as it continued to slit her open, a face which had once been pretty, smiling at the sight of a pink pony or a well-furnished doll’s house.

  *

  Subjects: Dave and Dennis Hawthorne

  Age: 14

  Gēmuōbā Level Achieved: Fifteen

  Sylvia Griffiths, AKA Gypsy Martha, was sitting in her caravan reading a book about charlatans, of all things, when she heard the first howl. Immediately, the hairs on the nape of her neck stood up, for there was something otherworldly about the noise, which seemed to emanate from not too far away. She put the book—Psychic Blues: Confessions of a Conflicted Medium—down on the coffee table and pushed her not inconsiderable frame up from the leather chair. She waddled across the caravan to the only window which would afford her a decent view of the campsite and eased the curtain open a few inches.

  The rain hammering into the window made it almost impossible for Sylvia to see out. She could just about discern the dim lights illuminating the interiors her neighbours’ caravans, and there, in the distance, Mike Collins the campsite handyman was steering his pickup across the muddy field, no doubt off to the pub for a couple of swift halves before returning home to his wife, who happened to be cheating on him. Sylvia knew this because she had seen the adulterous bint in town, surreptitiously kissing a man who looked uncannily like Santa Claus.

  There was the howl again, a little closer this time. The breath caught in Sylvia’s throat and her heartbeat quickened. Not one to scare easily, Sylvia Griffiths had the constitution of an SAS sniper or an Air Force pilot. However, there was something terribly unsettling about that caterwauling, for it was far too early in the evening for the foxes to make an appearance, and it was louder than any cat should have been able to muster.

  “What the devil…?”

  Sylvia reluctantly pulled her slippers and cardigan on and unlocked the caravan door. As she opened it, sideways rain pelted her viciously. The wind was certainly getting up out there, and the campsite’s positioning—atop a hill less than half a mile from her fairground workplace—meant that they were exposed to the elements more than anyone in Hemsby.

  Stepping out into the night, Sylvia suddenly felt extremely silly. She was getting wet, her slippers were sinking into the mud surrounding her caravan like a truffle moat, and all for what? Because she had heard an animal whining?

  She squelched her way along the side of her static caravan, picking up toppled plant-pots as she went. If you can’t take pride in your home, her mother always used to tell her, then neither can a man. Shows what she knew. Sylvia was as neat and organised as they came, and yet she had remained a virgin throughout her life, though that wasn’t for the want of trying.

  The awful howling stopped Sylvia in her tracks, and she stood there, motionless, the rain belting down all around her. Where had it come from? It had sounded close that last time… very close. It had also sounded more like a baby’s cry than an animal’s lament.

  Sylvia shuddered, though she put it down to the wind sweeping across the field rather than the fact she was uncharacteristically disconcerted.

  “What is that awful noise?” a voice said, startling Sylvia so severely that she almost slipped in the quagmire beneath her feet. She turned slowly around—there was no other way to do it—and her eyes set upon her neighbour, Cassie Westmore, standing in the doorway of her twin Delta Desire. It wasn’t as deluxe as Sylvia’s home, but then Cassie was still a relatively young girl without the funds to afford such luxuries.

  “I know,” Sylvia said, wiping rain from her forehead. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” She didn’t dislike Cassie, though she did have reservations about some of the parties the girl hosted in her caravan, and there were always boy-racer cars parked outside, with their trance or dance or jungle-house music pumping out for all and sundry to hear.

  “If you find out, let me know,” Cassie said, and with that she went back inside, into the warm.

  Sylvia shook her head and continued around to the rear of her home, and that was when she heard the noise for the final time. And it had been close… so close, in fact, that when the hands reached out from beneath her caravan and latched onto her ankles, she wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

  As she was dragged to the ground, kicking up mud and water, she tried to scream, but the wind had been knocked out of her.

  She looked down to her feet, to where hands—Two? Three? Four?—clawed at her, dragged her deeper into the shadows of the caravan’s underside. Mud now filled her mouth and eyes, but she could see through the grime, could make out two faces down there beneath her home. Identical, they were, a pair of boys with muddy faces and razor-sharp teeth. The boy on the left howled and the boy on the right giggled playfully.

  Sylvia was pulled beneath the caravan with considerable ease thanks to the mud and rainwater surfacing the field. As a psychic, she should have seen this coming.

  *

  Subject: Lydia LaVill

  Age: 13

  Gēmuōbā Level Achieved: Nine

  “What the fuck!”

  The girl leapt up onto the table, snarling and drooling all over the food the waiter had just carried out so expertly. The girl’s mother and father jumped up, trying to coax their daughter down before she did herself some damage, but the girl wasn’t listening. She was too busy growing at the waiter, who had now backed into the corner and was using Bellagio’s new wine list as a shield. “Whatsamatterwidder?” said the waiter. People were already spilling out of the restaurant and onto the street, anything to get away from the mad little girl with the bow in her hair and the black tar seeping from her mouth.

  The mother and father exchanged glances, and the waiter knew, in that moment, that this was a first for them, too.

  “She’s just sick, is all,” said the mother, more to reassure herself than the petrified waiter hiding behind the red leather menu. “Come on down, Lydia, and we’ll get you to the hospital.”

  The daughter, Lydia, was having none of it. Up there on the table she looked trapped and confused, but that quickly disappeared as she launched herself over the heads of her parents and landed on her haunches next to a table full of erudite-looking gentlemen. They mumbled their disapproval, and continued to do so as Lydia, the apparently rabid young girl who had ordered a Caesar salad a
nd a glass of orange juice for her starter only a few moments ago, began to tear them apart with both teeth and claws.

  *

  Subject: William ‘Billy’ Evans

  Age: 5

  Gēmuōbā Level Achieved: One (Lowest Score of the Day)

  The HAC Bowling Complex was filled almost to capacity. Whether this was a result of the adverse weather conditions, coupled with the fact it was a school holiday, the staff weren’t sure, but what mattered was that everyone appeared to be having fun. Drinks were flowing, people were cheering as they chalked up their first, fifth, tenth strike of the night; there was nothing better than the sound of toppling pins or that deep roar as the ball hurtled down the alley towards its final destination.

  The Evanses were having a wonderful time. It was their first visit to a bowling alley with their five-year-old son, Billy, and he seemed to be enjoying himself, despite having to use the special bowling ramp for children and disabled people.

  Kim Evans had racked up a rather respectable score of 86, while her husband Wren was out in front on 121. The scores were irrelevant as far as the Evans family was concerned. This was all about having fun, and in that respect they were succeeding mightily.

  “Go on, Billy!” Wren called from the plastic bench seat. “Try to get more than three this time!”

  Billy stood up and ran toward the special ramp. His mother stood next to it, a small purple ball in her hand. As she handed it to her son, she said, “This one’s going to be a strike, Billy. I can feel it in my toes.”

  As Billy took the ball from his mother, the smile dropped from his face. It was as if he had just been handed terrible news—the worst possible news, in fact—rather than a bowling ball. His arms fell to his sides, the purple bowling ball dangling there from two fingers and a thumb.

  “Billy?” Wren said, noticing his son’s strange behaviour. “What’s wrong?”

  His mother dropped to one knee beside him. “Honey, is something the matter?”

  Nothing. A vacant expression. Then dark bile pouring from the corner of Billy’s mouth. As soon as Kim saw it she panicked. “Wren!” she screeched. “There’s something wrong with Billy!”

  Billy was thinking about triangles, and dots, and something called a pantygram, and as his mother’s face suddenly filled his field of vision, he wanted nothing more than to make her go away.

  He brought the bowling ball around in a wide arc, slamming it into the face of his mother so hard that teeth rattled along the alley toward the pins.

  Needless to say, all hell broke loose, and the holidays of at least a dozen families were ruined forever.

  *

  Subject: Christoph Burman

  Age: 16

  Gēmuōbā Level Achieved: Thirteen

  Christoph settled himself into position on the seat. The gondola rocked back and forth, its components squeaking like so many mice. “Come on,” he said, patting the empty seat next to him. “I thought you were well up for this, Gem.”

  Gem, Christoph’s girlfriend of three whole days—if you counted the first one, which had been nothing more than a sloppy kiss outside the youth club—looked terrified. “Can’t I just watch this one?” she said, her eyes full of hope and worry.

  A frown ruffled Christoph’s brow. “You shittin’ me? I brought you all the way out here this weekend so you could watch me on the big wheel? Seriously?”

  Gem sighed. She knew blokes like Christoph didn’t hang around for long once you disappointed them. He was way out of her league and she knew it. Handsome, and popular to boot, Christoph Burman could have had anyone, but he had chosen her. For now, that was all that mattered. She wouldn’t disappoint him, no matter how uncomfortable she was. She had already decided to let him put his willy inside of her, if that was what he wanted. Of course that’s what he wants. That’s what all boys want. Somewhere nice and warm to put their willies.

  Gem took a deep breath and walked across the steel grate beneath the Ferris wheel, being careful not to let her heels slip between the cracks. The last thing she wanted to do was make a fool of herself in front of Christoph Burman.

  Her new boyfriend.

  Her future husband?

  “There you go, darling,” Christoph said as Gem slowly seated herself next to him. Once again, the gondola rocked back and forth, and Gem’s terrified expression worsened for a moment. “It’ll only last for a few minutes. You’ll be back on the ground in no time.”

  Gem nodded. She couldn’t wait to be back on the ground, holding hands with Christoph, her beloved. Seventy-two hours! her mother had yelled at her as she’d left for Christoph’s earlier that day. Seventy-two hours and you’re already swanning off together. In my day we courted for years before we called it a relationship, and blah, blah, blah…

  “Do you think we can get some ice-cream when the ride’s over?” Gem said. She hoped she wasn’t being too forward. She knew that Christoph made a decent amount of money selling weed; whether he would spend some of that money on her, though, was another story.

  “It’s pissing it down with rain and you want to get ice-cream?” He snorted, and for a moment he sounded just like a pig. “Ice-cream’ll make you fat, you know that? I don’t like fat girls, Gem. Fat girls have smelly fannies. Do you want to have a smelly fanny?”

  Gem shook her head, tried to stifle back the tears which threatened to overwhelm her any moment.

  “Nah, you wouldn’t look right fat,” Christoph said, eyeing her up and down, running a cold, skeletal hand over her thigh. She liked that. She liked that a lot, because it was what he wanted, and what Christoph wants, Christoph can have.

  As long as it’s not ice-cream, she thought.

  The bar suddenly began to lower. Gem and Christoph raised their arms, lest they become trapped by the cylindrical aluminium pole. Gem was nervous as hell, but what Christoph wants, Christoph can have, because in the end she would marry him, and everyone would be jealous of her.

  Plain old Gem and her handsome husband.

  Plain old Gem. She never touched ice-cream, you know. That’s how she got him.

  The gondola began to slowly lift so that the riders below could embark. Already Gem was sweating, but Christoph took her clammy hand in his cold one, and that seemed to help.

  Five minutes later, they were as high as they could be, staring out over Hemsby. To their right, the ocean ebbed and flowed, and even from up here they could hear the waves crashing against the shore.

  “It’s wonderful!” Gem said. She had never been happier in her life. The fear—what fear?—had all gone, and now she was exhilarated, and in love. In love with Christoph Burman, the most wonderful man in the—

  Christoph’s head had lolled back. For a few seconds, Gem thought he had fallen asleep. Don’t worry about it, Gem, she told herself. He’s very tired. It must be terribly hard work selling mari-jua-na all day long. She decided to leave him for a while, let him wake up of his own volition. No man liked to be awakened, especially not when they were a hundred feet above sea-level.

  Luckily, Gem didn’t have to wake Christoph. No sooner had she decided to let him sleep than his eyes snapped open, or did they? It was hard to tell in the dark. He groaned, and Gem began: “It’s okay, Christoph. You fell asleep, but I didn’t wake you because you looked so peaceful and beautiful and—”

  Her words were cut off as Christoph’s hand took her viciously by the throat. Bony finger stretched all the way around her neck. If she had had ice-cream, she thought, he wouldn’t have been able to do that.

  His eyes were endless dark pits as he leaned in to Gem’s face, and though she couldn’t breathe, the stench somehow managed to crawl into her head, where it stuck like glue.

  Gem whimpered. This wasn’t her beloved Christoph; something had taken over his body, was using him as a puppet. Down at ground level, people were screaming, cars were honking, and building alarms rang in the night.

  Christoph was so strong. He snapped the bar holding them in their seat upwards and clim
bed to his feet. The gondola rocked like crazy, and for a moment Gem thought they would both fall out.

  Hand still wrapped tight around her throat, the thing that was once Christoph hoisted Gem up and into the air. Her legs kicked fruitlessly beneath her; she had turned an oh-so unnatural shade of red. And still it rained, and down there on the ground, chaos reigned.

  As Christoph eased Gem out, the body of the gondola no longer beneath her, she wondered what their children would have looked like. Handsome, she imagined, with dark black eyes and thick black goo perpetually dripping from their chin.

  Christoph snarled.

  Gem whimpered.

  And then he let her go.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jamie and Liza were sheltering in a bus-stop when the people came a-running from the bowling alley across the street. Screaming and crashing into one another, it was like something from an old B-movie. Jamie half-expected Steve McQueen to emerge, a giant red gelatinous alien in pursuit.

  “Fire alarm?” Liza said, shivering a little.

  Jamie shook his head. “Aren’t you supposed to exit calmly in the event of a fire-alarm?” It was true, and these people—men, women, children, all screaming and shouting—were the least calm people Jamie had ever seen. “Something’s not right,” he said, stepping up to the kerb, not caring that he was getting wet.

  Just then, someone screamed off the promenade behind, and then there were more screams, and someone was shouting, She must have fallen! She must have fallen!

  Liza followed Jamie across the prom toward the pier. People were running away from that, too. A pair of unconnected incidents, apparently, had holidaymakers running for their lives, and Jamie couldn’t help but think of one word…

  Terrorists?

  As they reached the pier—everyone else seemed to be running in the opposite direction—Liza saw the body first. “Jamie! Look!”