Night Terrors: 16 Horror Stories

by Valentine King

  He swiped a card to unlock a door and then wheeled me through. He handed the stretcher to a porter who nodded back at him. “Another one Mr Tanas?”

  Mr Tanas smiled. “Afraid so. We did all we could.”

  “Course you did,” the porter said, placing a sheet over my head, leaving me blind to what was happening. “Course you did.” Terror began to bubble up inside me as I wheeled round one corner after another before finally being slid onto a long steel shelf. A door clanged shut and then everything went dark. All I could think about was the post mortem my mother had undergone after she died. What if they decided to carry one out on me? Would I feel it? Would I bleed? Would they be able to stop in time when they realised I was very much alive?

  One horrific image after another flashed in front of my eyes over the next few hours. It was like living through a nightmare. I was wheeled out for my sister to look at. A glimpse of her sobbing face as she identified me then back on the shelf. Next I was brought out and manhandled into a long black bag, the zip rested on my nose as I was wheeled into a van. I could hear the noise of traffic for a while before I ended up on another shelf, the noise of this door clanging shut was like closure on my life.

  After another eternity in the pitch black I was pulled out again, the bag unzipped so I could see once more. Two people stared down at me, one of them looking a lot like the porter and the other reminding me of Mr Tanas’s secretary.

  “Request for no embalming. That’s a shame. I enjoy embalming them,” the man grinned down at me. “You should picture it Miss Murdoch, the fluid coursing through your veins, the blood draining away for us to top up the…well never mind about that. Let’s get you into a coffin shall we. Time waits for no man after all.”

  Being manhandled into a coffin was bad enough but the funeral was hellish. A parade of sad faces gawped in at me in my half open casket. I lay there praying someone, anyone, would recognise the spark of life in my eyes.

  I saw Mr Tanas appear above me, talking conversationally as if I might reply. “I do so wish they’d chosen cremation,” he said, pushing a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “Burial is so…old fashioned.” He vanished from sight, leaving me picturing flames consuming me as the vicar began to carry out the service. I’d been taken too young, I was a wonderful person, I wasn’t dead, just resting. All the time I was screaming in my head, fighting to move my body. I put all the effort I had into the muscles of my left hand and then it happened.

  I felt my little finger twitch. It was only a tiny movement, little more than a reflex, but it was real. Suddenly I had hope that my nightmare would end before I was buried alive. I concentrated, willing my finger to move again, let me out of here, make me push open the other half of my coffin so I could wave to the world and flick the finger to Mr Tanas, no doubt smiling on the back row somewhere. Then I did it. It moved again. This time the knuckle bent and my ring finger twitched too.

  At that moment my sister’s head appeared above me, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “Goodbye,” she whispered. I felt a tingle on my face, I’d felt her kiss. Another minute and my whole hand would be wriggling, I just knew it. No, no, no I screamed in my head as the coffin lid was closed. I couldn’t see a thing in the darkness but I kept fighting to get my wrist to respond so I could knock on the coffin lid and hammer for my freedom.

  I’ve been trying to calculate how long it takes to get to the cemetery. Was the service held in the chapel there? Am I in a hearse right now? How long do I have left? My nightmare will be over just as soon as I can get my arm to move. It will, any moment now it will. My wrist is throbbing, the feeling is returning. My toes are moving too. It’s going to be okay.

  What was that? I heard something just then. What was it? There it is again. Oh God, come on arm, move, move! That noise again. I think I know what it is now. I can’t be sure of course but it sounds to me a lot like a shovelful of soil being scattered onto a coffin lid.

  Free Refills

  Oliver knew something wasn’t right from the very first sip. It had been an exhausting morning with the client from hell and he wanted one quick drink to help the tension fade away. She’d insisted on the longest possible inspection of a house that had ever been undertaken and after an entire morning showing her round she’d still decided to go away and think about it. Sitting in the corner of the village pub afterwards, Oliver stared out of the window, trying to calm down. Maybe one day you’ll be able to afford to live in a place like this, get out of the city. It’s so peaceful out there, like travelling back in time.

  At least now he knew why nobody else in the office had taken this one. Normally they fought like bickering children over the chance for commission and a shot at the quarterly bonus but the place had been silent when the name ‘Saunders’ was scrawled up on the board. Unable to believe his luck, Oliver had claimed her and driven fifty miles out of the city into the depths of nowhere before reaching the timeslip village. He’d not been out here before and was amazed at the sights as he drove in. Farmers in torn waistcoats and flat caps sat on horses chatting to each other, pipes dangling from the corners of their mouths. Women walked between the few shops with wicker baskets under their arms and bonnets on their heads, children placed hopscotch in the road. It was surreal.

  Of course it was all spoilt by the arrival of Mrs Saunders in her enormous 4x4, sending the children running for the safety of the pavement. As soon as she stepped out of the car, he realised why nobody had claimed her. She was abrasive and condescending in equal measure. Her opening sentence to him was, “They’ve sent the tea boy to show me round then?”

  Her cut glass accent combined with an attitude of superiority that made her come across like a royal addressing an errant servant who’d been caught stealing the silverware. He unlocked the door to the vacant house and let her in, trying his best to make small talk.

  “So are you looking to move in round here?”

  She looked down her nose at him from the doorstep. “Do I look like the type of person who’d live in this house?”

  “No,” he withered under her gaze. “I just thought-”

  “Not that it’s any of your business but I’m looking for a house for my daughter to rent out, get her started in a proper business. Any more questions?”

  Oliver might have had none but Mrs Saunders had hundreds, from the age of the boiler to what school the owners went to. By the time it was all over, the clock on the church tower had rung twelve. Three hours to view a two bed cottage. Oliver shook his head as Mrs Saunders drove away, vowing to go off sick if her name appeared on the board again.

  He was walking back to his car when he saw the pub, tucked in between a veg shop with a cracked window and a butcher’s with joints of meat dangling under its striped awning, flies swarming round them. He’d ducked into the pub before he’d even thought about it but managed to stop himself when he was no further than the porch. Was this a good idea? Had it been long enough? He thought back to the last meeting, sitting in the church hall with the others, pouring out his desire to pour out a drink. The others all sitting there nodding politely, waiting for their turn to talk. He had no doubts about what they were thinking. They’d been alcoholics for decades, he’d only just got started on this path. What right did he have to grumble when he was barely out of his teens? They never said it out loud but he knew, he could tell just by looking at them.

  Oliver felt suddenly hot, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He told himself it was just the heat of the summer’s day outside but did that also explain the tremble in his fingers? With a deep breath he spun on his heels, shaking his head as he walked outside. He stopped by the door, noticing the poster glued to the wall. ‘Free refills on your morning joe. Valid until 4pm Monday to Friday.’

  There was no harm in getting a coffee. Nobody could judge him for that and better still, he’d be able to drive back afterwards without continually glancing in the rear view mirror for police cars. He walked into the pub.

  “Can I help?” the ba
rmaid smiled. Behind her the rows of spirits whispered to him, each of them an old friend. They’d missed him. Where had he been? Time for a drink and a catch up. He ran his eyes along the bottles, drawn to the amber liquid inside the twenty year old Scotch, looking like nectar just waiting to be poured. No ice, why dilute perfection? It would scorch a trail down his throat and then the stresses of Mrs Saunders would just melt away…

  “Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped. The barmaid blinked as he corrected himself, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “Sorry, difficult day. Just a coffee please.”

  “Of course. Help yourself.”

  She took his money and pointed to a silver barrel laid on its side on the bar, a spout sticking out from the end. Oliver smiled. “Shaped like a keg. That’s cute.”

  “Yeah, it was the boss’s idea,” she said, passing him a mug and saucer. “Thought it was funny. It’s a bugger to clean though.”

  “Spoon?”

  “Over on the table.”

  Oliver took the mug and held it under the spout, twisting the tap until a thick black liquid spilled into his cup. It smelled rich and dense, overwhelming his senses. Once the mug was full he turned off the tap and made his way through to the next room. An open doorway led him into what was probably once a living room. Four tables had been squeezed into the available space. Three of them were already taken, everyone drinking coffee. He wasn’t surprised, for this price he’d be lucky to get a sugar sachet in the city.

  He took the one remaining table in the corner by the window. From where he sat, he could still see the bar through the doorway. He looked down at his mug, it seemed so drab compared to the shimmering bottles on display. Nobody ever had a great night out on coffee.

  Lifting the mug he took a sip and knew immediately that something wasn’t right. It was hard to put his finger on but something about the drink was off, it tasted…grainy was the only way to describe it. But other than that? He took another sip. The headache that had been building all morning seemed to fade away. Was that why everyone drank this stuff? Was it laced with something? Cannabis maybe? As he leaned back on his chair he watched a steady stream of people going back and forth to the barrel, refilling their mugs.

  He frowned as a thought suddenly occurred to him. The barrel didn’t seem all that big but in all the time he’d been sitting here it hadn’t been refilled once. He leaned his head and caught sight of a pipe leading into the underneath of the barrel. Draining his mug he carried it back to the bar. As he refilled, he glanced under the barrel again, following the copper pipe that ran down the side of the bar. He turned round and frowned again. The pipe ran up the wall to the ceiling and then curved to follow the stairs up to the toilets. Why set it up like that?

  The kitchen was behind the bar, he’d seen through when one of the barmaids carried a tray of dirty plates back. The phone in his pocket buzzed, knocking the questions from his mind.

  “Hello?” he said into the phone as he carried his mug back to his table.

  “How did you get on with Saunders?”

  He could hear them all laughing in the background. “Very funny Jack. Why didn’t any of you warn me she was mental?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Are you on your way back yet or has she chained you to the bed?”

  “Just grabbing some lunch then I’m on my way. Busy?”

  “Not really but don’t be too long. Greg’s on the warpath again.”

  He hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He wanted to get back before Greg bollocked him for using an entire day for one viewing but he couldn’t. Something about that pipe niggled away at him. It was like when he was eight and he’d taken the toaster apart. Unfortunately he’d forgotten to unplug it first and his mother had found him laid on his back in the kitchen with smoke rising from the socket.

  “What the hell were you doing?” she’d asked, shaking his shoulders in mixed anger and fear. “You could have been killed.”

  “I had to know,” was all he could think of to reply. Same as today. He had to know. Standing up, he followed the sign for the toilets, heading upstairs with the pipe running beside him along the top of the wall. It passed the gents, then the ladies and then went through a hole in the wall at the top of the stairs. Below it was a door marked ‘Private.’

  He glanced round him to see if anyone was watching before trying the door. It was unlocked and he found himself walking into a small room filled with boxes of crockery and sugar sachets. There was another door at the far end and the pipe passed through again, an unpleasant smell wafting towards him. You should leave, you’re trespassing now. The voice was easy to ignore. He had to know.

  The next door was unlocked as well. He pushed his way into a pitch black room, the door swinging closed behind him as a light flickered on. Blinking away the glare his jaw dropped as he realised what he was looking at.

  On a steel table in the middle of the room was a body. The worst part wasn’t the stench of putrid flesh or the peeling skin sloughing away from their face. No, the worst part was the fact that they weren’t dead. Oliver’s hand automatically went to his nose, trying to shield himself from the smell. The person looked like they were rotting as they lay there, trapped inside a glass case coated in condensation. They moved their head and lifted a hand, weakly managing to wipe a patch to see through, catching a glimpse of Oliver. Their mouth opened as they tried to speak, black teeth coming into view behind cracked lips.

  It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. They were wearing a semblance of clothes but flesh showed through the ragged holes, the bumps of their ribs clearly visible through the wet fabric. Their skin was mottled purple and blue with visible bedsores where they’d rubbed against the table under them. Oliver took a step forwards, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. “Oh my God,” he muttered as he stared at the person’s bloodshot eyes. Skin had sloughed away from their face so much it revealed dark flesh underneath that oozed pus down onto the already soaked table.

  A tiny hole had been drilled through the case and a drip ran through it into the person’s arm. Was that keeping them alive? They shuffled their legs and then he could see where the pipe led to. The table sloped towards a one inch wide hole and all the fluids that gathered were trickling down it into the pipe. He felt the contents of his stomach trying to rise up out of him as his mind followed the flow of liquids down the stairs to the coffee keg and then he turned away to retch onto the floor, only stopping heaving when every drop of coffee was splattered onto the worn carpet at his feet.

  “I’m going to get you out of there,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  The person was trying to speak, their mouth opening and closing as a tooth fell away from their jaw. It looked as if they were crying as they clawed up at the top of the case. Oliver felt along the glass for any leeway but it was fixed firmly to the table. He looked round him for anything to help but the rest of the room was empty.

  He spun and ran for the door, finding it locked. “Hey,” he shouted. “Let me out.” He kicked the wood with his foot before shoulder barging once, twice and then on the third time there was an almighty crash and he was through. The next door was locked too but this one was much more solid than the first. No amount of kicking or shoving moved it. Swearing loudly he looked round the room, noticed the boxes piled against a grime covered window. He used both hands to push the boxes aside, yanking at the window latch which refused to budge.

  He picked up one of the boxes and hurled it at the window. The glass shattered and fell down to the alleyway outside. He winced as he looked out, catching a finger on one of the razor sharp shards remaining in the frame. Was it too far to jump? He was about twenty feet up. Was that too far?

  Putting one foot on the edge, he forced himself out, taking a deep breath before letting go. His arms flailed as he fell, landing a second later with a thud on the concrete below, inches away from the overfilled bins.

&nbs
p; He tried to stand but his leg gave way. Have you broken it? Find out later. He limped to the end of the alleyway straight into the arms of a police officer. “What’s happened here then?” the officer asked.

  “Per…person upstairs. Please. You must-” he blurted out too fast to be understood.

  “Calm down a moment sir. Now I’m not sure I recognise you. Are you from round here?”

  “What the hell does that matter? Come on, before anyone else drinks it.” He tried to walk but fell into the officer’s arms again.

  “I think we should get you to a hospital sir. You look as if you’ve hurt yourself.”

  “No! Look, come with me. Please. There’s someone who needs help. They’ve kidnapped her, him, oh God” He retched again, convulsions making his empty stomach hurt, momentarily distracting him from the pain in his ankle.

  “All right sir. Hold on. Where are we going? Sir!”

  Oliver limped round the corner and back into the pub, retching once more when he saw all the people sipping their coffees. He gripped the banister tightly as he made his way up the stairs, gritting his teeth against the pain, the officer followed him. “Break it down,” he said as he pushed the door at the top. “Quickly.”

  “Can I help you two at all?”

  Turning, Oliver saw a man in a suit at the bottom of the stairs. “All right Danny,” the officer said. “Would you mind telling me what you’ve got in here?”

  “About two thousand teaspoons and the plates we don’t use anymore. Why George? Think I’ve been storing cocaine in there or something?”

  “Can we take a look?”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” Danny climbed the stairs and smiled at Oliver as he passed him. “Come on in,” he said, unlocking the door and stepping back. George walked in first, taking in the mess of boxes and the broken window at a glance.

  “See, nothing too exciting,” Danny said, stepping past them.

  “In there, in there!” Oliver shouted, pointing at the next doorway at the darkness beyond. How could they not smell it yet?