Twist and Scream - Volume 6 (Horror Short Stories)

by Jayne Bartholomew

  Grant had never been one of life’s beautiful people but he’d always taken pride in his mind and yes, his commitment to his career. A man knew where he was with a purpose and ever since childhood he’d been aware that his calling involved writing. He’d learned his trade working in newspapers and then when cut backs had left him unemployed he’d turned to writing novels.

  He paused outside an exotic shop front in one of the less salubrious neighbourhoods and attempted to muster up some enthusiasm. He hadn’t had much luck with this type of establishment over the past few years but he really had very little option nowadays. He walked through the door and surveyed the people waiting on chairs at one end of the room. Inevitably the rest of the room was taken up with shelves stuffed with factually inaccurate books about the dark arts, display cabinets of amulets and something that looked suspiciously like a preserved badger in a jar.

  The trouble with the spiritualists in this area was that most of them were rubbish. When he’d been alive Grant would’ve given these places a wide berth but it seemed the dead had less options. He’d tried taking a train to the next city but when the train had moved forward, he’d found himself floating over the track watching the last carriage leave the station. It had been, quite frankly, embarrassing.

  Another ghost was sitting with a nervous looking woman who was next in the queue; Grant tried to see this as a good sign.

  He really hoped this medium would be able to take clear messages. The others were split between those that didn’t have a clue he was there and those who practically wet themselves on contact. Seriously, you were either a medium or you weren’t, anything else was pure fakery.

  Of course, Grant would know all about fakery. When his fiction novels had failed to attract an income he’d moved to autobiographies of the great and famous. People who had earned the title ‘celebrity’. Explorers, world leaders, artists; Grant treated them all with respect and detailed their histories with pride.

  The autobiographies had sold marginally better than his attempts at fiction, which made him attractive to agents as a ghost writer. It paid well and if Grant drank enough scotch his profession didn’t make his skin crawl and the shame of selling out almost didn’t hurt at all. It was a heart attack, partly through alcohol abuse, that killed him in the end.

  Ghost writing seemed too easy. You met with some vapid teenager who was enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame and tried to stretch out their post-pubescent years for a hundred thousand words or so. Since the public would buy anything these days it was possible to use a few thousand words on their favourite meals, or cars, or holiday destinations. He even had a crib sheet of things to ask 1) most famous person you’ve slept with… 2) most famous person you’ve fallen out with… 3) tell me how grateful you are to your fans… and so the drivel went on.

  He’d almost finished his last autobiography when the heart attack struck and in his indignation at the unfairness of the timing and lack of notice, he refused to pass over to the other side. He was now looking to find his own ghost writer to finish the job.

  Out of habit he took a seat by the wall and tried to work out which of the people in the queue would be best at the role. None of the elderly clientele nervously clutching their handbags looked particularly appealing.

  He couldn’t understand why it was taking him so long to find someone. The TV listings were full of programmes about witches, the occult and the suspiciously good looking people involved with them. When he first started looking for a ghost writer he never imaged that he wouldn’t be welcomed with an open mind and enthusiasm. But no, if the spiritualists were slow at coming forward then volunteers for a bit of possession were even further behind the line.

  Grant was fast running out of ideas.

  If he found someone who was having a go with a Ouija board they lost interest after the first paragraph he dictated. The same with pen writing; it seemed that if he couldn’t tell the writer when they were going to get married or what the winning weekend lottery numbers would be they would put the pen down in disgust. It really was most depressing.

  His greatest success had been in a typing pool in the business district. He had gently possessed one of the secretaries and was carefully typing out chapter four when someone had asked if she wanted a cup of tea. Without thinking he’d asked for a whiskey straight up and a bit of peace and quiet. He’d forgotten to change his voice which had really freaked out the tea-maker and he hadn’t even had enough time to save his work before the office manager had the secretary escorted up to the medical room.

  A man wearing jeans and a sweater came in and sat next to Grant. He crossed his legs, resting the palm of his hands on his knees before uncrossing them and fidgeting. The newcomer took out his phone and flicked through his messages, Grant looked over his shoulder.

  It seemed that Mr Fidget, as Grant decided to call him, was having financial problems. His girlfriend was giving him one last chance to get a job before she left him and found someone else more reliable. He had missed his last two mortgage repayments and his bank manager wanted to see him urgently.

  Mr Fidget checked the time on his phone before taking out a slim note pad and pen from his back pocket to idly write down ideas for a novel. No watch, noted Grant, probably pawned or sold off for half its value.

  Grant recognised Mr Fidget’s type. A dreamer who excused his self-inflicted poverty on his art rather than admitting to being a lazy bastard. His friends and family were probably at their wits end with this struggling writer who’d most likely been sponging off them for years. Perfect.

  Suddenly Mr Fidget violently scratched out the notes, turned the page and began writing a suicide note.

  Grant felt as though he’d hit the jackpot. Having no qualms about possessing someone who had no further use of their life he quickly moved into Mr Fidgit and took control of the body.

  By the time the spiritualist had finished with her clients and was ready to call Mr Fidgit in he had been completely possessed by Grant.

  “Would you like to come through now?” The spiritualist was looking at him closely.

  “Thanks,” said Grant, “but I’d best be getting back to work.” He gave a cheerful smile and left the shop to re-join the living.

  Cash on Delivery

  The white van pulled into the motorway rest stop on August the second, just after three in the afternoon. It went directly to a place on the far side of the car park by the grass and trees that circled the area, before stopping in the shade. A man in paint splattered overalls slowly exited the driver’s seat and stretched in the sunlight. Bearded with a faded blue baseball cap pulled low over his eyes it was hard to judge the man’s age but by the careful way he moved and his stooped demeanour he was probably coming up to retirement.

  The man reached into the van for a pack of cigarettes and lit one as he walked around to the other side. He pulled open the side of the van, no more than five inches, and the passenger door fully. After a moment of hesitation he unbuttoned the top of his overalls, revealing an old yellow T-shirt; he had a good feeling about today.

  The car park was full of travellers milling around with vague purpose and since this was the only rest stop within fifty miles, the toilets and restaurants were both busy. Children, high on sugar and snacks, were in good moods and judging by the size of the bags coming out of the shops their parents were taking measures to ensure this continued.

  On the grassy ring around the area those that were in less of a rush were having picnics and studying road maps. Dogs were being exercised and encouraged to do what they had to do before the opportunity vanished in the rear view mirror.

  The man took a plastic bag out of the glove compartment and opened it carefully on the passenger seat. He removed a sachet of aniseed and sprinkled the fragrant contents into his shoes, personally he didn’t care for the smell but dogs couldn’t get enough of it and he reassured himself that it could be removed later. There was also a large steak sandwich in a baguette; the meat was plain and unseasone
d, medium rare.

  Putting the sandwich on the dashboard he sat with his legs hanging out enjoying a refreshing breeze. Beautiful weather for the school holidays; not too hot and no rain to stop play. Giving another contented half stretch he found a paper on the floor and flicked the half smoked cigarette onto the grass. To anyone looking he was a regular person taking a break from a regular job.

  The paper was not for reading though; it was a cover, just like everything else. The man’s eyes never paused from scanning his surroundings to see who was approaching or what people were doing. His actual job had started from the moment he put on his overalls and drove off in the van. He was good at what he did and judging by the little boy who was walking a dog his way it was time to do some real work.

  There was no one with the boy, although the man was sure a parent would be close enough to glance over every so often. They were probably comfortable enough leaving such a young child, he couldn’t have been more than nine, with the family dog to protect him. After all, where could he go?

  It was unlikely the dog was a pedigree, probably a cross between a Labrador and something with long hair that just happened to be in heat at an opportune moment. The dog was also carrying a few extra pounds on its frame, an observation that encouraged the man who watched the pair like a hawk.

  When the boy and dog were level with the van, and shielded briefly from the car park, the man put his paper down and whistled to the dog; when the dog paused the man smiled at the boy.

  “Nice dog you’ve got there.”

  The boy nodded; too well trained to speak to strangers but too proud to ignore a compliment.

  “I’ve got a steak sandwich here that I can’t finish, would you mind if I gave him the steak? Seems a shame to waste it and I’ll bet he’s got a great set of teeth on him!” The man smiled and gestured towards his sandwich, he didn’t attempt to move closer.

  The dog had already picked up the scent of meat and was licking his lips greedily, it pulled towards the man and the boy laughed.

  “OK.”

  Still smiling, the man theatrically took out a large chunk of steak from the bread and tapped the side of the van.

  “One… two… three... Here you go!” The man threw the steak in the air for the dog to catch and as he did so there was an almost inaudible popping sound from inside the van next to him.

  As it leapt up the dog seemed to jerk, it yelped once and then fell onto the ground, steak untouched, motionless.

  There was a second of shock before both the boy and the man rushed to the dog. The man, despite his age, was first to the animal and ran his hands swiftly over the body, removing the tranquiliser dart before it was discovered. The boy dissolved into tears and tried to shake the dog.

  “We’ve got to be quick and take your dog to the vets,” the man said to the boy urgently, “is your dad around?”

  The boy shook his head. “My Mum.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Another shake.

  “OK, can you run and get her for me? Be quick!”

  The boy ran off into the car park, watched closely by the man who noted which vehicle he went to. The number plate was too far away to read but he’d make a note of it on the way out. He lost sight of the boy briefly when he ducked down to talk to his mother through the car window but in the next heartbeat he was back in view with a heavily pregnant woman. The man gave a small wave to her to indicate his location.

  Reassured that they were coming back the man opened the side of the van wider, picked the dog up and put him on a blanket inside.

  “The mother’s pregnant,” he said to the darkness inside, “an unexpected bonus.”

  There was no response but he would have enough time to talk to his colleague hiding there later on the drive back to the depot.

  “Where’s Buster?” The mother, an attractive woman in her late twenties, pushed dark hair out of her eyes, and glared at the man.

  “He’s in the van; I thought he’d be better out of the sun.”

  The boy climbed in immediately and kneeled next to the dog. “He’s going to be alright, isn’t he Mum?”

  “What happened?” The mother’s eyes had filled up as the situation began to sink in.

  “I don’t know, I chucked him a bit of meat and when he jumped up for it he sort of went limp. I’m really sorry. There’s a vets I use for my cats in the town just by us, not more than fifteen minutes away, can I take you there? I feel kind of responsible.”

  “Would you?” Relief was now breaking through the earlier panic. “I’d be really grateful, we’re not local and I wouldn’t have a clue where to go.”

  “Sure. Do you need to lock your car up or shall we just head off?”

  “It’s locked. Oh Buster, what’s wrong with you sweetheart?” She leaned in to the van, turning her attention onto the dog.

  There were two popping sounds in quick succession from the van. The boy keeled over onto the dog and the mother slumped forward, caught from falling by the man outside.

  From the back of the van, behind a wall of boxes, a younger man emerged and took the mother’s arms, pulling her inside. The older man rummaged in her handbag for her car keys before closing the door and walking back to the drivers’ side.

  As they left the car park he noted the registration number of the mother’s car and used a walkie-talkie to relay the information to a colleague on the other side of the car park in a break-down truck. The man drove up to the truck, chucked the woman’s keys into the open window, and drove away. Once the car was collected and towed away there would be nothing to show that the family had ever visited. Any security recordings of the parking lot would be dealt with by someone else.

  Both men were on edge until they returned to the depot. The younger man stayed in the back with the family and ransacked the mother’s handbag. He turned her mobile off and removed the battery as a precaution against tracking. From the two passports in the bag he found that the woman was called Heather and her son was Peter, they’d been on their way north but judging by the large amount of cash and not much else it seemed they’d left in a hurry. There was also some jewellery wrapped in a blue satin purse, but he knew better than to take that.

  The older man radioed in to base when they were twenty minutes away and sure they hadn’t been followed. He was told that the car had been removed from the rest stop without incident; the operation had been clean and successful.

  Once off the motorway it was an easy ride to a collection of warehouses in a gated and highly secure property. The official company that owned the place was a refrigerated transport business that had recently floated on the stock exchange with great success. Huge lorries and containers parked outside the buildings were a testimony to the vast financial investment that had been ploughed into the firm. However, the stock holders would never find out who the actual owners were.

  Electric gates swung open for the van and a guard came up to the driver’s window to take a fingerprint ID on a handheld device. Satisfied, he waved the van through and stood at the gate until it was closed once more.

  The man drove into an open warehouse and down a ramp to the operations centre. His breath caught, as it always did when he saw the processing area. While morality had long since sold out to financial gain being in this place was still an uncomfortable reminder of what he was mixed up with.

  To the left, a fleet of vans were being microscopically cleaned and disinfected. Hospital trolleys took those that had been collected into an inner area where the people would be checked for infectious diseases and blood type. At the far end was a loading bay with transport to take the processed to their next destination. The man knew that somewhere onsite was a furnace for those that failed the processing stage, he shuddered and carefully steered his van over to the left where he was greeted by a woman with an iPad.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Nandry.”

  The man nodded politely and stepped out of the van.

  “What have you brought for us today?” Sh
e raised her eyebrows with a smile.

  “A boy and a pregnant woman,” he opened the door to show her and let his colleague out.

  “Well, you have done well! Looks like your envelope will be heavier than usual today, congratulations.” She gushed like a school teacher with a slow child but neither man in front of her felt anything other than relieved. “Make your way over to the office and I’ll see you on your next stop.”

  They nodded and left, grateful to be moving on.

  Heather woke up as she was being lifted onto the trolley.

  “What’s happening?” she said, trying to get up, “Peter? Peter, where are you?”

  The iPad woman rushed over. “Hi there, nothing to be alarmed about. There’s been a small incident and we need to get you checked over. If you could just stay calm and go where you’re directed we’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  “What incident? Why do I need to be checked over? Peter, Peter where are you?” Heather struggled against hands now holding her down. “Let go of me!”

  The woman shrugged and pulled out a needle filled with sedative which she injected into Heather’s leg. “Go quietly or go to sleep, makes no difference to me.” As Heather’s muscles relaxed the woman gestured for her trolley to leave and turned her attention to the boy inside the van. She leaned in to inhale the warm air over his neck and two small incisor teeth could be seen in the half-light.

  “Hmm, don’t you smell sweet?” Using the sharply pointed nail from her index finger she stabbed his arm and raised her bloodied finger triumphantly. Her tongue darted over the blood and her eyes closed in pleasure. “Very sweet indeed”, she cooed, wrapping a plastic identity tag around his ankle before moving onto the next van that had arrived.

  When the porters came to remove Peter they put him into the boot of a black BMW with opaque windows that sped out of the depot as soon as the boot was closed.